"Oh, sorry. I didn't mean to assume."
"For heaven's sake, please do not worry. It's not fresh, I've been free for seven years."
The conversation mercifully dies as the lights dim slightly and a teacher taps the microphone,sending feedback squealing through the speakers. The crowd winces collectively.
The show isn't starting, but we're close. Where the hell is Woody? Sanders will be so disappointed if he doesn't get here.
That's when I see him.
Woody strides through the double doors at the back, still in blue scrubs with his hospital badge clipped to his pocket. Even from here, I can see the exhaustion lines around his eyes, but it doesn't diminish the effect of his lean, fit six-foot-one frame.
A literal ripple moves through the female half of the audience. Whispers flutter around me.
"Is that Dr. Beamer?"
"The orthopedic surgeon?"
"He fixed my mom's knee last spring..."
One woman, two rows ahead, actually sighs. Audibly. Gag me with a spoon.
Woody pauses at the end of my row, those gold-rimmed hazel eyes finding mine instantly in the dim light. He gives a small nod, then slides into an empty seat directly across the aisle.
Just like him to show up late and somehow find the last empty seat in the house.
He's close enough that I catch the antiseptic smell of hospital soap. Close enough that our fingers could touch if we both reached out.
The elementary school band strikes up a wobbly rendition of "Jingle Bells," and the fourth graders file onto the stage in their construction paper reindeer headbands.
I straighten, my heart leaping when I spot Sanders in the second row, antlers hamming it up. He may think he's a teenager, but he's not yet. He will always be my little butterball.
I know this is probably the last year he will willingly dress in homemade props for a school production. As chaotic as it was this morning, I secretly live for these things.
I sneak my phone beneath my palm, unlocking the screen to double-check my ringer is off. Sanders would die if my ringtone, "Walking on Sunshine," blared during the show. The glow illuminates my face in the dimmed gymnasium, turning heads in my direction.
Woody's text appears just as I'm about to slide the phone back into my pocket.
No checking your phone during the show.
I smile despite the mild irritation that he called me out. A dozen responses flash through my mind, most involving creative uses of surgical instruments. I settle for pragmatic, instead.
I was turning off my ringer. But thanks for the tip.
Thanks for saving me a seat.
There was hardly a seat for me, so no saving to be had. You found one, like you usually do, so you're just fine.
I glance across the aisle. Woody's profile is sharp in the low light, eyes fixed on the stage where our son stands among his classmates. He doesn't look at his phone, but I know he feels it vibrate.
The response comes seconds later.
Was in surgery.Saving lives.
The Great Doctor Beamer, perpetually on call, eternally unreachable. My eyes roll so hard they nearly detach.
The sarcasm bites, but not as sharply as it once did. We've worn each other down over the years, filed away the roughest edges.
Sanders stands taller than most of his classmates, his cheeks flushed with excitement. Those ridiculous antlers wobble with every exaggerated nod, like he’s daring the audience to laugh. When the chorus hits, his voice rises clear above the others, just a touch too loud.
