Chapter 34 Warren
THIRTY-FOUR
Warren
The petition sits there on my mahogany desk, all official legal language and court stamps. It's just paper, but somehow it seems alive, pulsing with threat, with fear, with everything I've become that I swore I never would.
I pick up my phone, scrolling through the text chain with Janie.
I'll call you later, when I get home.
That was two days ago. She never called. Of course she didn't.
I set the phone down and stare at the custody papers again. My own handwriting covers the top sheet, the practiced penmanship my boarding school teachers drilled into me.
Looking at it now, I see my father's hand in every stroke.
"Fuck."
The word escapes without permission, bouncing off the empty walls of my office. It's barely eight in the morning, and people will start filing in soon.
I tap my finger against the petition. This thing, this stack of legal threats, is what Charles Carter, III would have done. Wield power when words fail. Force compliance when vulnerability seems too risky.
Is this really who I am? The man who sleeps with a woman, reads bedtime stories to his son, then goes home and drafts legal documents to use against her?
I pull my tie loose, suddenly unable to breathe. The memory of Janie's face when she slammed the door crashes through me.
My phone pops up with a calendar reminder: "Beckett - Holiday performance at school Friday."
Something in my chest caves. I can't show up there if she doesn't think it's appropriate.
I don't want to be the father who shows up with a court order. I want to be the father who shows up with his mom. I want to be the man who deserves Janie's trust, not the one using the law to take what I'm afraid she might not give.
I stand up, grabbing the entire folder. The decision crystallizes in my mind, suddenly so clear I can't believe I ever saw it differently. I told her I would. So why haven't I rescinded it yet?
This isn't about protecting my rights. It's about being the kind of man I want my son to be proud of.
I shove the papers into my briefcase, grab my keys, and head for the door. Kaley is just arriving, coffee in hand, surprise registering when she sees me leaving.
"Cancel my morning. I'll be at the courthouse."
Twenty minutes later, the courthouse smells like copier ink and musty wood paneling. The line ahead of me moves with the enthusiasm of a tax audit. It's 8:29, and the window doesn't open until 8:30.
Three people stand between me and the counter. A woman with a toddler balanced on her hip, an elderly man with a stack of papers thicker than my briefcase, and a guy about my age who looks like he'd rather be anywhere else. Join the club, buddy.
I adjust the papers in my hand, the withdrawal notice staring back at me. So simple. One form to undo all the damage that started all of this shit.
My phone beeps. Blake. I silence it.
A woman in her late forties sits at the desk behind the plexiglass wall and slides open a small window, indicating she is open for business. I look at my watch. 8:31 on the dot. She bought herself a whole extra minute.
The line shuffles forward as the woman with the toddler finishes her business. The kid stares at me with solemn eyes as they pass, and all I can see is Beckett. My son. Not my property. Not a bargaining chip.
"Next."
The elderly man steps forward. Each minute feels like an hour.
"Why are you really doing this?" The voice in my head sounds suspiciously like my father. "She'll never know you withdrew unless you tell her. Keep it active, keep your options open."
I close my eyes. That's exactly what Charles Carter would do.
"Sir? Next?"
I step forward and place the withdrawal notice on the counter. The clerk, whose nameplate read, Denise in black carved letters, glances up with practiced disinterest.
"Filing a withdrawal for case number HC-238974." My voice comes out surprisingly steady, even to my own ears.
Denise skims the form, slides a stamp across it with mechanical precision. "Sign here and here."
The pen weighs ten pounds. My signature looks different somehow. It's less confident, maybe, but more honest. The ink bleeds slightly into the paper as I press too hard.
"All set." The clerk stamps the withdrawal, slides a copy across the counter, and drops the original into a basket. "Next?"
That’s it. Seventeen years of law practice, and I still expect thunderclaps when a man rewrites the course of his life.
I tuck the copy into my briefcase, the entire exchange over in less than two minutes. But something fundamental has shifted. For the first time, I’ve given up control on purpose.
