Chapter 13 Janie
THIRTEEN
Janie
The door's slam still echoes through my body like aftershocks from an earthquake.
The sheet is lying in a heap on the floor, and my quilt is pulled up to my chin, damp with sweat and tears. Warren's scent lingers on my skin. All of it is a cruel reminder of what was here and what's now gone.
"I have a son, and you kept him from me."
His words carve fresh wounds with each replay in my mind. The hatred in his eyes. The betrayal. I've never seen Warren truly angry before tonight. Controlled, measured Warren. He's always been the calm one, the rational one, and in an instant, he was reduced to rage because of what I did.
What I did. What I kept doing every single day for five years.
I reach for my phone, my fingers trembling as I pull up my messages. Gemma will know what to do. She always does.
I pause over the three words: I told him.
But Warren's command thunders through my head: "You won't tell a soul until I tell you to."
He meant my family, right? Not Gemma. But what if...
I delete the message, watching the letters disappear one by one. The screen's harsh white light bathes my face. I toss the phone aside, and it lands on his pillow, perfectly positioned in the hollow space where he should be.
Where he will never be again.
Rolling over, I press my body into the now cold space his body left behind. The bed and comforter still hold his scent. His ghost.
"I need to think about this. We'll figure out a custody arrangement."
Custody arrangement. Clinical. Detached. Like we're just two strangers who happened to create a life and now need a document to dictate how we interact.
The tears come again. They're painful and relentless. My chest aches with each sob I try to muffle into the pillow.
What have I done? I've ruined everything. Again. We had a chance. For one breathless moment tonight, I could see the faint promise of a future together.
It was perfect for a few fleeting minutes. Except it wasn't perfect, because there was a lie between us. A forbidden secret.
And now I might lose him completely.
I’ve never felt more alone. It's not because he left, but because he finally saw me, all of me, and walked away anyway.
Somewhere in the haze of tears, exhaustion drags me under. I don't realize it's morning until I hear the most tender voice pulling me back.
"Mommy?"
I jolt awake. Morning light filters through the blinds, slicing across my swollen eyes. My throat is raw, my chest heavy. For a moment, I forget where I am—until everything from last night slams back, stealing my breath.
Beckett stands in the doorway, hair mussed from sleep, clutching his stuffed dog.
"Can I have pancakes?" He tilts his head, a gesture so like Warren it knocks the breath from me for a split second before I can pull myself together.
I force a smile. "Of course, baby. Let's make pancakes."
My throat tightens, but I square my shoulders. Whatever happens with Warren, I have to be steady for my son.
Our son.
After splashing cold water on my face and dragging my hair back, I make it to the kitchen and pull out the ingredients. My hands fumble with the measuring cup, clumsy from a night of no sleep and too many tears, while Beckett climbs onto his chair, still clutching his stuffed animal.
His hair sticks up on one side, making me smile despite the torment ripping through me outside of this moment.
"Can I crack the egg? Please?" Beckett bounces on his knees. "I won't get shells in it this time."
"One egg." I slide the carton toward him, watching his face scrunch in concentration. "Just like I showed you."
The kitchen fills with the sound of cartoons from the living room and Beckett's humming while he taps the egg against the bowl. He is visibly proud when the yolk drops in cleanly.
"I did it, Mommy! No shells!"
His grin is pure triumph, and for a second, it stitches something broken inside me back together.
"Way to go, B." My smile pulls tight, sharp enough to split.
The batter hisses as it hits the hot pan. Every movement is mechanical. Flip, stack, pour. But that makes it easier, somehow.
The ache still claws at my chest, no matter how much I stuff it down. I’ve made these pancakes hundreds of times, but today my hands won’t stop shaking.
Warren should be here. He should know how his son likes blueberries arranged in a smiley face, how Beckett always saves the eyes for last.
"Soccer Game today!" Beckett shoves a forkful into his mouth. "Billy is going to be the goalie. I'm going to be a star like Messi."
"Don't talk with your mouth full." I ruffle his hair. "Are you excited to get out there to play with your friends?"
"Uh-huh." Syrup drips down his chin. "Uncle Blake says I'm the kid on my team."
My chest tightens. Uncle Blake. Not dad. Not father. He doesn't know him, and he won't be there.
And it's my fault.
"Do you think I'll score two goals or five?" Beckett tilts his head, hazel eyes bright with hope.
