Outside, New York continues its relentless pace, while time seems suspended in here.
My room is empty despite my suitcase sprawled open on the luggage rack. I strip methodically, removing my shoes, watch, shirt, and pants. The shower beckons, promising to turn off my muscles and loosen the tension from a long day of travel and ice skating.
Hot water drums against my shoulders, loosening knotsI didn't know I carried. Steam billows around me as my mind drifts.
Sanders's radiant face when he spotted the Rockefeller tree flashes across my mind. I love the way his mouth formed a perfect 'o' of wonder.
I think about Lane's hand in mine on the ice, that startled look when I caught her. For a moment, she'd forgotten to pull away.
Then, it's her laugh across the diner table when Leigh made that crack about boys being "sus" and her single dimple appearing despite her best efforts, just like Sanders's.
I'd forgotten that laugh. How it used to fill our kitchen on Sunday mornings. How it slowly disappeared in those final years of our marriage when my pager became the third person in our marriage.
The water runs cooler now. I shut it off, grab a towel, and roughly dry my hair before wrapping it around my waist.
The mirror has fogged completely, my reflection a ghost of itself. Probably for the best.
I brush my teeth, avoiding my own eyes. This whole situation is complicated enough without acknowledging what I'm really feeling. I'm here for Sanders. For his fundraiser. For Luke.
Not because being near Lane again feels like finding something I misplaced years ago.
My throat is suddenly parched. I grab the glass from my nightstand, padding barefoot into the living area for water. The ice machine hums down the hall, but the sink will do.
I don't expect to find Lane standing there in the dim light, her back to me, staring at the kettle resting on the red ringon the stovetop.
I freeze in the doorway. Lane stands at the kitchenette counter, illuminated only by the soft glow of under-cabinet lights. The kettle hums, water almost at its boiling point.
When she notices me, her eyes widen slightly, then drop, taking in my bare chest, the water still tracking down my skin, the towel knotted at my waist. The assessment lasts only a second before she jerks her gaze back to her mug.
My pulse spikes. I’ve been in operating rooms with less tension than this tiny kitchenette.
I cross to the sink because turning around at this point would only make it more awkward. I came out here for water, so I’m getting the damn water.
The faucet handle is slick under my fingers as I twist it. It rushes out like a hose on full blast, nearly sloshing over the edge of the glass before I catch myself and crank it down.
“Sorry,” I murmur, my voice rougher than I mean it to be. “Didn’t know you were still up.”
Her knuckles whiten around the mug. “Couldn’t sleep. Thought tea might help.”
I nod, take a sip of water just to keep my hands busy. “Yeah, my mind's racing, too. It's been a long day. A good one.”
“Yeah, it has,” she says quietly, eyes flicking toward me for half a beat before darting away again.
The kettle whistles. The sharp shrill startles us both. Lane jumps, then lets out a quick laugh that cracks the silence. I almost laugh too, but the sound sticks in my throat.
We’re standing too close, saying almost nothing, and yet it feels like everything is being said at once.
I'm abruptly aware of everything. The distance between us is measured in inches instead of the carefulmiles we usually keep. The soft light catches auburn highlights in her hair I’d forgotten about.
The refrigerator hums. A car horn blares nineteen floors below. My pulse hammers in my ears.
And then it hits me. I'm standing here wearing virtually nothing. My ears burn at the realization. I’m not shy, never have been, but right now I’m uncomfortably aware I shouldn’t be here like this. Not with Lane.
She shifts her weight, thumb tracing the rim of her mug in small circles. The gesture is so familiar it aches. I'm well aware of her nervous habit when she's trying not to say something all too well.
I should walk away. Back to my room. Put on clothes. Maintain the careful distance we've cultivated over the years.
I don't move.
