Chapter 16
SIXTEEN
Warren
The contract draft for the Deaver custody settlement blurs in front of me. Words swim together after three straight hours of review.
I rub my eyes, reaping the strain of too many late nights and not enough sleep. The office is quiet except for the Xerox machine churning out copies on the other side of the wall and the occasional ping from my email.
My phone bounces on the leather-topped desk, skittering slightly across the hard surface.
Janie Harrelson.
My hand freezes halfway to the phone. Every muscle locks, anger rushing back like a tide. But beneath it, something deeper twists in my gut.
I should let it go to voicemail. That’s what I’ve done all week, keeping the wall up. We only speak when the work demands it, and even that feels like too much. This initiative was supposed to be straightforward, something I agreed to long before I knew it came tethered to her.
My fingers hold the phone tightly as I weigh whether I should take it now or respond to a voicemail.
I answer.
"Hello."
"Warren." Her voice comes through breathless, rushed. "I'm so sorry to bother you, but I'm stuck at CHG with an investor who flew in unexpectedly—"
I wait, saying nothing, letting the silence stretch between us.
"My mom has Beckett, but she has her book club in thirty minutes, and Blake's on shift until ten tonight. Cile took the kids to visit her sister in Tampa."
More silence. I can hear her quick breathing on the other end.
"Uh, huh."
"If you can't, I understand. I'll just tell them I have to leave," she adds quickly. "It's fine."
An out. She's giving me an out.
My chest tightens. I think of Beckett's face at the Halloween carnival, the way his eyes lit up when I helped fix his costume. The way he tilts his head when he's curious, just like I do. All the moments I've already missed.
"Are you asking if I will hang out with Beckett until you get done?"
"Yes. But I'll figure it out if—"
"I'll get him," I cut her off. The words escape before I can swallow them back.
"Are you sure? I know this is—"
"I said I'll get him. Do I pick him up from your parents' house? I'm leaving now."
"Yes. I'll let Mom know. Thank you so—"
“All good.” I end the call, already reaching for my keys.
I end the call and grab my keys from the desk drawer. Four steps to the door, and I poke my head into the reception area.
“Kaley, reschedule my five o’clock. Family emergency.”
Family. The word doesn’t belong in my mouth. At least it hasn't for most of my life. Suddenly, I'm lightheaded. I clear my throat and walk to the elevator.
The drive to Margaret and Hank’s blurs past in a string of traffic lights and palm trees. My thumb taps restlessly against the steering wheel, too much energy burning under my skin.
Anger simmers, but not at Beckett. It's never at him. But at Janie, at the mess we’re in, at myself for being too weak to take a decisive stand.
And under the anger, something else coils tighter. Something I don’t dare name.
I pull into Margaret and Hank's driveway. The familiarity hits me in the chest. This was my home once.
I barely knock before Margaret pulls the door open, her face lighting up like I'm some kind of hero.
"Warren! Thank you so much for coming." She ushers me inside, the scent of cinnamon and apples wrapping around me. "I just put a pie in. Beckett helped with the crust. Can you take it out in fifteen minutes?"
My throat tightens. Another first I missed.
"Sure. It's no problem." I follow her into the living room, passing photos of Blake and Janie growing up. New frames have been added of Beckett as a baby, Beckett with his first soccer ball, Beckett missing his front tooth.
I didn't stop to look at them last time I was here. They were part of the scenery, but now they are so much more. I want to study them, but I follow her instead.
"He hasn't stopped talking about the carnival." Margaret beams, collecting a small backpack from the couch. "He said Uncle Blake's best friend fixed his butterfly wing. He's really warmed up to you."
Uncle Blake's best friend. Gut punch.
I nod, not trusting my voice.
"And Coach Mike praised you again today when I took Beckett to practice. He said Beckett's kicks have improved since you showed him that technique." She zips the backpack closed. "It means so much to him, you know. Having someone like you around."
Her eyes soften, and what comes next is inevitable.
"Since he doesn't have a dad."
The words suck the air out of me. I force my face to remain neutral while something primal inside me screams: He does have a father. I'm right here.
"I'm grateful to be able to be around," I manage. "He's a great kid."
"He is. Smart as a whip, too. Gets that from Janie, of course." Margaret hands me the backpack, our fingers brushing. "You can leave the pie on the stove. Feel free to dig around my kitchen to put something together for dinner."
I barely hear everything she's saying as my brain can't let go of the more important points she made. Since he doesn't have a dad.. The thought rises unbidden.
