I shoulder my gym bag, heat crawling up my neck. "See you at six, man. Beer's on me."
I step outside, the late-afternoon sun hitting me square in the eyes. It's surprisingly bright and relentless on this mid-December afternoon. Just like the truth I'm running from.
I stab at the key fob, not remembering where I parked. The distant beep comes from the right, and I spot my black SUV. My gym bag weighs heavily on my shoulder, muscles still burning from the workout.
My phone vibrates against my palm. The display flashesDuke University.
"Dr. Beamer." I prop the phone between my ear and shoulder as I open the back door, and toss my bag in the back seat.
"Dr. Beamer! Gill Cleaver here, PR coordinator for Duke's transplant division. Sorry to call out of the blue. We just wrapped a board meeting, and I wanted to try to reach you as quickly as possible."
I straighten, suddenly alert. "No problem."
"I tried your wife's phone first, but it went to voicemail."
My fingers freeze on the driver's side door handle. Something cold slides down my spine.
"My—sorry—who?"
"Mrs. Beamer," Cleaver says easily. "Lane. I wanted to run something by you. Any chance your family could come on Tuesday with the Turners for Luke's pre-op? We're planning a feature on Luke's case and the #SaveChristmas campaign, and figured with them already coming, if we could get Sanders here, too, we can put together some good material."
Wife. Lane. Mrs. Beamer.
The words skip like stones across the surface of my thoughts.
"Uh, yeah, that sounds nice." My mind races as I think ahead to my schedule on Tuesday. Sanders is out of school, but I'm supposed to be working. Fuck. More shuffling.
"The board wants to highlight what happens behind the scenes when a patient gets a transplant. We love your son's story about creating this fundraiser, the boys' friendship, everything. It's all so wonderful, it would be a shame not to tap into that to help bring awareness."
My throat tightens, the familiar ache spreading through my chest. "Right."
"Can we count on you both on Tuesday? The feature team is excited to meet Sanders, and of course, the parents behind this amazing story."
I hesitate, hand pressed flat against my car, steadying myself. The cold metal grounds me, but barely.
"I'll have to talk to my—" Holy shit. Did I almost refer to her as my wife!?
I clear my throat. "I'll have to talk to Lane and get back to you. They are still in New York until tomorrow afternoon. Is it okay if I get back to you after that? I know that is tight on timing, but if we can't all be there, I can almost assure at least Sanders will. And I'll work on the rest of us."
"Perfect. Just let us know as soon as you can so we can make arrangements."
The call ends, and I lower the phone slowly, staring at the cracked asphalt beneath my feet.
Wife. My wife.
After the way I left New York, after the look she gave me, how the hell am I supposed to ask her to stand beside me again? To smile for the cameras. To act like we’re still something we’re not.
FIFTEEN
Lane
The down bedding swallows me as I stare at the ceiling of this hotel room that costs more per night than my weekly grocery bill. New York never sleeps, and it turns out, neither can I at the moment.
My thumb slides across my phone screen as images of our time here blur together. I smile at a shot of Sanders and Luke beaming on Good Morning America. The comments pour in about how inspiring they are, and the donations are still climbing. I ought to be elated.
Instead, my mind keeps circling back to that moment in the studio.
Woody's lips against mine. The way his hands found my waist like they remembered exactly where to land. Seven years dissolved in seconds.
