No matter what, we aren't at the place where I can just drop in unannounced. It's not like I'mgoing to see her.
I drift past empty strip malls with their half-hearted Christmas displays, my SUV rumbling beneath me like a living thing. The dashboard clock reads 6:22. It's encroaching on dinnertime, definitely too late to claim this is just about Duke's appointment on Tuesday, the reason I asked her to call me.
The sky bleeds purple and gold across the horizon, streetlights flickering on one by one. Christmas lights twinkle from eaves and bushes, growing more elaborate as I wind through the neighborhoods toward Lane's neighborhood.
My thumb brushes absently across my lower lip, and suddenly I'm back in that dim studio, Lane's mouth under mine. The ghost of her taste hits me so hard it's physical.
Cinnamon and something uniquely her rushes through my senses, causing me to shiver. A flicker of heat twists through my gut and settles lower. I shift in my seat, uncomfortable.
"Fuck." The curse comes out rough.
One reckless thought edges in: what if we tried again? Not marriage, not promises. Maybe a kiss. Maybe more. Damn, the thought of touching her skin again makes my cock hard.
I shut it down just as fast as it crept up on me. That fantasy died eight years ago when I chose another emergency surgery over her birthday dinner, the final straw, and ended with a divorce thirteen months later. The writing was already on the wall, though, when I missed Sanders' first steps because a patient was coding, or possibly even sooner, when I wasn't there or reachable when she went into labor.
Still, my hands steer on autopilot, the vehicle turning down familiar streets I only come down when necessary, when it has something to do with Sanders. Her street. Theone with the oak trees that drop acorns like grenades in October.
I tell myself it's nothing, just passing by, curious if they're home or out running holiday errands. But when her house comes into view, my chest aches like someone's fist is squeezing my heart.
I see her by the front door with someone, haloed by soft porch light and that ridiculous glowing wreath hanging on the door. The Christmas tree sparkles through the window behind her, all those handmade ornaments Sanders brings home every year, carefully arranged.
It's fucking Jerry the Jerk. He's there, instead of me, with his arms wrapped around her. The two of them are on the front porch, locked in an embrace. A fucking Norman Rockwell painting.
Mother—. I don't finish the profanity-laced thought. He looks like he belongs there. That almost makes me madder than the fact that it's him. His perfectly coiffed blonde hair, a cashmere sweater, and a collared shirt underneath.
The sight hits like a punch to the solar plexus. Jealousy flashes hot and sharp through me, followed by a shame I refuse to name. The acid in my gut curdles into anger.
"I wonder if you told him you kissed me in New York, Lane," I mutter, stepping harder on the gas.
Now I understand why she hasn't gotten back to me. She's been with him.
It's easier to be mad than hurt. Easier to call her faithless than admit I want her back.
I tear my gaze away, knuckles white on the wheel as I accelerate down the street, breath coming ragged and uneven.
"Screw it." The anger is cleanerthan the longing.
The blindingsurgical lights click off as I step back from the table. Six hours of steady hands, of reducing fragments that wanted to splinter apart, of lining up the shaft so it would carry her weight again.
My shoulders ache with the familiar tension, but there’s a deep steadiness under the fatigue. Mrs. Hernandez’s shattered femur is no longer a puzzle of bone shards. The intramedullary rod sits straight, the locking screws hold tight, and alignment is restored.
“Amazing work, Dr. Beamer.” Dr. Liu peels off her gown, nodding as she heads toward the door.
“Thanks. She’ll need close monitoring overnight, but I think she will heal up beautifully.”
I push into the scrub room, fluorescent light bouncing sharply off stainless steel. The air tastes of antiseptic, clean but heavy, as if fatigue itself has a scent.
The snap of my gloves echoes around the empty room as I strip them away. I tug the mask from my face, my neck popping as I roll it side to side.
Long surgery. Hard surgery. But clean. The kind that leaves no doubt when she stands again, her stride will be straight.
After I get cleaned up, I pull out my phone to check to see if Lane got back to me. The Duke appointment is tomorrow, and Lane still hasn't responded. The familiar rush of irritation rises when I see I missed her call and a text.
My heart kicks up before I can stop it. Then the memory of last night crashes through me. My mind flashes to Lane and Jerry on her porch last night, his arms around her, comfortable in a space that used to be mine. The image stings sharply enough to make me wince.
I exhale hard, scrubbing a hand through my hair before swiping up to unlock it. The screen light glares against my tired eyes as I tap her number.
The ring barely finishes before a burst of sound fills my ear.