"Oh! And his dinosaur phase! Did Janie tell you? He can name fifteen different species, pronunciation and all."
I swallow the lump in my throat. "That's impressive."
"I know. Makes you wonder how these kids are so dang smart."
From somewhere in the house comes the thunder of small feet, and then Beckett bursts into the room like a comet. He's all energy and light.
"Warren!" He clutches the soccer ball I gave him under one arm, eyes bright with excitement. "I practiced my kicks! Wanna see?"
Before I can answer, his small hand wraps around my fingers, tugging me toward the door.
"Be good for Warren, honey," Margaret calls after us. "Just pull the door closed when you leave. You know we don't ever lock it."
"Will do."
"Thanks again, Warren. You're a lifesaver."
I let myself be pulled along by my son, powerless to resist the magnetic force of him.
Beckett drags me across the lawn toward an empty patch of grass away from the firepit and newly installed swing set.
That fucking firepit.
His sneakers leave indents in the damp ground, small footprints I can't help cataloging.
"Watch, Warren! I can kick with both feet now!"
He drops the neon and black ball, positions himself with surprising focus for a four-year-old, then boots it with his left foot. It curves wildly to the right.
"That was great!" I position the ball again. "Try turning your foot this way."
I demonstrate the proper angle, my own foot dwarfing the ball. Beckett studies my movements with an intensity that's like looking in a mirror. The furrow in his brow deepens, a mannerism I can't stop seeing now that I see the resemblance.
"Like this?" He kicks again, connecting more solidly.
"Perfect! You're a natural."
His entire face brightens at the praise, eyes crinkling at the corners. They're Janie's eyes, but my expression. It's all so obvious now.
We fall into an easy rhythm, passing the ball back and forth. The late afternoon sun casts long shadows across the yard. I demonstrate small tricks, and Beckett mimics them with surprising coordination.
"Look what I can do!" He attempts to bounce the ball off his knee, nearly toppling over, but catching himself. He tries again, succeeding this time, and looks to me with naked pride.
A laugh bursts from my chest. It's full and genuine, surprising me with its depth. For a moment, the bitterness that's been my constant companion these past several days dissolves completely.
"That's it! Now try to control where it goes."
I kneel in the cool grass, positioning his small body. My hands on his shoulders feel right in a way I can't articulate. My chest tightens with a strange mixture of pain and something sweeter, more dangerous.
"Mimi says I'm the best soccer player in my whole class."
"Mimi is right."
Four birthdays. First words. Fevers and nightmares and Christmas mornings. All gone. Irretrievable. My throat constricts around these thoughts, but I swallow them down.
This moment is what matters. His smile, his determination, the ball sailing back and forth between us. These are the things I came for. These are the things that will keep me coming back.
The sun dips lower, everything washed in amber. It occurs to me he’s probably hungry.
“Hey, you want to help me get your pie out to cool. After that, what do you say we find something good for dinner?”
He nods, suddenly shy again. “Can I bring my ball?”
“Of course. It’s yours.”
“Okay. Can we get pizza? Mom only lets me have it on special occasions. I think this is a special occasion, don’t you?”
I have to swallow hard, fighting back the tears that burn at the edges. Goddamn right, this is a special occasion.
When I trust my voice won’t crack, I manage a smile. “Absolutely. Let’s get a pizza.”
We clumsily, but safely, get the hot pie out, make sure the oven is off, and grab his backpack. I run through everything to make sure I'm not forgetting anything.
"Okay, buddy, let's get some pizza!"
"Yeah!" He's through the door before I can catch up.
In the truck, he sits low in the passenger seat, buckled tight, the ball wedged between us. It’s not ideal without a booster, but it’s a five-minute drive and I’m white-knuckling the wheel like we’re crossing state lines.
At Starlight Pies & Skies, he perches on the edge of the red vinyl booth, swinging his legs as he clutches the ball like it’s another dinner guest. His eyes light up when the pepperoni pizza hits the table.
“This is the best day ever,” he declares, sauce already smeared at the corner of his mouth.
I can’t help but laugh at the sweet innocence. If I don't laugh, I might cry out of emotion. “Glad I could make the cut.”
We eat slice after slice, his chatter jumping from dinosaurs to soccer drills to whether pineapple on pizza is “gross or genius.”
I mostly listen, soaking in the rhythm of him. The way he tilts his head when he’s curious—my tilt. The way he grins wide, unguarded—his mother’s grin.