No fight. No safety net. Just trust.
I push through the glass doors, sunlight spilling across the courthouse steps. My phone rings. I pull it out of my pocket as I walk down the steps, and I nearly stumble. And then I stop in my tracks.
Janie.
My chest seizes. Two days since she told me she’d call. Two days of silence, of trying not to hope. I swipe before I can think.
"Hey."
"Hi. Good morning."
Her voice is careful, and I take a breath for what she's going to say. I can't speak.
“Beckett’s school holiday concert is on Friday at six.” A pause. “I wanted you to know.”
Relief punches the air from my lungs. “It’s already on my calendar,” I admit. My instinct is to say I’ll be there no matter what. But instead, I force the words that cost me something. “I wasn't sure if you would be okay if I came.”
There’s a beat of silence. Then, flat but not cold, she says, “That's why I called you. I know he'd love to see you.”
He'd love to see me. It isn’t an invitation back. It isn’t forgiveness. But it’s a thread I could break just by reaching. Still, it’s real.
"Okay. I'll be there."
When the line clicks dead, I sit on the courthouse steps with the phone still in my hand. I’ve let go of the only leverage I had, and for once, it doesn’t feel like losing.
Blake's truck is here. He's home. There's no going back.
I pull into the driveway, cut the engine, and sit for a minute gathering my courage. The modest two-story with its weathered basketball hoop looks exactly the same as it did when I helped him put it in seven years ago. The only problem is, everything else has changed.
I wipe a small bead of sweat from my upper lip. Stop stalling.
I climb out, and each step across the familiar cracked sidewalk is like I'm walking to my own execution.
The doorbell echoes inside. Then I hear footsteps approach.
Blake opens the door. His expression flickers. At first, I think it's a surprise, then something harder.
“Warren.” My name comes out flat. "What are you doing here?"
“Can we talk?” I ask.
He leans on the frame, arms crossed. “Does Janie know you’re here?”
“No.”
His jaw ticks. Then he steps back just enough. “I’m not sure that’s appropriate, then, Bro.”
“I owe you an explanation. Just give me a few minutes.”
“Cile will be back in ten. You’ve got that long.”
I step inside. The house smells like a Christmas tree. The photos on the wall make my chest tighten. I’ve been a part of most of them—family vacations, birthdays, holidays. And now I’m standing here like an outsider.
“I fucked up,” I start. “With her. With Beckett. With you.”
Blake’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t flinch. “You think I give a damn that you slept with my sister? We’re not kids. What I care about is you stringing her along and blindsiding her with paperwork.”
“I withdrew it this morning,” I tell him.
Blake doesn’t soften. “Doesn’t change what you did. I watched her walk around, gutted, these past weeks. She deserved your honesty, not legal maneuvering. So whatever comes next? You’d better make sure it’s about her and Beckett, not about you covering your own ass.”
I nod once, the weight of it settling. “I hear you.”
The words are flimsy, but they’re the only truth I’ve got left.
One brow lifts, but he doesn’t pull any punches. “You know I'm not an idiot, right? I figured it out when your truck was at her house and your boots were in her foyer. So, why are you here?”
“I wanted to talk to you myself. About everything.”
He rubs a hand over his face, exhaling sharply. Then he raises his eyebrows, like he's telling me to go for it. He isn't doing anything to make it any easier, which I expected, and in a weird way, I appreciate.
"I don't really care to talk about my sister's sex life. I will get involved when someone treats her badly. You used to be my best friend. Feels like I barely know you now."
“I stayed away for years because I was ashamed. Wanting her meant losing you. And you’re my brother. By being a shitbag, I lost both of you.”
His arms stay folded, but his eyes flicker. “She’s a grown woman. She can make her own decisions, Warren. Don't blame this on me. You chose to do all of it half-ass.”
My chest tightens. “I know. And I hate that I fucked all of this up.”
He shakes his head. “She deserves a man who shows up. That's all I care about. So either be that man or walk away.”
I swallow hard, throat raw. “I love her. I love Beckett.”
