This is Woody, I remind myself. The man who broke every promise he ever made to you. The only man who ever broke my heart.
But my body doesn't care about old betrayals. It remembers other things like his hands, his mouth, the weight of him against me in darkness.
I step forward, and his scent grabs hold of me. The delicious soap and warm skin and something distinctly him. My shoulder is still touching his, and a part of me desperately doesn't want to lose that contact. But I have to. I can't do this.
Don't look back, I order myself. Just keep walking.
"Goodnight, Lane." His voice follows me, low and rough, laced with something that sounds like regret.
I pause for a fraction of a second, my hand already on the edge of my door. Safety is so close I can almost taste it. The urge to turn is almost overwhelming, to see if his eyes hold the same heat burning through me. To find out what would happen if I stepped back toward him instead of away.
But I know what would happen. And I'm not ready for that collapse, for everything I've carefully rebuilt to come tumbling down.
I step into my room and close thedoor behind me, leaning against it as if to hold back the tide of want that threatens to drown me.
My hands shake so badly that tea sloshes over the rim as I set the mug on the nightstand. Drops splash onto the polished wood, amber puddles that I can't bring myself to wipe away.
I sink onto the edge of the bed, my heart hammering against my ribs like it's trying to escape. Each breath comes quick and shallow. The room that was comfortable before I left to make tea is now too warm, too close.
"God, get it together," I whisper, pressing my palms against my thighs. The pressure grounds me, but only barely.
I reach for the tea, wrapping both hands around the mug. The ceramic burns my palms. Good. The peppermint is sharp and clean on my tongue, scalding as I take a long sip. The pain helps clear my head, but not enough. Not nearly enough.
Behind my eyelids waits a slideshow I can't shut off. I see Woody's bare chest, water droplets trailing paths I once traced with my fingertips. The towel riding low on his hips, the light trail of hair below his belly button leading down. The way his eyes darkened when I brushed past him, how they followed me across the room.
"No," I mutter, shaking my head hard. "No, no, no."
My body refuses reason. My skin sparks with memory, as if seven years never passed. Every nerve strains toward him, hungry, reckless.
I don’t want this. I can’t. Not after everything.
But desire doesn’t give a damn about betrayal or broken promises. It remembers the press of his hands, the slide of his mouth, the way his body once claimed every inch of mine.
He is doing it without even trying. Just standing there,existing in the same space as me, and suddenly I'm coming undone. Seven years of careful distance shattered by one night in a shared hotel suite.
I drag air into my lungs. I've built a life without him. A good one. We've finally gotten into our groove as co-parents, navigating these necessary joint activities without a nervous breakdown every time. I have my job, my garden, my friends.
The last thing I need to do is complicate that balance by making a stupid, momentary lapse.
All the rational thoughts in the world can't slow my racing pulse.
I sink back against the pillows, my fist clutched to my chest like a shield.
"One night," I whisper. "Just get through tonight."
I finish my tea, brush my teeth, and pad back to my bed. My mind is still racing, and I know I won't sleep. Before our little run-in, the sheets were too rough against my skin and the pillow too flat. Now, compound that with the ghost of half-naked Woody just across the hall.
I sit cross-legged on the bed, staring into my empty mug of tea. The city hums outside—car horns, distant sirens, the perpetual breath of Manhattan at night.
It's not him. It can't be him.
It's everything else, the whirlwind of Sanders's fundraiser, the blur of cameras and interviews, the magic of New York at Christmas. It's seeing my son's face light up when dreams become reality. It's the heady rush of doing something that matters.
That's all this is. Circumstantial chemistry.
My fingers tighten around my ankles as I pull my legs in tighter. The pain grounds me, keeps me from floating away on what-ifs and maybes.
Logic can't smother longing. I can listall the reasons we failed, but my body remembers other things—the curve of his smile when Sanders was born, the safety of his arms during thunderstorms, how he'd read medical journals aloud to put himself to sleep and me along with him.
