Chapter 15 Janie
FIFTEEN
Janie
I slide into my seat at the polished mahogany table, smoothing my pencil skirt beneath me. The air conditioning hums with the kind of chill that's intentional, settling sharply against my skin.
This is my meeting. My outreach committee. And today, at least, it’s not just Warren and me trapped across the same table. It’s the full roster. Ten faces wait expectantly, with their pens poised.
“Good morning, everyone,” I say, projecting an enthusiasm I don't possess. Nods ripple around the table. All except one.
Warren doesn’t move. He sits opposite me in his perfect navy suit, gaze fixed on the spreadsheet in front of him. Steam curls from the untouched coffee at his elbow. The line of his jaw is brutal in its perfection. One glance and I'm skinned alive.
I press on. “Let’s start with updates on funding for the mobile clinic. We’ve secured an additional forty thousand.” I gesture toward him, deliberately professional, but still deferential. “Warren, would you walk us through the finance recommendation? I know you were working on this.”
He doesn’t look at me. “The additional funds should be allocated to equipment rather than staffing,” he says evenly, his tone smooth as steel.
He lists projections, bullet points, percentages.
Every word out of his mouth is precise, detached, and impersonal.
The kind of delivery that reassures a boardroom. The kind that slices me open.
“Thank you,” I say, fighting to keep my voice steady. “Any discussion?”
Questions ripple around the table. I direct traffic, take notes, and summarize. When I call on him again, he responds the same way. He's concise, formal, nothing more, and colder than I've ever seen him.
“Ms. Harrelson, your perspective on vaccination outreach?” he asks at one point, his voice clipped, eyes still on the papers in front of him.
The formality knocks the air from my chest. A week ago, he was whispering my name while he traced lines on my goose-bumped skin. Now I’m “Ms. Harrelson,” just another agenda item.
I clear my throat. “The community response has been strong. I’d recommend extending the proposed clinic hours to accommodate working parents.”
He nods once. It's the same polite nod he gave Caleb two minutes earlier about supply chains, only somehow, toward me, it's an assault. “We’ll note it for consideration.”
Across the table, he slides a stack of reports toward me. I reach out, and our fingers brush. The jolt is immediate, a current that shoots through me before I can stop it. My breath stutters.
I glance up, desperate for some sign he felt it too. But his face is already turned to the next speaker, unreadable. Unmoved.
Anger would mean heat. This is ice.
This is indifference.
I force myself through the rest of the agenda, steady on the outside, unraveling inside. When the meeting adjourns and the room empties, relief sweeps in, followed quickly by dread. Because now there’s nothing to shield me from the echo of his disdain.
As I gather my things for Beckett’s preschool carnival, one truth hardens in my chest: this is worse than fury. This is erasure.
I spot Beckett before he sees me, his construction paper butterfly wings flapping wildly as he charges through the school doors. His face lights up when he notices me standing outside on the sidewalk with the other parents.
"Mommy! Mommy! Look!" He races toward me, waving his project in the air as he makes a beeline toward the car. Purple and blue glitter shakes loose from his wings with every bounce. "I'm a monarchy butterfly!"
A teacher waves at me as he slams into my legs. "I'm a monarchy butterfly, Mommy!"
"Monarch," I correct gently as I bend down to hug him. "You look amazing, baby. I love what you made."
"We're having a Halloween carnival now! We need to go. It's at the field over there," he points around the backside of the school building.
"We are, Becks. Mimi is supposed to meet us, too. I was waiting to see if she would get here to walk with us."
"…with games and cookies and Ms. Lisa says I can be the butterfly in the parade," he continues, unfazed. Words tumble from him in excited bursts, his hazel-green eyes, wide with anticipation.
"Janie! There you are."
My mother appears behind me, her familiar perfume reaching me before her hand touches my shoulder. I stand, letting her pull me into a quick hug. All I want to do is sink into her, but I keep it together.
"I'm so glad you could make it. I think this will be cute, and Beckett is beside himself." I take Beckett's backpack, surprisingly heavy for such a small person.
"Of course." Mom links her arm through mine as we head toward the field. "I've been dying to see this little bug in his costume anyway."
