Woody saying that about Jerry was helpful. I need more of that and less father-of-the-year behavior.
The memory floods back, his hands cupping my face, the shock of wanting him so badly after swearing I never would again.
Ahead, headlights streak toward us, momentarily illuminating the inside of the car. In that flash, I catch Woody's eyes flickering toward me before darting back to the road.
I swallow hard. My throat is tight, constricted with everything unsaid.
The air is so thick, suddenly making it hard to breathe. I crack the window for a fresh breath, and the cold night air rushes in. After a quick inhale and a raindrop on my face, I roll it back up.
Light rain starts to fall on the windshield.
I exhale hard through my nose, gathering courage to say something, anything, to puncture this suffocating quiet.
Woody turns on the windshield wipers, and the clunk, clunk as they move side-to-side offers a welcome rhythm to the silence.
"I didn't mean to hurt you." His voice startles me at first. I didn't expect it, especially for him to lead with what almost seems like an apology. "When I left New York."
My chest tightens. I keep my eyes fixed on the darkness beyond my window. "You think it’s just about New York, but it’s every time. And I’m so tired of letting my guard down only to be disappointed time and again. That's onme, not you, Woody."
"The surgery?—"
"It's always a surgery." The words taste bitter on my tongue. "There's always something more important."
"That's not fair."
"Isn't it?" I finally turn to look at him. "You kissed me, Woody. You kissed me, and then you left. You know how hard it was for me to move on, and it's like you don't want me to fully get on with my life."
His throat works, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows. "Would you have preferred I didn't kiss you at all?"
The question lands like a blow. Would I?
The honest answer terrifies me too much to say aloud.
"I don't know," I whisper finally, the truth clawing its way out despite my efforts to contain it. Admitting even that much feels like stepping off a cliff. Why didn't I just say yes?! Of course I prefer you don't kiss me at all.
The darkness between us pulses with things unsaid. The heater hums, pushing warm air that doesn't touch the chill spreading through my body.
Woody flexes his fingers on the steering wheel, adjusts his grip. A sign for Wilmington flashes overhead. We have five miles to go. We can do this.
His voice breaks the quiet, low and rough. "I can't stand it," he says suddenly, not looking at me. "The thought of you with Jerry. It's always bothered me. But since New York… It's worse."
My heart stumbles. I stare straight ahead, my fingers tightening in my lap. The rawness in his tone undoes me.
I swallow, forcing air into my lungs. "There you go again, holding me back from moving on," I whisper, though my voice trembles. "Just let me go, Woody."
He doesn't answer, just glances at me, jaw tight, eyes unreadable. The silence turns electric, thick with everything we can't say.
A memory flashes across my mind. Sanders, as a toddler, sits between us on the couch, Woody's arm stretched behind our son, fingers absently playing with my hair. That was before I realized I needed him more than he could give me. Before I stopped believing we could fix what was breaking.
Finally, I blurt the truth I've been choking on. "I hate myself for letting you in again. For believing even for a second that this time would be different. I know better."
His hands tighten on the wheel. "Lane?—"
"No." My voice cracks. "Do you know how many times I watched you walk away? How many times I kept hoping next time would be different?"
"That's not what?—"
Woody's jaw clenches, the muscle jumping beneath his skin.
