We jolt upward. Mirrors on three walls reflect us back at ourselves. I'm staring at the ceiling, Lane is fixated on her phone. Her perfume reaches me in this enclosed space, something floral and achingly familiar.
I shift my weight, shoving my hands in my pockets.
"Thanks for coming today." My voice sounds too loud in the small space. "I know this probably wasn't how you planned to spend your Tuesday before Christmas. I know it means the world to Sanders."
Lane tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, a nervous habit I remember from years ago. "I could say the same to you."
Her tone is sweet, but I can read between the lines. I let it slide.
I nod, watching the numbers climb. Second floor. Third. What would happen if I hit the emergency stop? If I made her talk to me about that kiss in New York, about Jerry, about what the hell we're doing pretending everything's normal?
The doors slide open on the fifth floor, revealing the hospital café. The smell of burnt coffee and cinnamon rolls washes over us. Lane steps out first, and I follow, careful tokeep my distance.
"Look, Lane—" I start.
"Let me know what you want." She cuts me off, gesturing to the coffee menu. "I'll order while you grab a table."
And just like that, the moment's gone. "A black coffee will be fine. Thanks."
I watch her walk to the counter, shoulders straight and guard up. This is what we do now. We navigate around the real conversations, talk about coffee instead of kisses, schedules instead of feelings.
I find an empty table near the window overlooking the hospital gardens. Below, a maintenance worker adjusts a string of Christmas lights adorning the fir trees.
The holidays. Another year is almost gone. Another Christmas where Sanders shuffles between houses, where I wake up in an empty condo surrounded by precisely wrapped presents and nobody to share them with, waiting for him to finish Christmas morning with his mom.
And Jerry the Jerk.
Lane approaches with two paper cups, steam rising between us like all the words we can't say.
"Black," she says, sliding it toward me.
I take a sip of coffee, wincing as it scalds the roof of my mouth. The bitterness matches my mood. Lane looks out the window, studying the man working on the lights.
"Place is impressive. Makes our ORs look outdated."
Lane hums a polite, noncommittal sound, her gaze still fixed out the window. The distance gnaws at me, irritation prickling beneath the guilt. I shouldn’t care so much that she’s cold. I shouldn’t miss the warmth she used to have.
And yet I crave some break in the ice. Surely we can find a crack somewhere. I clear my throat. “So…where’s Jerry the Jerk?”
The second it’s out, I want to stuff it back down.Damn it. I meant to just say Jerry. Jerry. Ahh. Fucking Jerry.
"I mean to say Jerry. Where's Jerry?"
Lane stills mid-sip, lowering her cup with surgical precision. “Mature, Woody. Real mature. Why would you say that?”
I rub the back of my neck, fumbling. “Sorry. It just slipped.”
Her eyes flash. “You don’t get to call him that. At least Jerry shows up.”
The words cut clean. My jaw locks, heat spiking behind my eyes.
“Right,” I mutter. “Because leaving for an emergency surgery means I don’t show up.”
Her reply is instant, quiet but precise as a scalpel. “You might show up, but you always leave. That’s the difference.”
The silence that follows is suffocating. Louder than any shouting match we ever had.
“I need some air.” She pushes back in her chair, stands, and disappears down the hall without a second glance.
