“Dad!”
Sanders’ voice is pure sunshine, bright enough to melt through the fatigue that’s been pressing on me since dawn.
My chest loosens. I lean back against the cool tile wall, the phone warm against my ear. “Hey, buddy. Have you rested up after our big trip?”
“Yeah, I’m not tired at all.” There’s a clatter in the background. “Did your surgery go okay?”
“It sure did,” I answer, rubbing the bridge of my nose, the sting of antiseptic still clinging to my skin. “I’m sorry I had to leave, but I’m glad I was able to help the man I came home for. Prime example why you have to drink your milk and eat your broccoli!”
“It’s okay, Dad.” His acceptance is so easy it almost hurts.
“Hey,” I shift my weight, my clogs squeaking on the polished tile, “your mom called me while I was in the O.R. Is she around?”
"Nope. It was me! You promised we'd go Christmas shopping today. Remember? Are we still going?!"
The excitement in his voice makes my stomach drop. Shit. I completely forgot.
"Right. Yeah, I did." I squeeze my eyes shut, guilt crashing in. "I'll be done with my last case by one. You think you will be ready to hit the ground running around one-thirty?"
"Okay! I'll make sure that is okay with mom. I'll text you back." Sanders' laughter trails as the call ends.
I stare at the phone, my reflection distortedin its dark surface. I've got three hours for a routine knee arthroscopy with meniscus repair, to finish post-op notes, change, and get across town.
I slip the phone into my pocket. One-thirty. I can't miss that.
After a few smooth hours, the patient is sealed up and as good as new. Thank goodness there were no surprises. I'm ahead of schedule.
My phone vibrates against my thigh. I fish it from my pocket, expecting the lab with Mrs. Yablonski's numbers.
Lane's name flashes on the screen. My pulse jumps.
We'll meet you at the Target parking lot. 1:30. Please confirm because Sanders said you have another case, and I don't want to be sitting there waiting if you can't make it.
Kiss my ass might have been sweeter. Damn.
My heart races as I read it again. I can't tell if it's because I'm pissed or nervous to see her again after New York. I stare at the text, jaw clenching until my molars ache. This is the woman who melted against me in that studio, whose fingers threaded through my hair as if she couldn't get close enough.
Now we're back to this. Clinical. Distant. Co-parents exchanging a child like a business transaction.
I type back just as coolly.
We're good. See you then.
When I finally pull into Target's lot, winter sunlight bounces harsh and white off a sea of windshields. Lane's blue SUV sits near the entrance, Sanders's profile visible in the back seat.
I park beside her, cutting the engine.
Sanders spots me through the window, face lighting up as he waves frantically. My chest loosens just looking at him. At least someone's happy to see me.
I step out into the chilly December air and walk over to Lane's car. Sanders tumbles out of the back seat and nearly knocks me over with his exaggerated hug.
"Dad! Did you bring your credit card? Because I've got big plans."
I laugh, ruffling his hair. "Let me guess. Your mom's Christmas present?"
"And maybe something for me, too? Actually, they have this new game?—"
"Maybe something for you, too. Go get in my truck. Let me talk to your mom a second." He snatches my phone out of my hand and jumps in the backseat of my car. I walk to Lane's driver's side.