"I think five." I turn away, pouring myself coffee to hide the tears threatening to spill.
"Yeah," he exclaims as he bounces off the stool and makes a kicking motion.
My phone sits on the counter with the screen dark. Before I can second-guess myself, I grab it.
Beckett's soccer game at 10. He loves soccer, and I thought you might want to see him play. It's at Stanford Field on the backside, where the younger kids play.
My hand shakes as I debate pressing the send button. Is this cruel? Too soon?
Fuck it. Warren deserves to see his son, even if he never wants to see me again.
I press send.
"More pancakes?" Beckett holds up his empty plate, syrup smeared across his cheek. "Will Mimi and Hank be there today?"
"One more, but then we need to get ready. And, no, they can't come today. They had to go somewhere for the day, and hate that they are missing it. I told Mimi I would take lots of pictures to send to her, though."
Nothing from Warren. Except that he's left me on read again. At least I'm not blocked, still.
By the time Beckett’s cleats are laced and his water bottle is packed, I’ve checked my phone twenty-seven times. Each blank screen twists the knife deeper.
At the field, folding chairs line the edge where miniature soccer players race around in neon-colored pinnies. I settle into my seat, tugging my baseball cap lower against the morning sun."
"Go, Beckett!" I cup my hands around my mouth and shout as he darts after the ball, all gangly limbs and fierce concentration.
Warren isn't coming.
I tell myself this is for the best. Last night was too raw, too painful. It's too soon. He needs time to process. I check my phone again, anyway. Still nothing.
Coach Mike blows his whistle, gathering the kids into a huddle. Beckett's dark hair stands out among the group, his tiny shoulders squared with determination. He high-fives his teammates, that little furrowed brow so exactly like—
My breath catches.
Warren.
He's walking across the field, long strides eating up the distance. Sunlight catches his dark hair. His hands are shoved in his pockets, his jaw clenched tight enough to crack walnuts. He doesn't look at me, not even a glance.
My heart hammers against my ribs.
Warren stops short of where I'm sitting, beside Coach Mike, dropping to one knee on the grass. From beneath his arm, he produces a sleek soccer ball with black and electric green hexagons and pentagons.
I strain to listen to what he's saying.
"Thought the team could use a backup," he says, voice carrying just enough for me to hear. He's casual, so controlled. It's as if he hadn’t ripped me open last night when he stormed out, and then shown up here today, shattering me all over again.
It’s not for the team. I know it immediately. It’s for Beckett. For his son. The truth slams into me so hard I'm disoriented for a moment.
My throat closes up, and my vision blurs. Warren didn't stay away. He came, not for me, but for Beckett. The realization hits like a physical blow, leaving me doubled over inside, like I’ve been punched from the inside out.
But I hold my head high. I can do this. I can do this. I repeat the mantra in my mind. Eventually...
Coach Mike laughs, accepting the ball with a hearty slap to Warren's shoulder. "Always good to have fresh equipment! Are you a soccer fan?"
"I played in college." Warren's gaze stays fixed on the kids, scanning until he finds the one face that matters.
Beckett spots the new ball, eyes widening with delight. He breaks from the huddle, bouncing on his toes.
"That's so cool! Can we use it today?" His small voice carries across the field.
Warren's composure cracks for a second, a flash of something raw and vulnerable crossing his face before he masters it again.
"Sure thing, buddy," Coach Mike calls back. "We'll use it for the second half."
The air between us shifts, charged with possibility. My son doesn't know that the tall stranger with the perfect gift is his father. But Warren knows.
And I know.
The whistle blows for the second half, and the kids scatter across the field, chasing after Beckett's new ball. My fingers dig into the fabric of my folding chair, knuckles white as Beckett takes his position.
He approaches the ball tentatively at first, giving it light taps with the inside of his foot. I recognize that careful concentration, the way he's so focused on that ball, his tongue poking out between his teeth.
He has far more focus than most boys, even twice his age. And natural talent.
"Come on, Beckett!" I call out, my voice strained with forced cheerfulness.
The other parents cluster together a few yards down, chatting and laughing. I sit alone, hyperaware of Warren standing at the edge of the field, arms crossed over his chest.
Beckett connects with the ball, dribbling it between two kids. It isn't too difficult, as one of the boys has his hand down his pants, and the other, a little girl, plays with her hair. But to Beckett, he is playing in the World Cup.