"I'm not a bug, Mimi! Butterflies are insects!" Beckett skips ahead of us, wings bouncing with each step.
Mom leans closer, voice slipping into casual chatter. “Oh, I ran into Warren at Publix yesterday. He said he went to Beckett’s game on Saturday. Isn’t that sweet?”
My fingers lock on the backpack strap until the canvas strains. My pulse pounds in my ears. Warren spoke to my mother. About Beckett.
“Did he?” My voice comes out thin, foreign.
“He’s such a good man,” she says, smiling like it’s obvious. “You can tell he wants a family of his own. Taking Beckett under his wing since…” Her gaze flicks to be sure Beckett’s out of earshot. “…since he doesn’t have a dad.”
The words hit me like a punch to the gut, one after another.
I choke down a response, stretching my lips into something that might pass for a smile while my throat threatens to close.
The irony is suffocating. Warren plays the part of a doting friend while standing in plain sight as Beckett’s father.
“You’re right. He is… a good man,” I manage, the words bitter in my mouth.
“And he promised to come to the carnival,” Mom adds, squeezing my arm. “We can hardly pin him down for dinner anymore, but he lit up when I mentioned it.”
The floor tilts. My minds eye shows me everything. Warren at the carnival. Warren watching our son in butterfly wings. Warren and my mother trading small talk about my child, our child, while I’m left holding the secret like an intruder in my own life.
I shake it off. I can't do this here, now, with my son and my mom. And now Warren.
"You ready, B? Let's go."
"They've got pumpkin bowling this year, and I heard there's a booth where they're doing face painting with those special paints that glow in the dark." Beckett places his tiny hand in Mom's, and she beams at him, soaking up his every word.
"Maybe we can turn you into a glow-in-the-dark butterfly," she says.
"Yeah!" Beckett pumps his little fist in the air.
As we near the field, I see all of the beautiful decorations, the festivity of it all. But, rather than being joyful, all I can think about is the dread of seeing him here, of faking a casual friendship, when we both know the truth about Beckett.
What happens when Warren decides he's done with this charade? When he tells Blake? When he looks my parents in the eye and tells them the secret I've been hiding from everyone?
The preschool parking lot overflows with minivans and SUVs. Carnival booths line the playground, strung with orange lights and decorated with hay bales. Children dart between stations, faces sticky with cotton candy and caramel apple drizzle.
"I want to throw rings!" Beckett tugs Mom's hand, dragging her toward a booth where plastic rings sail toward soda bottles.
And then I sense it, that prickle across my skin, the sensation of being watched. I don't need to turn to know he's here.
Warren stands near the face-painting station, tall and commanding even in jeans and a navy quarter-zip. It's odd seeing him here at this time of day and not in his suit.
Several mothers cluster nearby, stealing glances. He doesn't notice them. His eyes are fixed on Beckett.
My throat closes as Warren strides toward us, his movements fluid and confident. He drops to one knee in front of Beckett, eye-level with our son.
"Those are some serious wings you've got there." Warren reaches out, adjusting a strap that's twisted on Beckett's shoulder. "You think you can fly with these?"
"They're just pretend." Beckett's laughter bubbles up, pure and delighted by the attention. "But I'm leading the parade!"
Warren's smile, the one I've missed for days, breaks across his face. "That's a big job. You must be pretty special."
I stand frozen, watching the scene I wanted more than anything—and feared just as much. Father and son, connecting as if pulled by invisible threads. The carnival noise fades to a distant hum while my heart splits clean in two.
I'm outside this circle, excluded from the warmth building between them. Instead of it bringing us all together, the truth has ripped everything into shreds.
The digital clock on my nightstand reads 11:43 in bright green numbers.
I curl my fingers into the edge of the comforter, staring at the outline of the ceiling fan circling overhead.
The house is quiet now. There's no more butterfly wings flapping, no more excited chatter about ring tosses and face paint.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. Gemma's face lights up the screen, and my chest loosens for the first time all day.
"Hey," I whisper, turning onto my side and reaching to turn on the bedside lamp.
"I wasn't sure if I'd catch you. I hope I didn't wake you."
