Chapter 24 Woody
TWENTY-FOUR
Woody
The OR doors hiss shut behind me as I strip off my cap and mask, the smell of antiseptic still clinging to my scrubs. My shoulders ache in that familiar way, the aftermath of holding tension through a long case.
“Beamer,” a voice calls, low and rough from the corridor. Nate Peck emerges from another set of double doors, tugging at the collar of his scrub top. He looks as beat as I feel.
“Thought I’d find you still in here,” he says, falling into step beside me. “Coffee? Christmas Eve-Eve deserves caffeine.”
“Yeah,” I answer, my throat dry. “Definitely. I've got one more case before I'm out of here, but this one went quick, so I have some time to kill.”
We grab two cups from the hospital café, steam rising from lids already too hot to sip. We claim a corner table, both of us sitting heavily, exhausted from the rush of the season.
Nate wastes no time. “So. Word on the street is Russell offered you the new ortho program.” His brows lift, half-grin tugging at his face. “Chief of the whole damn thing. Is it true?”
Fuck. This has been weighing on me enough. I don't want to sit here and hash it out with him. Not now, not today.
I blow on my coffee, watching the ripples settle. “Yeah. It’s true.”
Nate lets out a low whistle. “Jesus. That’s huge. You’d be running the most advanced ortho wing in the region. I bet we will become a hub for that in the Southeast. Robotics, cutting-edge trauma, research money pouring in. Beamer, congrats, man.”
My jaw tightens. I know. It’s everything I’ve chased for years. And it’s right here, no move, no leaving Sanders behind. The dream, neatly packaged.
“You’re not jumping out of your chair with excitement,” Nate observes, narrowing his eyes. “Why? You’ve been gunning for something like this since fellowship.”
I shift in my seat, staring at the sheen of fluorescent light on the tile floor. “Because it won’t just be a title. It’s late nights, committees, politics, endless hours. And I…” My voice falters before I force it out. “I'm not sure I want that kind of commitment.”
Nate leans back, studying me. “You’re saying no?”
I shake my head, pressing my palms to the paper cup. “I’m saying I don’t know. I want it. God, I want it. But I also know what it would cost. I'm still mulling it over, that's all. And I'm exhausted. I haven't even had time to really think about it, to be honest.”
The silence stretches. Somewhere down the hall, monitors beep and wheels squeak against linoleum.
Nate takes a long sip of his coffee. "Hey, at least it doesn't mean you'd have to move. I know Sanders would factor in there. So, you're golden."
Yeah, golden.
I don’t answer, just nod, the truth sitting heavy in my chest. I know exactly what I want more. The problem is figuring out how to keep it without destroying everything else I’ve worked for.
"Earth to Woody? You hearing any of this?" Nate waves a hand in front of my face. "Have you seen the robot they are bringing in? That shit is epic."
"I hear you." My voice sounds distant, even to myself. "I did see it. That will be fun to work with, huh?"
Nate's brow furrows. "I can tell your mind is still in the OR. I thought you said it was an easy one."
"Yeah, just ready to be done today."
"Same. Alright, dude. I'm going to take off.
" Nate leans forward as he prepares to stand.
"If I don't talk to you before, I hope you have a wonderful Christmas with your boy.
Give him a fist bump for me. You guys did an amazing thing with your #SaveChristmas Challenge. I know you're so proud of him."
My mind is still stuck on my impossible choice. I try to put it out of my mind and keep things light. Nate has no idea all of the shit rolling around in my head. No need to bring him down.
"I am, indeed. Merry Christmas to Beth and the kids. Let's try to shoot some hoops over the break."
Nate stands and shakes my hand and then goes in for a hug. "That's a plan. Don't forget about us little guys when you're running this place."
I force a smile. “Never.”
But the weight of the decision presses harder with every passing second.
The lights on Lane's tree pulse with a gentle rhythm, casting shadows that dance across the walls. It's been years since I've been here on Christmas Eve. Years of missing this exact moment.
"Dad, hold still!" Sanders slaps another bow onto my back, his small fingers pressing firmly to make it stick. "You're a present now."
