Chapter 11 Janie
ELEVEN
Janie
The sunlight stretches lazy fingers across the living room rug, highlighting the auburn streaks in Beckett's dark hair as he zooms his red truck over the hills and valleys of scattered throw pillows.
"Vrrrroooom! Crash!" He tumbles sideways, his small body dramatically sprawling beside his beloved toy.
I sink deeper into the couch cushions, letting exhaustion melt into the upholstery.
Last night's kiss with Warren still burns on my lips. There's a phantom pressure I haven't been able to shake off. Every time I close my eyes, his hands are on my waist, pulling me closer with a desperate hunger that matched my own.
And it's growing louder.
"Mommy, look!" Beckett abandons his truck and grabs his dinosaur figure, making it stomp across the coffee table. "T-Rex is hungry!"
"Is he now? What's he going to eat?"
His face scrunches into a serious expression that mirrors Warren's so perfectly it steals my breath. The furrowed brow, the intensity of his focus. It's like looking at a miniature version of the man I've been avoiding and wanting in equal measure.
"Cookies!" He giggles, just as Mom's voice drifts in from the kitchen.
"Speaking of cookies, does my favorite four-year-old want chocolate chip or fruit for his snack?"
"Cookies! Mimi!" Beckett shouts, abandoning his dinosaur to race toward the kitchen.
Mom appears in the doorway, flour dusting her apron. "I figured as much. They'll be ready in ten minutes, sweet boy."
The domestic normalcy of it all takes my breath away.
My mother baking cookies for my son in the house where I grew up fills me with a comfort that quickly sours to guilt.
This is the family Warren should know he has.
Every giggle, every milestone, every cookie crumb on Beckett's cheek belongs partly to him.
My phone vibrates in my hand with a text from Gemma.
Just got off 95. GPS says I'm fifteen minutes away. Need me to grab anything as I get into town? Wine? Ben & Jerry's?
Just yourself. We've got the booze and sweets covered. Mom's in full Mimi mode. There will be cookies.
Almost fifteen minutes on the dot, the front door clicks shut behind Gemma. Beckett barrels into her legs like a pint-sized linebacker. She drops her overnight bag with a laugh and scoops him up, peppering his cheeks with exaggerated kisses.
“Auntie Gemma!” he squeals, wriggling in her arms.
“You’ve grown a mile since I saw you last,” she says, holding him at arm’s length. “What are they feeding you here, Miracle-Gro cookies?”
He dissolves into giggles, and I can’t stop smiling as I watch. My son doesn’t cling to many people, but Gemma is different. She is probably the only person other than me that he's spent most of his life with up to this point.
After our hellos, an amazing dinner of laughing and catching up, telling baby Beckett stories, I let Mom tuck Beckett in at her insistence, and take Gemma to my house.
Being with Mom and Dad was a great start to our whirlwind time together, but we have a lot to catch up on and only about twenty-four hours to get it done.
“Look at you, Harrelson. Homeowner. Mom Boss.” She spins on a barstool at my kitchen isn't, her eyes wide. “This is amazing. You're doing it, girl.”
“It's surreal,” I admit, sliding onto the stool beside her. “I keep expecting someone to tell me there’s been a mistake.”
“Not a mistake.” She leans forward, her chin in her hand. “This is what all those sleepless nights bought you.”
I swallow against the lump in my throat. “I’m glad I took tomorrow off. I wanted to actually spend time with you before you have to leave. It's almost too cruel I only get you for one night.”
She nods, brushing invisible lint from her skirt.
“I wish I were able to stay longer instead of continuing to Miami tomorrow for that conference.
I have to check in on time to be ready for dinner with the panelists tomorrow night.
But I'm going to plan a time to come for a longer visit when we can both get off.”
“I'm grateful you worked it out for a pit stop. I'll take what I can get.”
“A very important pit stop.” She lifts her glass in mock salute. “You think I’d pass through Florida without stopping to see you and my Becks? Please.”
We laugh, and the sound fills the empty corners of my house. After a while, we carry our glasses to the sofa, curling up like the old nights in Chicago, when Beckett slept in a bassinet beside us and the weight of our work and school seemed heavier than we would ever get out from under.
"To reunions," she says, raising her glass.
I clink mine against hers. "To friends who make pit stops en route to work meetings."
The first sip of wine slides cooly down my throat, loosening the stress that has lodged in my chest and made permanent residence since I moved back to Palm Beach. With Gemma, I can breathe a little easier. She knows all my parts, even the ones I hide from family.