His initial caution gives way to confidence with each touch. The bright green flashes beneath his cleats, and his grin grows wider with every successful pass.
"Good control, number seven!" Warren's voice carries across the field.
Beckett's head snaps up at the unfamiliar voice, missing a step before recovering. When he looks toward the sideline, his smile stretches impossibly wider.
My heart shatters. This is the moment I've imagined a billion times, watching father and son, connected through something as simple as a soccer game. But the reality is poisoned by secrets and betrayal.
Warren claps at exactly the right moments when Beckett handles the ball successfully, when he helps defend the goal. He knows the game, knows when to offer encouragement.
The ref blows his whistle twice, indicating the end of the game. The kids race for water bottles and orange slices. That's what they really come here for.
Beckett lingers near the new ball, spinning it with his hands. Warren steps forward, then hesitates, glancing my way.
I nod once, permission and apology tangled together.
He crouches near the bench where Beckett sits. He doesn't crowd him. He's just... there.
"That's some fancy footwork you've got," Warren murmurs, his voice just loud enough for me to catch. "Keep your head up when you dribble. You'll see more options that way."
Beckett nods shyly, fingers tracing the green shapes. "Thanks for the ball. It's really cool."
"Glad you like it." Warren's smile is gentle, careful. He doesn't push, doesn't claim more space than this small moment allows.
Beckett jumps up, clutching the ball before darting back to his teammates, immediately demonstrating his newfound technique.
Warren rises slowly, hands sliding into his pockets. I follow him across the distance, but he never once looks my way.
To everyone watching, it's just a supportive adult at a kid's game. To me, it's punishment wrapped in kindness, seeing the moment I've dreamed of while knowing it's laced with anger and silence.
I've given him his son, but I'm not sure he'll ever forgive how late it's come.
The children erupt into cheers, high-fiving each other with sticky hands and grass-stained knees. Beckett's team lost, but the way he's bouncing around, you'd think they'd won the championship.
Parents fold chairs and gather scattered water bottles while kids compare battle wounds. I stuff Beckett's extra shirt into my tote bag, scanning the field until I find him. He's standing with his teammates, his new, prized ball tucked under his arm, laughing at something Coach Mike said.
Warren hasn't left yet. He stands apart from everyone else, his hands in his pockets, and eyes fixed on Beckett. The morning sun catches the angles of his face, highlighting the tension hidden in plain sight by his boyishly handsome face.
My heart pounds against my ribs. What happens now? Does he leave without a word? Does he storm over and demand answers about every milestone he's missed? Does he—
Warren turns abruptly, his gaze finally meeting mine. His eyes are hard, unreadable, the warm brown I remember cooled to something like stone.
He crosses the field with purposeful strides until he's standing before me, close enough that I can smell his cologne but far enough that we might as well be on different planets.
"Text me his schedule." His voice is flat and clipped. "I don't want to miss a game."
Two simple sentences. No room for argument or explanation. No hint of forgiveness.
"Warren, I—"
He shakes his head once, sharp and final. "Not now."
He doesn't wait for my answer. He heads in the opposite direction, walking away across the grass, shoulders squared like steel. Each step widens the gulf between us.
I stand rooted, my stomach hollow. I've given him access to Beckett, something I've both feared and longed for, but at a cost of him walking out of my life for good.
"Mommy! Did you see? I almost scored!" Beckett crashes into my legs, his small face flushed with excitement.
I force my trembling hand to smooth his hair. "You were amazing, Becks."
"And did you see my new ball?" He holds it up like a trophy. "The tall man brought it. Coach says I can keep it!"
"That was very nice of him." My voice sounds strange, distant.
"He told me I'm getting really good." Beckett hugs the ball to his chest. "Is he your best friend?"
The question hits like a physical blow. What is Warren to me now? Not my lover. Not even my friend. Just Beckett's father, a title Beckett doesn't get to know yet.
"He's Uncle Blake's best friend. And he works with Mommy sometimes. Don't you remember you met him at Mimi and Hank's house?"
"Oh, yeah. He's nice."
I grip Beckett's hand as he bounces beside me, pride radiating from every inch of his small body.
"You're right, Bud. He is."
I force a smile for him, but inside I'm shattered. Beckett’s joy is the one thing in this world that means the most to me.
Even if it means giving up my own.