I reach for it reluctantly, then freeze when I see the name. It's not or Jerry.
Woody.
My heart skips, then races to catch up. I stare at the notification, finger hovering over it. Why now? The last thing I need is another apology that doesn't change anything.
I tap it anyway.
Hey. Didn't want to bother y'all on travel day. Hope you made it back in one piece. Sorry again, I had to leave, but for what it's worth, the surgery went well, and it would've been a mess if I hadn't. I spoke to someone at Duke yesterday. They want us to come there on Tuesday. When you have a moment, give me a call and I'll fill you in.
I read it twice. Three times. The words blur together, but certain ones stand out like neon signs:Duke. Us. Tuesday.
Heat spikes under my skin, hot and bitter. Of course. Now everything is just hunky dory. We just go back to normal.
The phone is heavy in my hand as I set it back on the nightstand without responding. I ease myself under the covers, pulling them to my chin even though I'm not cold.
"Perfect," I whisper to the empty room. "Just perfect."
Duke means Luke. Tuesday means soon. With Woody. Together.
And I'll say yes, of course. Because I always do. Because Luke matters, and Sanders cares, and somehow I've become tangled in this web where saying no really isn't an option.
I roll onto my side, staring at my phone's now-dark screen. No matter how far I run, how firmly I draw my boundaries, I can't escape Woody. We are tied together, for better or worse.
SIXTEEN
Woody
I push through the glass doors, my hoodie unzipped and gym bag slung over my shoulder. The December air hits my overheated skin like a slap, cool and sharp with that faint tang of salt that marks Wilmington winters.
My muscles burn in that satisfying way that only comes after I've pushed them to their limits.
For the first time since I left New York, I don't feel like there's a weight crushing my chest. The endorphins race through my bloodstream, bright and clean. I roll my shoulders, savoring the sensation.
I dig my phone from my pocket, thumbing through my messages. Still nothing from Lane. My jaw clenches involuntarily.
Eighteen hours. That’s how long my text has sat there without an answer. Ignored, most likely. After everything in New York, the kiss, the way she looked at me under the studio lights, the easy moments, real laughter, where it felt like the walls between us finally cracked, I guess I thought we'd turned a corner. Not much. Just something. A sign the thaw between us hadn’t been my imagination.
Instead, silence. And I'm sure she'd say that’s on me. I left early, and she’ll never see it as anything but me choosing work over her and Sanders. She doesn’t understand that it wasn’t optional. It was my duty, and I did the right thing.
Still, the timing was brutal. One fluke issue during what should have been a routine hip replacement, and it very well could have torched whatever fragile ground we’d managed to gain.
It will be fine. It is fine. This is status quo for us. I was just hoping things had shifted.
The silence feels deliberate, calculated to push me away, and that irritates me more than I want to admit.
I toss my gym bag into the passenger seat of my car and slide in behind the wheel. The leather is cool against my damp back. I start the engine, letting its low hum fill the space where my thoughts keep circling back to her.
What am I doing? This is exactly why we couldn't make it work before. The push and pull, the way we both dig in our heels when we should be reaching out.
I back out of the parking lot, flipping on the radio to drown out the voice in my head that keeps replaying our argument in that hotel room.
You never choose us.
The words cut deeper than any scalpel. The worst part is, she's not entirely wrong.
I make a right turn out of the gym's lot, telling myself I'm heading home. But three blocks later, I realize I've turned toward her side of town instead. The pull toward her street grows harder to ignore with each mile marker.
"Damn it." I hit the steering wheel with the heel of my hand.
