Truth is, I haven’t even asked him yet. I told Lane he “might” cover because that’s easier than admitting I haven’t decided if I’ll push. If it works, great. If it doesn’t, everyone will survive my absence.
I stare at the phone screen, thumb hovering, before finally pressing dial. My pulse hammers in my ears as the phone rings once, twice.
Through the closed door, I can hear Lane clearing Sanders' breakfast plate. The scrape of metal against ceramic fills the quiet morning air the same way it used to when we shared this house, this life.
"Yo," Nate's voice crackles through the speaker. "You here? I didn't see you on the board for early surgery today."
I turn slightly away from the house, lowering my voice. "Not yet. Hey, listen. Peck, I need a favor."
"Let me guess." His tired chuckle carries through the line. "You're asking me to cover Christmas week?"
My free hand finds the bridge of my nose, pinching hard. “Just Wednesday and Thursday this week. Two knees and a shoulder scope. If they can’t be pushed, can you take them? I’ll cover your hips next week.”
Peck sighs. “You know those Thorson casesare monsters.”
“I know. I’ll owe you.”
Nate sighs heavily through the phone. "Wilmington can spare you for a Christmas miracle, huh?"
The words land like a teasing jab but cut deeper than he realizes. For years, I've told myself our town depends on me. My patients need me. I've worn that excuse like armor against the guilt of missing all kinds of life outside of work commitments.
"Yeah," I manage. "Something like that."
"Does this have something to do with your son's #SaveChristmas Challenge? Must be big if you're playing hooky."
"Good Morning America wants us in New York. For the fundraiser."
A low whistle through the speaker. "No shit. National TV?"
"Looks that way."
"Well, don't fuck it up, Beamer." His voice softens. "I got you covered. This happens to be a light week for me. I may have to shift some times, but if you can't reschedule them, I'll make them happen this week. Send me the charts today so I can review and make sure I have what I need ready."
Relief washes through me when Peck agrees. I thank him, end the call, and stand outside for a moment longer than necessary. The cold bites my face.
I told myself Sanders didn’t really need me there. That Lane could handle New York, that the fundraiser would keep rolling without me.
But that’s not the point. Sanders asked me to be there. And if I’m honest, I want to be there when he sees the lights, the tree, all of it.
I push back inside. The kitchen is quiet. Lane’s frozen mid-motion at the counter, dish towel in hand. She looks atme with that guarded expression I know too well, bracing for the cancellation.
“I talked to Peck,” I say, forcing the words past my throat. “He’s covering Wednesday and Thursday. I’ll come with y’all.” The next words slip out before I can stop them. “Not that it matters, but just curious—will Jerry be there?”
Christ. Why did I say that? Asking only makes me sound like the jerk he is.
Her eyes narrow, sharp as knives, and for a second, I can almost hear her lining up the retort. I don’t blame her. I’ve hated Jerry for years. Not just because he slid into the space I vacated, but because he never hid how much he liked reminding me of it.
Sanders calls him steady, and maybe he is, but all I see is the smug bastard who got the life I should’ve shown up for.
“No,” she says flatly. “He’s tied up. You’ll get me all to yourself. I appreciate you making that call and coming. It will mean a lot to our son to have you there.”
The gratitude hits harder than I expect, knocking something loose in my chest. I nod awkwardly, heat creeping up the back of my neck.
Relief flickers through me. I’m not sure what it says about my character, but I'm shamefully grateful Jerry the Jerk won’t be intruding on this.
I nod at her thanks, heat crawling up the back of my neck. After all this time, her recognition that I'm trying to do right by our son still feels like absolution.
I double-parkmy SUV along Market Street, eyeing the small crowd gathering outside Lane'sinsurance office. Christmas wreaths hang from every lamp post, red ribbons fluttering in the December breeze.
