Chapter 8 Warren
EIGHT
Warren
Kaley's fingers fly across her keyboard, keeping pace with my dictation. The familiar click-clack should be soothing. It isn't.
"The petitioner's claim of abandonment fails to meet the statutory threshold and..."
My mind slips sideways again. I see Janie standing at the front of the conference room yesterday. Her spine straight as a blade. The way she pointed to her slides without looking at them, every number memorized, every projection calculated.
The way she barely glanced at me.
"Mr. Carter?" Kaley's voice cuts through. "You stopped mid-sentence."
"Right." I clear my throat. "Start over. The petitioner's claim of abandonment lacks merit under Florida law, which requires clear and convincing evidence of..."
Focus, Carter.
But my mind goes right back to Janie in the hallway after the meeting, her voice cool and professional. She's a different woman, completely transformed. There's hardly any trace of the young woman who led me upstairs, whose laugh vibrated against my mouth.
"Shit." I shake my head. "Delete that last part and let's start fresh with paragraph three."
Kaley's eyebrows rise slightly, but she doesn't comment. Smart woman. Too smart, probably. She's been with me long enough to recognize when I'm off my game.
"The established pattern of visitation, though irregular, demonstrates their commitment to maintaining a relationship with the minor child. This pattern directly contradicts the statutory requirement for—"
The Mathis case. Focus on the Mathis case. Not on Janie's tailored navy dress. Not on the slight tremor in her hand when she passed me in the hallway. Not on that clinical smile that never reached her eyes.
I stand abruptly, pacing to the window. The late afternoon sun filters through the blinds, painting stripes across the carpet. "Let's pick this up tomorrow, Kaley. I need to clear my head."
"Of course." She watches me for a moment. "You've been going since six this morning. Maybe call it a day?"
"I've got the Jenkins hearing prep."
"Which isn't until Thursday."
I don't answer. She knows me too well, knows I'm driving myself into the ground to avoid something.
One night. One mistake.
My phone vibrates on the desk. Blake's name flashes on the screen. My stomach drops like I've been caught red-handed.
He needs to go to voicemail. I can't talk to him right now, when I can't even keep my brain off of his sister while trying to focus on work.
I move my thumb to the red circle to send him to voicemail and accidentally answer the damn thing.
Shit.
"Warren? You there?" Blake's voice booms through the phone.
"Yeah, sorry." I rub my temples, willing away the headache that's been building all day, trying to pull it together. "Just finishing up some work. How's it going, man?"
"When are you not working?" A familiar laugh comes through the line. "Listen, dinner tomorrow night at my parents'. Mom's making that mac and cheese you pretend not to love, and Cile's doing her brisket."
My throat tightens. "I've got a lot of cases right now, Blake—"
"Bullshit." His tone remains light, but there's an edge beneath it. "Tyler and Emma have been asking about Uncle Warren for weeks. You know Emma drew you in her 'Important People' project for school? And you weren't even there to see it."
The guilt twists deeper. I press my forehead against my hand, my thumb and middle finger massaging my temples.
"It's been almost two years since you've been over for dinner, which is awful, considering you live ten minutes away."
Has it really been that long? I count back in my head. Christ, he's right.
"The kids miss you," Blake continues. "We all do."
I close my eyes. I don't deserve their loyalty after what I've done. What they don't know I've done.
"Also, not sure if you heard, but Janie's back in town," Blake adds casually, as if tossing in an afterthought. "She'll be there, and I know she'd be thrilled to see you."
My fingers tighten around the phone. As if I didn't already know. As if I hadn't seen her just yesterday, standing in that conference room like she'd stepped out of my most persistent dream.
"You still there?" Blake asks after my silence stretches too long.
"Yeah, just..." My mind races through the excuses I've perfected over the years. Client emergencies. Depositions. Mediations that run late. They're all insignificant now, transparent even to my own ears.
I press my thumb against the side of the phone, trying to channel my unease, feeling the weight of five years of avoidance.
"Of course I'll be there," I finally say.
"Hot damn." Blake sounds genuinely surprised. "Well, shit, man. That's great. Mom said to be there at six o'clock. Will that work for you?"
"Sure, yeah. That works."
"And bring that wine Mom likes, the one with the tree on it."
"Will do."
After we hang up, I stare at my reflection in the darkening window. The dread and guilt twist together, familiar companions after all this time.
