Chapter 9 Janie
NINE
Janie
I curl deeper into the worn leather corner of the couch while Mom picks up discarded napkins from the coffee table. Dad leans back in his recliner, his beloved remote in hand, but the TV still dark.
Beckett's finally asleep upstairs after two bedtime stories, three glasses of milk, and a foot rub.
"So nice seeing Warren tonight." Mom's voice has that warm, nostalgic tone. "He looked thin, don't you think? I hope he's taking care of himself."
"Probably works too much." Dad clicks his tongue. "Though it felt like old times, didn't it? Took you coming home, Janie, to drag that boy over here after years of excuses."
I keep my expression neutral, fingers picking at a loose thread on my sleeve. "Has he really been that scarce?"
Mom settles beside me, patting my knee. "Oh, honey, we barely see him anymore. Blake invites him for holidays, birthdays. But he always has a case or a client emergency."
"Different worlds now." Dad's voice rumbles deep in his chest. "Blake's got family, Warren's got work."
I shouldn't care. I absolutely shouldn't care. But something in me needs to know more.
"I thought they were still close."
Mom sighs, her hands folding in her lap.
"They talk occasionally, sure. It's not like they had a falling out or anything.
But it's not the same. Warren spends his whole life fixing broken families while never building one of his own.
That boy needs someone to come home to besides that fancy condo of his. "
The lump in my throat threatens to choke me. I swallow hard, nodding.
"He deserves more than his office," Mom continues. "A good man like that shouldn't be alone. He's too handsome and too sweet. He's thirty-seven, not getting any younger."
Dad grunts agreement. "You know, I heard through the grapevine recently that Charles Carter might be sick."
My head snaps up. Warren's father.
"Oh?" My voice sounds hollow even to me.
"Pancreatic cancer, someone at the club mentioned.
" Dad shakes his head. "Sad, sad situation.
That family's got more money than God, but look at them.
They cut off their own son, and now he will die without his family in tact.
They aren't immune to the same things that can get any of us. It's really sad."
"Warren wouldn't talk about it, of course," Mom adds. "Too proud. Too hurt."
My parents love Warren. They still love him like a son. The weight of my secret presses against my ribs until I can barely breathe. If they knew what I've done, keeping Beckett from him, the betrayal I foisted on all of them, they'd never forgive me.
"I should check on Beckett." I stand abruptly, needing escape. "I think I heard something. I'll probably turn in, too. We need to be rested for moving day."
After I get ready for bed, I lie awake in my childhood bedroom, listening to Beckett's soft breathing beside me. Tomorrow I have to keep moving forward, with my son, with work, with the secret still sealed tight.
But for the first time in five years, I wonder if I'm on the wrong side of right.
"Careful with that. Not there, the corner by the window." I point the movers toward the living room, clipboard balanced against my hip. Beckett races past, Tyler hot on his heels, both boys shouting about who'll unpack Beckett's toys first.
"Boys! No running in the—" I stop myself. This is our house now. Our rules. "Just watch for boxes!"
Blake staggers through the front door, red-faced, beneath my mattress. "Jesus, Janie, what's in this thing? Concrete?"
"Memory foam. Quality sleep is non-negotiable."
Dad follows behind with my headboard, sweat darkening his t-shirt. "Your brother's gone soft driving that ambulance. He forgot what manual labor is."
"I save lives, old man." Blake drops his end with a dramatic groan.
From the kitchen, Mom's voice carries over the chaos. "Honey, where do you want the plates?"
"Second cabinet left of the sink!" I call back, checking another item off my list. "And glasses above the dishwasher."
I kneel and cut open another box. Picture frames. I push it to the side and move on to the next.
Emma squeals as Cile chases her with a dust rag. "Auntie Janie! Tyler took my bear!"
"Did not!" Tyler yells from somewhere upstairs.
My phone hisses. The CHG logo flashes on screen. It's an email from Caleb Vance about Monday's board meeting. My throat tightens at the signature line: Warren Carter, Committee Chair, cc'd.
I step onto the porch, typing rapidly.
Mr. Vance – The intake protocols look strong.
I've attached revised outreach materials with language targeting underserved communities.
