But the thought dies unfinished. I stand in the doorway of my room, arms crossed, waiting to see what else we will say. Surely there is more, after this morning, after all we have done together these last several days.
In what seems like seconds, as if he'd already packed up while we were gone, he hoists his bag over his shoulder. He glances at me but doesn't say a thing. Clinical. Removed. Gone even before he reaches the door.
The door closes with a click that reverberates in the empty space like a gunshot in my chest.
I stand frozen for several heartbeats, my lungs paralyzed, eyes fixed on the space where he stood. The emptiness roars around me, pressing against my skin.
My knees finally give out. I sink onto the edge of the bed, hands gripping the duvet so tight my knuckles ache.
His words echo in my head:I don't need to stand here and get torn apart for doing my job.As if I'm the unreasonable one. As if I'm asking for something extraordinary by wanting him to stay with his son.
The first tear slides hot down my cheek, then another, until they're falling too fast to count. I press my palmsagainst my eyes, trying to force them back, but they leak through my fingers, anyway.
Tomorrow, Sanders will look for his dad. Tomorrow I’ll be the one who has to explain why he’s not here. And I don’t know how to do it without breaking him the way Woody just broke me.
FOURTEEN
Woody
I lean my head against the cold window, trying to find a position that doesn't make my neck scream.
Exhaustion has seeped into my bones, making even blinking too much work. The highway stretches endlessly ahead, a black ribbon disappearing into darker shadows.
The car's cabin smells of stale cigarette smoke, and the pine air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror is doing nothing to mask it. My phone rests on my thigh, its weight disproportionate to its size. I know what waits there—Sanders's unanswered texts asking when I'll be back.
It's 1:17 a.m. We still have two hours to Wilmington.
"Shit," I mutter, watching headlights from oncoming traffic slice through the darkness as the driver makes his way.
My thoughts keep circling back to Lane's face when I told her I was leaving. That flash of hurt before anger hardened her features. The way her voice cracked. I was trying to be understanding at first, but my old defensiveness kicked in before I realized it.
I wish I'd handled it better. I wish I hadn't stormed off like that.
You just never pick us.
I stare out the window, watching black and gray buildings and billboards zip by. It's not fair that she framed it like that. She always sees it as a choice. It's not about picking. The patient needed me. Peck couldn't handle the complications. What was I supposed to do?
There's always a choice, Woody.
Is there? If I'd stayed, a man might have died. How is that a choice?
The image of Sanders at Rockefeller Center floats through my mind. His laughter echoed across the ice, cheeks pink with cold and excitement. My chest warms at the way his face lit up at Good Morning America, so proud, so certain of what he was doing.
And Lane, with snowflakes melting in her hair, breathless and beautiful. We were all lighter for a moment. It was fleeting, but it was magical while it lasted.
For thirty-six hours, we'd been something close to a family again. Now I'm racing toward Wilmington while she's in New York with our son without me.
I rub my eyes again, feeling every one of my thirty-five years plus about twenty more.
"Just one day," I mutter to myself, the words falling flat in the empty car. "I only missed one day in New York with them."
But I know it's not about the time. It's never been about the time. It's about the pattern, the expectation, the fact that she already knew I would leave before I even said the words.
I shut my eyes for a moment. By Saturday, they'll be back. I'll make it right. Somehow.
Whatever that evenmeans anymore.
It's9:37 AM when I push out of the OR doors. Adrenaline still courses through my veins as I scrub out.