I can't avoid this anymore. I can't avoid her at work, and now it appears I can avoid her after work, either.
The next evening, I drive the familiar road toward the Harrelson house, my forearms aching because of how hard I'm clutching the steering wheel. The bottle of Maggie's favorite Cabernet sits in the passenger seat, wrapped in fancy paper by the store clerk who thought I was bringing it to a date.
If she only knew.
The sun is all but gone as I pull into the driveway, casting everything in honey-gold light. The Harrelson house hasn't changed. They have the same weather-beaten mailbox, same mismatched flower pots lining the front steps that Maggie refuses to replace because "they have character."
My chest tightens. Five years since I've crossed this threshold, two, apparently, since I've hung out with Blake and his family. The coward in me still wants to reverse out of the driveway and disappear.
I grab the wine bottle and force myself up the walkway. Before I can knock, the front door swings open and the familiar symphony of chaos washes over me—laughter, the clatter of plates, someone shouting about napkins.
The rich scent of Cile's brisket mingles with the tang of barbecue sauce and Maggie's famous mac and cheese.
"Uncle Warren!"
A blur of motion barrels down the hallway and slams into my legs. Tyler's grown at least six inches since I last saw him. He's still a chubby eight-year-old boy. How does two years thin out a boy so much?
Emma appears next, her brown hair flying behind her as she skids to a stop. She's not a kid anymore.
"You actually came!" She sounds genuinely shocked, which stings more than I expected.
Then a third child rounds the corner. He's a small boy with dark hair, maybe four or five years old. He follows the older kids with determined little steps, a toy truck clutched in his fist.
I freeze, confused. Did Blake and Cile have another child? Surely I'd know if—
"Don't run in the house!" Cile calls from the kitchen. "And somebody set the extra place for Warren!"
Heavy footsteps approach, and then Hank fills the doorway to the living room. His face breaks into a broad smile, the lines around his eyes deepening. He crosses to me in three strides and engulfs my hand in his calloused grip.
"Look what the wind blew in." He claps my shoulder with enough force to rock me slightly. "Beginning to think you'd forgotten where we lived."
"Sorry, I've been—"
"Busy. We know." But there's no bite to his words. "Come on in. Margaret's about to pour the first round."
For a heartbeat, I almost relax. This is the closest thing to home I've known since I was seventeen. I crave this warmth, the noise, the easy rhythm of a family that once wrapped around me like a shield.
But I've been a ghost here for too long, and the third child's presence unsettles me. There are gaps in my knowledge now, pieces of their lives I've missed while protecting my secret.
I follow Hank toward the kitchen, the kids scampering ahead. Then, movement at the top of the stairs catches my eye.
Janie appears, hair pulled back in a loose ponytail, wearing jeans and a simple blue top. Her fingers are wrapped around the small hand of the dark-haired boy who'd raced past moments before.
Time stops.
The boy looks up at her with complete trust, and she smiles down at him. It's a smile on her I've never seen before, intimate and fierce all at once.
The kitchen swims into focus as I force my feet forward. My heart hammers against my ribs. Everything seems too bright, too loud.
Janie guides the boy down the last few steps, her eyes finding mine across the room. Something flickers in her expression. It's the now-familiar tension that is ever-present between us, before she smooths it away.
"Warren," she says, her voice steady. "It's good to see you."
Good to see me? After yesterday's icy hallway exchange? Before I can respond, Margaret sweeps in from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dishtowel.
"Janie, honey, can you help with the—" She spots me and her face lights up. "Warren! You came! The whole family is back together again!"
My stomach twists, and a lump forms in my throat.
The small boy peeks from behind Janie's leg, studying me with curious eyes. I can't look away from him.
"Mom, give us a second." Janie's hand settles protectively on the boy's shoulder. She takes a breath. "Warren, this is my son, Beckett."
My son. Two simple words that hit like a physical blow. My eyes immediately go to her left hand. Did I miss a wedding ring? Is she married?
No ring.
"She kneels down beside him. "Beckett, introduce yourself."
The boy steps forward, chin raised with a familiar determination, and holds out his hand like a miniature gentleman. "Four and a half," he announces.
"Almost," Janie corrects with a soft smile. "You just turned four in May."
I can't speak. My voice is literally gone, and I'm stunned. Janie has a son.