For the first time, his jaw eases, just slightly. “Then stop being a pussy about it and do something. She doesn’t need your guilt. She needs your spine. Fucking be a man.”
We stand there a beat, silence heavy between us.
“I know.” My throat tightens. “I’m going to make it right.”
He studies me, long and hard, like he’s weighing whether he can believe it. “You don’t have to prove anything to me. But she deserves that.”
Not guilty, not innocent. Just conditional.
“I will,” I say quietly.
Blake nods once, clipped. “Good. Because I’ll back her before I ever back you. Don’t make me choose.”
He’s given me both a boundary and a way through. Now it’s on me.
The elementary school parking lot is jammed, parents circling like vultures for an open space. I end up half on the grass, straighten my tie in the rearview, and fight the insecurity creeping up.
Inside, the auditorium slams into me like a wall.
I take it all in, the buttered popcorn, the shrill rise of voices, the scrape of folding chairs all clattering until it rattles in my chest. It isn’t just the noise.
It’s the weight of what this place means.
Parents, kids, families. And me, walking into Beckett’s world for the first time since everything blew up.
Parents squeeze shoulder to shoulder on metal chairs, phones already held high. The whole place hums with anticipation.
Red construction-paper chains loop from the ceiling, and a lopsided Christmas tree leans near the stage. My palms sweat as I scan the rows.
I spot Janie sitting with her parents, Blake, Cile, and their kids. Beckett squirms between her and Margaret, tugging at his plaid shirt.
I hover at the end of the row. Blake sees me first, his jaw tightening.
Janie turns, her face unreadable. No smile, no wave. Just a small nod at the empty seat beside her father.
I take it, every muscle so taut I could pop.
“Hi.” My voice is low.
Margaret gives me a polite smile. “Evening, Warren.”
Hank shakes my hand and nods his head. He never shakes my hand. Okay, I've got this.
"Go on, Becks. You need to get up there with your class."
He kisses her on the lips and climbs over everyone before running up to the bleachers.
Janie keeps her eyes on him until he safely finds his teacher and is ushered onto the stage. “He’s singing second row, stage left,” she says to me without looking, pointing with her eyes.
I watch him move into place, antsy, rocking side-to-side. He cranes his neck to make sure we all see him. He waves so hard the kid beside him staggers.
My chest cracks wide. I lift my hand, quick, before the teacher snaps her fingers for quiet.
The lights dim and the music starts. A chorus of off-key voices belts out “Jingle Bell Rock.” Beckett sings louder than the rest, his head bobbing, his eyes darting between me, his grandparents, his cousins, and of course, his mom.
Janie whispers, barely audible. “He’s been looking forward to seeing you all week since I told him you were coming.”
I can’t take my eyes off my son. “Thank you for calling me,” I murmur back.
Through the next songs, I laugh under my breath when he forgets the hand motions, my throat tightening when he shouts the words like he’s performing for a stadium. The sound system squeals once, kids giggle, parents clap along.
When the last note fades, the room erupts in applause. Beckett bows low, nearly toppling over his untied shoelaces, then barrels off the stage. He launches into me with a force that knocks the breath from my lungs.
“Did you see me?” His arms cinch tight around my waist. “Did you hear me?”
“Every note.” I lift him high, spinning once before setting him back on his feet. “You were incredible.”
His grin is so wide it makes my chest ache. “Come to my classroom. I made something.”
“Beckett—” Janie’s voice cuts in, warm but warning. “We need to—”
“Please, Mom? Just for a minute.” He bounces in my arms, face glowing with hope.
Her sigh is long, resigned. She glances at me, a flicker of conflict in her eyes, then nods once. “One minute.”
Beckett darts off to hug his grandparents, his aunt, his cousins. He waves like a conquering hero before latching onto my hand. His small fingers tug me toward the back hallway, determined.
Janie falls into step behind us, her expression unreadable. And suddenly it’s just the three of us, slipping away from the noise, as if the rest of the world has faded out.