"Not sleeping. Just..." I trail off, unable to find words for the hollow space inside me.
"Just brooding in the dark?" Her voice carries that familiar no-nonsense warmth. "Listen, my weekend just opened up. Is it too much if I come down? I saw a flight down for a good price but wanted to check with you before I snag it."
Relief crashes through me like a wave, unexpected and overwhelming. My throat tightens.
"No," I manage, my voice breaking. "I need you. Your timing couldn't be better."
“Is everything okay?”
I press my palm against my eyes, willing back the tears. “It’s been better.”
“Feel like talking?”
I switch off the lamp, letting the room go dark. It's safer this way, like a confessional where I can whisper sins without being studied.
“He came over Thursday night,” I admit, the words catching in my throat. “It was supposed to be about board work, stuff that had to be fixed before the next morning's meeting. But we… we didn’t stop there.”
Gemma doesn’t rush me. She just waits.
I suck in a breath, my chest tight. “We slept together.” The confession burns. “And afterward, I told him. About Beckett. About everything.”
"Shit." The single word carries volumes.
"He was so angry. The look in his eyes—" I swallow hard, remembering the devastation that transformed his face. "He stormed out. And now he's showing up at Beckett's soccer games, at school events, talking to my mother about god knows what regarding Beckett."
"While ignoring you?"
"Completely. In meetings, he calls me 'Ms. Harrelson' and I die a little bit every time he calls me that."
The silence on Gemma's end stretches, broken only by her soft breathing.
"No one else knows," I whisper finally. "He made me promise not to tell anyone until he decides what to do.
At first, I took that to mean anyone, or I would have called you sooner.
But I know he means my family. I've just been paralyzed, hoping he would calm down and come around to talk to me. But he hasn't. He hates me."
More silence, and then Gemma's voice returns, soft but steady. "You did what you had to. You couldn't carry it anymore. Now let him carry his part of it. He'll eventually come around."
I close my eyes, letting her words settle over me. "What if I've ruined everything?"
"Then it was always going to be like this. It hurts right now, but I promise it will work out." Gemma's certainty wraps around me like a blanket.
"You sound so sure. You haven't seen the daggers his eyes shoot at me when he looks at me. If he even looks at me."
"He'll run out of daggers. Trust me."
A small laugh escapes me, surprising us both. "Like I said, your timing couldn't be better. I'll pick you up at the airport. What time does the flight get in?"
"I'm clicking purchase now. I land at 4:10 on Friday. You're not picking me up, though. That's what Lyft is for."
After we hang up, I lie awake, insomnia pressing in more incessantly than ever. Gemma's words echo in my head. You did what you had to.
Did I, though? Maybe we all would have been better off if I'd taken my secret to the grave. Ignorance is bliss, after all.
I lie back against the pillows, the cotton cool against my skin. Through half-drawn blinds, moonlight spills across the ceiling in silver bands, casting shadows that stretch and shrink with passing clouds.
The house stands silent around me except for the gentle click of the fan and the occasional creak of settling wood.
My friend's certainty steadies me, a rock in choppy waters. She's been my anchor through everything. From the positive pregnancy test, the first ultrasound when I sobbed in the darkened room, to Beckett's birth when she held my hand instead of the father, who didn't know he was becoming one.
But nothing, not even Gemma's unwavering support, can quiet the fire in my chest.
Warren is showing up for Beckett. Not grudgingly or out of obligation, but with genuine interest. I saw it in his eyes at the carnival, the way they lit up when Beckett laughed.
The careful way he adjusted those ridiculous butterfly wings.
The natural ease between them, which felt like watching two magnets connect.
Yet for me, there's nothing but cold professionalism. In meetings, Warren keeps his voice measured, his eyes never lingering. He passes me reports without making contact, discusses budgets like we're strangers who happened to share the same conference table.
The duality guts me.
I press my fist against my chest, as if I can stop myself from coming apart. Because it wasn’t just a one-time thing. It wasn’t just Beckett tying us together.
Somewhere along the way, I fell in love with him. Maybe I always have been. And I ruined it the moment I told the truth.
Now all he sees when he looks at me is the lie.
And I don’t know if he’ll ever look at me again and see anything else.