“So,” Gemma leans forward on her elbows, chin propped in her hand. “What’s the big, mysterious thing you just had to tell me? Because if this is about preschool waitlists, I’m leaving.”
I roll my eyes, tracing the rim of my glass. “Something happened. At the gala the other night.”
Her eyes narrow. “Please tell me you didn’t hook up with a donor. Or worse, an octogenarian trustee with wandering hands.”
I shake my head, throat tight. “Warren kissed me. I kissed Warren. We kissed.”
Gemma freezes, wine glass halfway to her mouth. “Warren. As in Blake’s best friend, Beckett's father, Warren? The man whose dick you accidentally tripped and fell on five years ago and created a whole human?”
I cover my face with both hands. “Jesus, Gemma.”
“Don’t ‘Jesus’ me. Holy shit.” She slams her glass down and leans in closer. “Was it hot? Or complicated-hot? Because there’s a difference. And I thought you said you were trying to avoid him as much as possible?”
My stomach flips. The firelight, his hand steady at my waist, his mouth hungry and certain. Every delicious detail floods me all over again. “It wasn’t casual. It was like… five years of restraint detonated at once. Like we’d been holding our breath, and finally exhaled.”
Gemma whistles low. “So… hot and complicated. And definitely failing at avoiding him. Got it.”
I take a shaky breath. “I think I’m in love with him, Gem. Maybe I always have been, but I never let myself admit it.”
Her expression sobers instantly. “Janie…”
“What if we didn’t have to hide it?” The words tumble out before I can stop them. “What if I just told the truth?”
Gemma sets her glass down with deliberate care. “Okay. Which truth are we talking about here? The ‘I think I’m in love with Warren Carter' truth… or the ‘I’ve been raising his son for five years and never told him' truth?”
The air is suddenly too thin to fill my lungs. My chest burns. “Both. Eventually. But, God, there’s so much at stake. Most importantly, what Warren will say, but still, Blake, my parents—”
“Your brother would survive knowing you and Warren are a thing,” Gemma cuts in, her tone sharper now. “But finding out you kept his nephew from Warren? That’s a whole different explosion, Janie. That’s nuclear.”
Tears sting my eyes. “What if Warren can’t forgive me? What if I ruin everything, for all of us?”
Gemma doesn’t flinch. She reaches across the table, lacing her fingers through mine. “Then you deal with it together, like grown-ups. But stop torturing yourself with what-ifs. I've watched you go through it for years, and I bit my tongue. But it's tearing you up. You've got to come clean.”
Her words hit like a lifeline. My voice cracks anyway. “I can’t lose everything I’ve built, Gem. But you're right. I can’t keep this from Warren any longer. I thought he never wanted to be a father before, but now I see him with Blake's kids and with Beckett. He will be an amazing father.”
She squeezes my hand tightly. “You need to tell him, Janie.”
Gemma left about an hour ago. I'm not sure any goodbye has ever been so hard. She's my security blanket, and living in two separate states has not been good for me during this shitstorm.
Having her here, if only for seventeen hours, total, not that I was counting, was everything.
Beckett is already asleep, and the silence in our still mostly empty house echoes with every click of my laptop keys.
I've spread budget reports across the dining table where Beckett's dinosaur placemat usually sits, trying to focus on work instead of the conversation with Gemma still circling in my head.
My phone hisses against the table. Warren's name appears on the screen, sending a jolt through my chest.
The funding report has errors. We have the deadline tomorrow. Can we meet so we can go through it together? It shouldn't take long.
I stare at the text, my heart racing. Why does a simple, work-related text cause me to get lightheaded?
Sure, but I can't leave my house. My son is asleep. Do you mind coming here?
That works. Can you send me the address? I'll head that way now.
Holy fuck. I know this isn't wise, to have him here, in my home. I stand up and pace, my hand shaking as I stare at the screen.
Then I text him my address. Fuck it.
Twenty minutes later, the faintest tap-tap-tap pierces the silence. The sound ricochets through the quiet living room, and my pulse leaps to my throat. I smooth my shirt, tuck loose strands of hair behind my ears, and force my hand to the knob.
Warren stands on my porch, tie loosened at his throat, briefcase in one hand, his keys in the other. "Thanks for this. The board wants revisions by morning, and I don't know how to fix it."
"No problem." I step back, letting him into the space that is suddenly energized. "We can work at the dining table."
His presence fills the room as he sets his briefcase down and pulls out folders. We settle into chairs across from each other, all business despite the current droning beneath the surface.