Carly eventually yawns and retreatsto her bedroom with a paperback. "Don't stay up too late, monsters. I'm turning in."
The kids form a puppy pile of blankets and limbs, eyelids growing heavy. I lean down to smooth Sanders's hair, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "Are you sure this is how y'all want to sleep? Doesn't look very comfortable to me."
"Yes, Mom. Shh. I'm trying to listen."
"Sorry. I'm going to head down the hall. You know which room if you need us, right?"
He nods his head gently but definitely nudges me away from hovering.
Across the nest, Woody gently adjusts Luke's pillow, his hand lingering on the boy's bony shoulder. For once, we’re moving in rhythm. No push and pull, no undercurrent of strain.
Ease.
As we walk to our room, Woody's phone rings. "I've got to take this."
I nod and unlock the door, looking forward to a long shower. I reach for the hotel robe hanging on the bathroom door when footsteps approach. I turn just as Woody appears in the doorway, his silhouette backlit by the common area light.
Something's wrong. His body is rigid, jaw tight, hands shoved deep in his pockets, the same posture from a hundred arguments past.
"What's wrong?" My stomach tightens with instinctive dread.
"I booked the last flight out tonight," he says evenly. "I land in Raleigh-Durham at midnight and then drive to Wilmington from there. I have to be in surgery first thing tomorrow morning."
The words knock the air from my lungs. Of course this is happening again.
"You're kidding me, right?" My voice shakes, as if someone jerked the rug out from under me.
He doesn't answer, just looks at me with those same eyes that he always gave when telling me work trumps everything. Heat crawls up my neck as the familiar hurt crashes over me. Different year, same abandonment.
"I wish I were. It's a case that Peck covered for me today. It went sideways, and he doesn't feel comfortable. The patient is in the ICU until I can open him back?—"
"I don't want to hear it, Woody. It doesn't matter. "My pulse hammers beneath my skin. I hate how my voice trembles, betraying the hurt beneath my anger.
"Lane, this isn't?—"
"Isn't what? Isn't exactly what you've always done?" The words tumble out faster, sharper.
His jaw flexes, the muscle twitching beneath stubbled skin. "This is my job. People count on me."
"And what about the people right here?" I gesture wildly, feeling suddenly frantic. "The ones you promised to spend these few days with? Are we not allowed to count on you?"
I hate myself for saying it as soon as the words are in the open. I let myself count on him.
Woody's shoulders snap back as if I've slapped him. "You think Iwantthis? I don't have a choice."
"There's always a choice, Woody." My voice shakes despite my efforts to sound strong. "You just never pick us."
His hands curl at his sides, knuckles whitening. The familiar stance of a man gathering his defense. I've seen it a hundred times before. The room shrinks around us, the air growing thicker with each breath. I watch him struggle for composure, the muscle in his jawworking overtime.
"I'm just going to go ahead and go." He turns to leave. "I don't need to stand here and get torn apart for doing my job."
The distance between us spans more than just feet. It's years of the same argument, different hotel, different emergency, same ending.
"Go, then." My throat burns with words I've swallowed too many times. "That's what you do best."
My chest is hollow, carved out, and empty. The tears build behind my eyes but refuse to fall. I won't cry in front of him. Not again.
We kissed today, I want to scream.The boys need you here. I?—