I groan dramatically, hunching my shoulders. "How many more of those things are you planning to stick on me, Squirt?"
"All of them," he announces with complete seriousness.
Lane snorts from her position on the floor, surrounded by scraps of wrapping paper and tangled ribbons. Her hair is pulled back, and she's wearing that old flannel pajama set with the reindeer that I remember from all those years ago. She's had them since before Sanders was born.
She looks exactly like the woman I fell in love with, except happier, somehow. More settled in her skin.
The peace in this room is almost surreal after everything we've been through recently and over the last decade.
Just over two weeks ago, I was stumbling in at the last minute for Sanders' holiday show, trading snide remarks with my ex-wife.
Now, here we sit, the three of us, brought together by a challenge our son came up with. We've flown together, interviewed on national television, and supported a single mom as she faced the scariest days of her life.
All of it brought us here.
I reach over, dipping my finger into the remnants of cookie frosting on the plate beside Sanders. With practiced precision, I flick a dab of green icing onto Lane's cheek.
"Woody!" She yelps, swatting at my hand. "What are you, twelve?"
"You have something on your face."
"I wonder how that happened." Her eyes narrow, but the smile breaks through anyway.
Sanders laughs so hard he falls sideways onto the couch, crushing several bows beneath him.
When he recovers and sits up, he starts humming "Silent Night" and smiling like he's in on a joke that his mom and I are not. The melody mingles with the crackling fire and occasional pop of a settling log. Nothing fancy, nothing perfect. Just us.
"I just remembered one more gift I need to wrap," Sanders says as he bolts up and runs toward his room.
I slide from the couch to join Lane on the floor, helping her tug at a stubborn knot in the ribbon. She doesn't need my help, but she doesn't push my hands away either.
"Merry almost Christmas," I murmur, leaning close to brush a kiss against her temple.
"Woody!" She swats my knee, scolding me.
"What? Sanders isn't here, and I couldn't resist. I've been wanting to kiss you all night."
Her fingers find mine under the scattered wrapping supplies, a soft squeeze that says more than words.
Sanders comes back in, hiding something behind his back.
I feel his eyes on us, probably trying to make sense of how the parents he's only ever known apart are suddenly inseparable. I know him well enough to know he won't ask about it for fear of breaking whatever it is that is brewing.
I need a box,” he says quickly, grinning, that single dimple showing. “Don’t look. It’s a surprise for tomorrow morning."
"I won't look," I promise, holding my hands up in surrender as he works on whatever he's doing behind us.
"You know, #SaveChristmas really worked."
"Yeah, it really did. I can't believe how much you boys did and how much you raised just in time to help Luke. What a wonderful Christmas gift you gave to his entire family, sweet boy."
"Definitely for Luke, but for us, too. It brought us all together. Now we will all remember what Christmas is all about."
Lane looks at me, a small grin on her face. She's warm and cautious, waiting for me to respond, but my heart's too full for words. She clears her throat, a silent rescue.
"Yeah, Buddy," she says softly. "I think it worked better than anyone expected."
The pride blooming across Sanders' face is worth every painful conversation, every tough choice. His dimple deepens, identical to Lane's.
"I told you. The challenge makes people fix things." He adjusts a bow on his neatly wrapped present, completely confident in his nine-year-old wisdom.
I ruffle his hair, feeling the silky strands slip through my fingers. "Guess it does."
What he doesn't know is how many late-night conversations happened after he was asleep. We’ve been careful this past week, keeping things fragile and private. So many late-night talks after Sanders was asleep, so many tears shed over what was right in front of us.
"So," Sanders says, suddenly serious, "we need to talk about cookies for Santa." He ticks items off on his fingers. "Chocolate chip, milk in the blue cup, and carrots for the reindeer."
"The blue cup specifically?" I raise an eyebrow.
"Dad. Santa doesn't drink from just any cup. That's his special cup."
Lane catches my eye over Sanders' head, her lips twitching. There's something in her gaze, a softness I'm still getting used to seeing again.
"Should we leave a note this year?" she asks Sanders. "To thank him for bringing Luke his new kidney?"
