Page 17 of Saint Nick
Somewhere outside Albany, the sky began to change. Pink bled into gold, soft and slow, as if the sun was cautious about breaking the stillness of the night. The snow on the fields caught the new light, scattering it in tiny shards. It was quiet beauty — the kind that sneaks up on you when you’re least ready for it.
The heater hummed softly, filling the cab with a steady warmth. Outside, the world blurred into soft shades of gray and white, the highway winding through snow-laced trees that caught the morning sun. Nick’s hand sat heavy and warm in hers, his thumb occasionally brushing against her skin like a reminder that he hadn’t let go.
Sandy watched him when she thought he wouldn’t notice the way his jaw tightened every so often, like old memories were pushing their way to the surface. She knew how that felt. After her mother passed, she was plagued with memories flooding her everyday thoughts at the oddest moments. She could have been doing
something as simple as making a sandwich, and she’d remember something that her mother did or said, and she’d lose it.
He drove with both shoulders tense, like the wheel was the only thing keeping him upright. She understood that kind of weight. The kind that lived in your chest, pressing down until even breathing felt like work.
Nick’s face shifted when that light hit him. His features softened, the hard lines around his eyes easing for the briefest heartbeat. In that moment, he didn’t look like the man who’d built walls around himself brick by brick. He looked younger. And more exposed. Like a boy standing in the doorway of a past that wouldn’t stay buried.
Sandy squeezed his fingers gently. “You don’t have to fix anything when we get there,” she said softly. The words came out like a promise, not advice. “Just showing up is enough, Nick.”
He didn’t look at her, but his hand tightened around hers. “Yeah,” he murmured. But she heard what he didn’t say. Try not to fall apart.
She turned her gaze back to the windshield, giving him that small, silent grace to feel whatever he needed without having to put it into words. She’d learned the hard way that some pain didn’t like to be named.
The closer they got to Albany, the more she could feel the shift in him — like the road itself carried a pulse. His breath grew shallower, his fingers flexing against hers every so often. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. Her thumb traced slow, quiet circles against the back of his hand, matching the rhythm of the tires against the pavement. It was strange, she thought, how something as simple as holding hands could be both a small gesture and a lifeline.
The hospital would be waiting for him. So would the ghosts of his past. But for now, in the quiet cradle of the cab of his truck, with sunlight spilling across their joined hands, she let him have this moment where he didn’t have to carry everything alone.
The hospital sign appeared ahead — Albany General in big letters, and something in her chest tightened right along with his hand that was joined to hers. “You’re squeezing my hand,” she breathed.
“Oh, God, sorry,” he said, releasing her hand. She hated that he had let her go—almost wishing that she hadn’t said anything to him at all. He slowed as they approached the turn, his breathing a little too careful, like each inhale had to be measured so it wouldn’t crack.
She didn’t speak, instead covering his hand with hers as he pulled into the parking lot. The crunch of snow beneath the tires was the only sound between them. The building loomed against the pale sky, glass windows catching the sunlight in hard, clear angles. Hospitals always carried their own kind of quiet — not soft, but expectant, like the air itself was holding its breath.
Nick parked the truck and sat there for a beat too long. His fingers flexed against hers. She could see the war in his profile — the storm of I shouldn’t go in and I can’t stay out here.
Sandy turned toward him. “Hey.”
He finally dragged his eyes from the windshield to hers. Up close, he didn’t look like the man who usually carried himself like he didn’t need anyone. He looked human. Bare. A little boy who’d been left behind too long ago.
“You don’t have to be ready,” she said gently. “You just have to walk through the door.”
A rough sound left his throat — not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. “That easy, huh?”
“No,” she admitted. “But I’ll be right there.” She could tell the moment her words sank in. His jaw tightened, like swallowing the weight of them was harder than anything else. Then, slowly, he nodded.
Nick got out of the truck first, his boots crunching against the thin crust of snow. Sandy followed, the cold biting at her cheeks, but it didn’t feel unbearable. Not when his hand found hers again without hesitation. They walked side by side across the parking lot. The automatic doors slid open with a quiet hiss, and warm, sterile air rushed out to meet them. The smell of antiseptic and floor polish hit her like a memory she didn’t want—hospitals always carried echoes.
Nick froze just inside the entrance. Not dramatically—he just stopped. Shoulders drawn tight, like stepping over that invisible line had pulled too many old threads loose. Sandy stepped closer, close enough that her shoulder brushed his arm. “Breathe,” she whispered. He did. A long, shaky inhale. And when he exhaled, some of the weight seemed to settle.
The nurse at the reception desk looked up, polite and professional. “Can I help you?”
Nick’s voice was rough, but steady. “Yeah. I’m here to see Margaret Carter.” Sandy felt his hand shake just a little against hers as he said his mother’s name. She squeezed back—not to tell him it would be okay, because she didn’t know that. She did it just to remind him she was here.
The nurse checked the chart, nodded, and gave him the room number. The hallway stretched ahead, long and sterile and quiet except for the distant beep of monitors in each room. Sandy didn’t say a word as they started walking. Shematched her steps to his slow and even, like they were wading into deep water together. And maybe they were.
Because as the door to his mother’s room came into view, she could feel it — the weight of twenty-five years pressing down on his shoulders. And she knew that from here on out, everything between them was going to matter more.
NICK
As the hospital exit sign appeared on the highway, his stomach felt as though it had turned to stone. Every instinct he had wanted to hit the gas and keep driving. But Sandy’s hand was still in his. She didn’t say a word. She just anchored him without demanding anything in return. And for the first time in a long time, Nick thought maybe facing the past didn’t have to mean facing it alone.
The hallway in the hospital stretched out like some kind of bad dream. It was too bright, too quiet, and too sterile. Every step felt like it dragged through wet cement, heavy and slow, like something in him knew that once he walked through that door, nothing would be the same.
Sandy’s hand was still in his. Nick hadn’t realized how tight he’d been gripping her until his fingers started to shake. He’d held a lot of shit in his life—rage, broken bones, secrets—but this was different. This made him feel fragile in a way that he hadn’t in a long time.
