"Go to the hospital. Take the kids. I'll be there as soon as I can, and I can bring Leigh home with us if you want," she promises, voice firm despite the tremor in her hand. "He's going to be okay, Carly."
She ends the call, lowering the phone slowly to her lap. When she turns to me, her eyes are huge, shimmering with unshed tears.
"It's Luke," she says quietly. "The ambulance just took him. They're headed to Cape Fear Regional."
Anxiety crawls up, the warmth of our morning evaporating instantly. "Do you know what's wrong?"
"Carly found him unresponsive when she went to wake the boys. Something about his potassium levels—" She stops, knowing I understand the medical implications. "Sanders is terrified."
TWENTY-ONE
Lane
I grab some jeans out of my dresser, my fingers trembling so badly I can barely grasp the heavy denim.
Everything is all wrong, starting with waking up with my ex-husband, to the lingering warmth of Woody's body still imprinted on my skin, while panic floods my system.
My heart hammers against my ribs like it's trying to escape.
"Where the hell is my purse?" I mutter, scanning the room through blurred vision as I remember my steps last night after I got home. My keys are in there. Living room, maybe, where we first?—
No. Focus, Lane.
Woody stands by the bed, buttoning his shirt over his firm chest, his hair mussed from sleep and our night together. His eyes track me as I move, that surgical precision settling into his features.
"I'll drive." His voice is steady, the way it gets when he's putting on his calm-under-pressure voice.
I yank my shirt over my head before I realize that it'sinside out. "Do you think that's a good idea, for us to show up together like that?" My hands fumble with my zipper.
Woody walks around the bed and pulls me to him. "Lane, no one will be paying attention to how we get there."
He holds me tight, and I breathe him in. I've always loved the way he smells. For a moment, I allow myself to sink into him.
I quiet the insanity in my brain, the panic for Luke, for Carly, for our son. For the fact that I slept with my ex-husband, who I'm still in love with, after all these years.
The reality of what we're doing, getting dressed together after a night I swore would never happen again, crashes into me like a wave. Sanders. Oh god, Sanders.
"I really think I should go alone," I blurt out, shoving my feet into sneakers without socks. "It'll just confuse Sanders, seeing us like this after..." The words die in my throat.
Woody's eyes lock with mine, that gold rim around his hazel irises catching the morning light. "No. I'm coming. We're doing this together. We've been riding to all kinds of things together all week. He won't think twice. If anything, I think it will be more comforting to have us both there."
My pulse stutters. Part of me wants to scream at him to leave, to give me space to think clearly without the confusion he always brings.
But another part, the part that remembers how his hand steadied mine during different times in our past. I need him.
"Sanders can't know," I snap, grabbing my phone from the nightstand. "No hints, no confusion. He's already scared about Luke. I don't want to confuse him until we know what this is."
I want to say before this crashes and burns, but I can't bring myself to admit that. Right now, my focus is on getting to that hospital and being there for our son, for Carly.
Woody nods, calm settling over him like a cloak. "I understand. But you should know right now, Lane. I'm not going anywhere."
"Fine. But later, we talk," I mutter, pulling on my boots while balancing against the doorframe. My fingers fumble with the hem of my shirt, betraying the calm I'm desperate to project.
Woody follows me onto the front porch. His movements are precise and controlled, whereas mine are jerky with panic. The morning greets us with a curtain of gray drizzle, the kind that seeps into your bones and makes everything heavier.
The rain let up enough last night for me to go inside, but it looks like it's been coming down all night. Everything is wet and drab.
The door clicks shut behind me, sealing us in a bubble of tension. His aftershave clings faintly in the air, maddeningly familiar, and my mouth tastes like it’s stuffed with cotton. What do you say to the man who was inside you hours ago when you’re racing to a hospital because your son’s friend might be dying?
