Chapter 8 Warren #2
"Beckett," Janie nods with her eyes, "this is Warren. He's Uncle Blake's bestest friend in the whole wide world. I've known him since I was your age."
Beckett.
Blake's middle name.
My throat finally opens, allowing me to speak. I drop to one knee, bringing myself to his level. "Hi, Beckett. I'm Warren." I offer my hand in return. He gives me a generous shake.
The boy studies it for a moment before gripping it with surprising strength. His palm is warm and impossibly small against mine. Something twists in my chest.
"You have a watch," he observes seriously, touching my wristband.
"I do," I manage. "I need all the help I can get."
He nods, satisfied with this obvious explanation, then darts off after Emma and Tyler, already forgetting me.
I straighten up, my legs unsteady. Janie watches me, her expression carefully neutral.
In the dining room, chaos reigns. Platters pass overhead. Blake teases Cile about burning the rolls. Hank carves the brisket with surgical precision.
Through it all, I can't stop watching Janie. I'm in awe of the practiced way she cuts Beckett's food into perfect bite-sized pieces, how she remembers Emma's aversion to tomatoes, the warmth of her laugh when Beckett tells a jumbled story about a lizard he found.
"Warren, pass the potatoes?" Her hand brushes mine as she reaches for the dish, and electricity shoots up my arm. I nearly drop the bowl.
Beckett giggles. "Mr. Warren's face is red."
"Eat your green beans," Janie tells him, not meeting my eyes.
Across the table, Blake's gaze shifts between us. His expression darkens.
After that stressful dinner, I escape to the backyard as dishes are cleared, desperate for air. A pit in my throat refuses to clear. I don’t know if it’s guilt or longing.
The grill sends thin wisps of smoke skyward, still cooling from dinner. A half-empty beer bottle dangles from my fingers, condensation cooling my palm.
The bullfrogs that are unseen, but in full chorus, fill the silence, a reminder of countless summer nights spent in this exact spot. Except now everything's different.
The screen door creaks, and Blake steps out. He's got two fresh beers in hand. He passes one to me without asking, taking my empty and tossing it into a plastic trash bin by the house.
"Man, it's good to see you here." He settles into a teak chair, stretching his legs. "Tyler wouldn't shut up about you throwing the football with him."
I take a long pull from the bottle. "He's gotten tall."
"Yeah, outgrowing shoes every month." Blake studies me, head tilted. "You look like shit, by the way. Are you taking care of yourself?"
A laugh escapes me unexpectedly. "Thanks."
"When's the last time you took a vacation? Or slept more than four hours?"
I shrug, avoiding his eyes. Blake's always been able to read me too well.
"I'm just busy. Cases stacked up. It's like I can never get ahead. I'm sorry I've been MIA for the last few years. I need to work on my work-life balance."
"Mmm." He doesn't push it, just sips his beer and watches the fireflies appearing at the edge of the yard.
My fingers tighten around the bottle. My heart hammers against my ribs as I force the words out, casual as I can manage. “So, why didn’t you ever tell me Janie had a son?”
Blake’s eyebrows lift, but he doesn’t turn to me. “Figured you didn’t care.” No cruelty, just matter-of-fact. “Big attorney life. You haven’t exactly been around. Honestly, bro, I guess it never came up. I didn't even realize you didn't know.”
I laugh, but it sounds hollow even to me. The truth lands like a blow. I have been absent. Deliberately so.
“He seems like a great kid,” I manage. “Full of energy. Can’t believe I missed all of this.”
Blake tips his beer toward the yard where Beckett’s voice carries. “He is. Smart as hell. Stubborn, too. Wonder where he gets that.” Pride roughens his voice, the same way it does when he talks about Emma or Tyler.
I swallow, making sure to be careful what I say. “Chicago’s no joke. Raising a kid there couldn’t have been easy.”
Blake finally looks at me then, brows furrowed, as if trying to decide whether I’m asking about Janie’s life or about the man who isn’t here. He shrugs. “She managed. That’s Janie. Always tougher than people give her credit for.”
My throat tightens. I want to press. Was there a husband, a partner, someone who walked away? But the words stick in my chest. The silence stretches, heavy with everything I can’t ask.
Later, inside, the living room glows with soft lamplight. Tyler and Emma sprawl on the rug with a board game while Hank tells one of his contractor stories, Margaret correcting details when he exaggerates.
And there’s Janie, curled on the couch, Beckett tucked against her side. His dark head rests on her shoulder as she absently strokes his hair. His eyelids flutter, fighting sleep.
From the doorway, I watch them, as something shifts in my chest.
She looks at peace. Like she’s exactly where she’s supposed to be.
And maybe that’s what guts me most, how natural it feels to picture myself there, too.
Driving home, salt air whips through the open window. I tell myself to keep it professional when I see her at CHG. To stay detached.
But the truth presses hard in my chest: it isn’t professionalism I’m fighting. It’s the pull toward her. The woman she’s become, the mother she is.