Warren: You and I should discuss budget allocations at Monday's pre-meeting if you're available first thing.
That way, we are on the same page for the meeting with everyone.
I hit send, shoulders straightening automatically like they do when I'm in administrator mode. One breath to recalibrate before—
"Mom! Uncle Blake says we can have pizza!" Beckett appears at my elbow, face flushed with excitement.
"Does he now? Pizza is for special occasions." I ruffle his dark hair, so like Warren's, it makes my chest ache. "Only if you've unpacked your books first. Remember, I want all of them in your bookshelf."
Dad lumbers past with a box marked KITCHEN. "Your mom organized everything by type and color. Woman's got a system that would make the military proud."
"I learned from the best." I smile at him, then turn back to direct a mover struggling with my desk.
By sunset, muscles I forgot existed are screaming. Empty boxes litter the yard, pizza crusts fill the trash, and the kids have crashed in sleeping bags on the living room floor.
Mom touches my shoulder. "We'll finish the kitchen tomorrow. You look dead on your feet. You both have beds, so get some rest."
I check my watch. "Can't collapse yet. I have a late Zoom meeting."
"On a Saturday night?" Dad frowns.
"Healthcare never sleeps." I force a smile, not mentioning who'll be there. I still haven't had the guts to tell my parents I'm seeing Warren more at work than they've seen him over the last several years.
"How about we take Beckett, then. That way, you don't have to worry. Tyler is spending the night, too, so they can curl up to a movie."
"You've had us in your house for the last ten days. You sure you don't want a break?"
"I want him every night if you'll let me."
"Nope. But I will give in tonight."
The weight of all my worlds, mother, daughter, and professional, settles on my shoulders as I grab my laptop bag. One more mask to wear tonight, maybe the hardest one: colleague to the man whose son just left with his grandparents.
Two days ago, I was knee-deep in moving boxes, Beckett shouting ownership of every room like a tiny landlord. Now it’s Monday morning, and instead of unpacking, I’m across from Warren Carter in a conference room that is arctic with its blue-tinted spotlights and silent AC vents.
He sits with his tie loosened, sleeves folded, laptop glow throwing shadows beneath his eyes.
“These outreach numbers are optimistic.” His voice cuts through the silence.
I tap my pen against the spreadsheet. "They're realistic. We've mapped catchment zones for three community centers within transit access of our target neighborhoods."
"Transit assumes these families have bus fare." Warren glances up, his eyes meeting mine for a split second.
My skin prickles with heat despite the room's chill. I force myself to hold his gaze.
"The budget includes transit vouchers. Page fourteen, line thirty-two."
He flips through his packet, fingers tracing down the column. I watch his hands. They are the same hands that once traced patterns on my skin, that once tangled in my hair. My throat tightens.
I admire his perfectly groomed fingers, the veins that trace up from his hands, along his forearms, disappearing under the cuffs of his rolled sleeves.
Focus, Janie. This is just work.
"Good." Warren nods. "And the staffing ratios?"
"Two physicians, four nurses, support staff rotating between locations."
The scratch of his pen fills the silence. I stare at the budget numbers until they blur, hyper-aware of his breathing across the table.
He doesn't know. He can't know. Focus on the work.
"These vaccination projections..." Warren frowns, scrolling through his laptop. I'm not as well-versed in the hospital end of things, but these seem aggressive.
"Conservative, actually. Chicago's program hit twenty percent higher."
Warren makes a note. “We should implement your protocols here, then. That’s really neat, Janie, that you did that. I’m impressed.”
His voice is professional, detached, but there’s a warmth there that I can’t stop myself from reaching for. Heat rushes to my cheeks, my chest tightening in ridiculous pride. God help me, I beam at the thought that something I did impressed him.
Nothing in his tone suggests he remembers the taste of my skin, the sound of my name in the darkness. But my body remembers, and apparently my heart does, too.
The minutes tick by. Budget lines. Staffing schedules. Marketing materials. Each topic is another brick in the wall between us. But with every accidental brush of fingers when passing papers, every brief meeting of eyes, the wall cracks.
The work begins to taper. Our pens slow. The silence stretches until I can hear my own heartbeat. The guilt rises in my throat like bile.