Sanders nods vigorously. "And for bringing us all back together."
My chest tightens. He sees more than we give him credit for. Nine years old, and somehow he understands what adults spend a lifetime trying to figure out. Gratitude. Family. The things that matter.
Lane's fingers brush mine beneath the wrapping debris. Not an accident. A choice.
Her hand is warm, solid, real. In the years since we split, I've been chasing the memory of how this felt, but nothing compares to the actual weight of her palm against mine.
"We'd better get to bed if we want Santa to make his stop here," I declare, standing up. I extend my hand to Lane, helping her up. She groans as she stands.
"Yes, it is getting late. We all need to wrap it up, pun intended," she says as she hugs our son.
"Will you stay here tonight, Dad? Please? I want to wake up with you for once on Christmas, so you can see everything."
I look at Lane, and she smiles, giving me her silent permission.
"If your mom is okay with it, I would love that."
"Of course I am. Who else will make the "pigs in a blanket" for us tomorrow?"
"Sign me up," I gladly offer. I scoop Sanders up and squeeze him so hard he yelps.
"Daddy, you're hurting my ribs."
My knees go weak hearing him call me that. He hasn't called me that in at least a year. Tears well up in my eyes, overcome with all of this. I can't believe I gave this up, that I missed this for so many years.
"I'll race you to your room," I call as I sprint out of the living room. Sanders is close behind.
After we read ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas’ together, Lane and I retreat to the living room to clean up the wreckage. For once, the mess feels good. Like proof that, somehow, we’ve found our way back.
I check Sanders' room one last time. He's sprawled across the bed, one foot dangling off the side, breathing deeply. A quiet Christmas Eve after all the excitement. It's just what we all needed.
Back downstairs, the house settles into midnight stillness. Only the tree lights remain on, pulsing red, green, and gold against the walls.
The cookies we'd set out for Santa are strategically half-eaten, crumbs scattered across the blue plate. The presents we wrapped together are arranged beneath the tree, tags carefully written in my best handwriting.
Lane stands by the front window, arms wrapped around herself, watching something outside. Her profile catches the multicolored glow, highlighting the gentle curve of her cheek, the slope of her nose.
I move beside her, close enough to feel her warmth but not touching. Through the glass, I see what's caught her attention. Delicate little snowflakes drift lazily past the porch light.
"Would you look at that," I murmur. "A white Christmas in Eastern North Carolina. I don't think I've seen that in ten years."
The corners of her mouth lift. "It snowed on Sanders' first Christmas. He was a tiny baby, and everything seemed so perfect."
"You're right. I remember that. It was so magical, wasn't it?"
She leans into me, and I pull her tight to me. It was the last Christmas before things started falling apart. Even then, work pulled me away.
"Sanders will lose his mind in the morning. I'm so excited for him," she says, always framing the world in a way for our son to find wonder and joy.
We stand in comfortable silence, watching the snow gradually thicken. Each flake catches the glow of the Christmas lights strung along the porch railing, tiny prisms of color against the darkness.
"He's right, you know," I say softly, my voice barely disturbing the quiet. "That challenge really did save Christmas."
Lane laughs under her breath, a small sound that carries years of understanding. When she turns, her eyes glisten in the low light.
"It saved more than that."
Five simple words that crack something open inside my chest. All these years of regret, of missed opportunities, suddenly they don't seem wasted. They were just the long road that led us here.
My pinky finger brushes against hers, tentative. Her hand opens slightly, an invitation. Our fingers weave together, hesitant but sure.
We don't need to name this thing between us tonight. We don't need promises or declarations. This isn't some dramatic conclusion. It's just the quiet middle where everything begins again.
The hard part, earning back trust, proving change, building something new, that still lies ahead. But tonight, in the snow-muffled silence, I know it's possible.
Lane leans her head against my shoulder, her hair tickling my neck.
"Merry Christmas, Woody," she whispers. "I love you."
I turn just enough to press my lips to her hair, breathing in the scent of her shampoo.
"Merry Christmas, my love. Thank you for letting me back in."
Behind us, the lights on the tree glow steady, simple, warm, whole. Like us.