Tell him. Tell him now.
"Warren, I—"
His phone beeps. He glances down. "It's Pope. He wants our timeline at the meeting this afternoon. I should go so I can get it done before I have to go to court."
The moment shatters. I swallow the words back down.
"Of course. Do you need anything from me to finish that? I have my loose timeline, but now that we've talked, we probably need to tighten a few things up."
"No, I can handle it from here."
I close my laptop, plunging half the conference room into shadow. Only Warren's screen remains open, bathing his face in harsh white light that carves deeper lines around his mouth than I remember. My throat is desert-dry as I shuffle papers into my folder.
"So..." The word hangs between us. I clear my throat. "It's strange, isn't it? Working together after all this time."
Warren's fingers freeze on his keyboard. He doesn't look up.
"I mean, five years ago we were—" My voice wavers, threatening to crack open and spill everything I've kept sealed inside. The late-night feedings. The first steps. The tiny hand that looks so much like his.
"Let's keep this professional, Janie. No need to go down that road again."
His words slice through the air. Clean. Precise. Final. His jaw tightens as he stacks his papers with military precision, eyes fixed downward like he can't bear to look at me.
Heat rushes to my face. I press my lips together, tasting copper where my teeth have worried the inside of my cheek raw.
The rejection burns, not from wounded pride, but from the weight of truths unsaid. Beckett's face flashes in my mind, his serious expressions, his curious questions, his tilted head when he's puzzling something out.
Just like Warren's.
My hands tremble as I shove my laptop into my bag, nearly missing the sleeve. The secret presses against my ribs like a stone, making it hard to breathe.
"Right. Professional. Of course." I zip my bag too forcefully. "Just colleagues."
I stand abruptly, chair rolling backward with a squeak that sounds too loud in the silent room. Warren rises too, and suddenly we're facing each other, barely a foot between us.
His cologne hits me first. Hints of cedar and something darker, more complex. Then the heat radiating from his body, familiar in a way that makes my skin whir with recognition.
Everything in me screams to lean forward, to close the distance, to confess: He has your eyes. He furrows his brow exactly like you when he's thinking hard. He's yours, Warren. Ours.
But I don't. He told me he doesn't want to go there again. It's almost like he knows, and he doesn't want me to shatter the denial bubble we've built around us. If we never speak of what we did, then it never happened.
I step back, clutching my bag like a shield.
"Goodnight then, Mr. Carter." The formality is bitter on my tongue.
Warren's eyes finally meet mine. For a heartbeat, I see something flicker behind them. It's gone before I can name it.
My heels click down the dim hallway, each step absurdly loud. The sound echoes off the polished marble floors, matching the pounding of my heart.
It's still early and hardly anyone else is here yet. Just me and what appears to be the morning janitor, who nods as I pass. I push through the glass doors into the parking garage, where my car sits alone in the visitor section.
I climb in and grip the steering wheel until my knuckles ache, not even bothering to start the engine. The moment replays in my mind, the way his eyes couldn't meet mine, how the air between us felt charged yet impossible to cross.
Let's keep this professional.
"I can do this," I whisper to the empty car. "I've done harder things."
Like carrying a baby alone in a city where I knew almost no one. Like finishing my fellowship while balancing midnight feedings and presentation slides. Like building a life that fits around the Beckett-shaped center of my universe.
I start the car, the engine’s purr vibrating through my body.
As I pull onto South County Road, the city landscape blurs together.
My eyes burn from exhaustion, from holding back words, from staring at spreadsheets while pretending I don’t notice the way Warren’s fingers tap against the table when he’s thinking.
“I should have told him.” The words escape before I can stop them. “I should have told him years ago.”
Would it have made a difference? He walked away then. Blocked my number. Drew that line in the sand this morning as firmly as he had back then.
Let’s keep this professional.
I blink hard, forcing back the heat behind my eyes. For the millionth time, I try to convince myself it’s better this way. Warren has his life. I have mine. Beckett has a mother who would move mountains for him.
But as the highway stretches ahead, the secret presses against my ribs like a stone. I can feel it shifting, cracking, threatening to spill. If I don’t let it out soon, it’s going to crush me.