Chapter 16 #2
Halfway through another slice, my phone dings. It’s Janie.
Done here. I can swing by to grab him.
My chest tightens as I look across the booth at Beckett, cheeks puffed with pizza, ball cradled in his lap. I'm not ready for this father-son date to end.
I type back before I can second-guess it.
Don’t worry. We’ll finish up dinner, and then I’ll bring him home. If that's okay?
After sending it I have to wonder to myself if I should ask if it's okay, or demand it so. She doesn't get to dictate everything.
But she does. She's his mother. I may be the sperm donor, but he doesn't know me as his father. The law doesn't recognize me as his father. Other than Janie, his entire family has no idea I'm his father.
Once we finish and I pay the bill, there is no more extending this. It's time to take him home. His home.
"You ready to go, Bud?"
Beckett keeps chattering the entire drive, his words tumbling over each other like loose marbles. I can’t stop the smile tugging at my lips. My chest aches with pride, with loss. With the certainty that one day, this won’t be enough.
This brilliant, energetic boy is mine, my blood, my son, yet I'm "Blake's best friend" to him. A friendly stranger who showed up at soccer practice, at the carnival, who takes him to get pizza on a regular Wednesday night.
The porch light glows warm against the darkening sky as I pull into Janie's driveway. Cicadas hum their evening chorus, the sound washing over us as I help Beckett from his seat.
"Did you have fun today?" I ask, reaching for his backpack.
He nods vigorously. "Can we practice our kicks together, again? I think you are really good at soccer."
Something shifts inside me. He looks up to me. "I'd like that."
We climb the steps together, his small hand finding mine naturally. I freeze at the contact, then carefully curl my fingers around his tiny hand.
The front door swings open before we reach it. Janie stands in the doorway, backlit by the hall light. Her hair falls loose around her shoulders, and her eyes, those same eyes she gave our son, find mine immediately.
For the first time since all of this, I don't look away.
"Thank you," she says softly, her gaze searching my face. "This really saved me."
I give her nothing but a clipped nod. "It wasn't a problem."
She takes Beckett's backpack, her fingers accidentally brushing against mine. The brief contact sends a jolt through my body, a current of heat straight to my core. My pulse hammers against my neck, my stomach flips, but I keep my expression deliberately cold.
"Mommy! Warren taught me to kick with both feet! And we counted to a hundred in the car!"
Beckett darts past her into the house, leaving us alone on the porch. The moment stretches between us, a beat too long.
"Warren, I—"
I turn sharply, forcing myself back down the steps. "I have to run. I appreciate you calling me to help with him. You can always call me if you need something for Beckett."
"Please, can we just—"
"Not now."
My body betrays me with every step. The heat of her touch lingers on my skin, the scent of her shampoo catches in the evening breeze. I climb into my truck, refusing to look back even as I know she's watching from the doorway.
On the road home, my phone goes off beside me. The number is unfamiliar, not Janie's. I answer curtly.
“Warren Carter.”
“Warren? It’s Mom.”
My fingers lock around the phone, and my throat goes completely dry. Twenty years. Twenty years since she stood by while my father cut me off and threw me out. Twenty years of choosing her husband over her son.
I say nothing. Finally, she fills the silence.
“Your father passed an hour ago.”
The highway unspools in front of me, endless and dark. Tiny white stars flash in front of me.
“Warren? Are you there?”
“I’m here.” The words scrape out, sounding raw to my own ears. Unwelcome.
Her voice trembles. She sounds small and fragile, nothing like the iron-spined society matriarch who raised me. "I wanted to thank you. For visiting him. The doctors said he waited for you, held on until you came."
I say nothing. What is there to say? I visited a dying man once, a man who threw me away. I'm not sure if it was for him or for me, but I guess it can serve two purposes.
I fight tears. I'm not sure if I'm sad, but the emotion of it all squeezes my throat.
"It meant everything to him. To us both." A pause, the sound of a shaky breath. "Maybe now's the time to stop letting pride destroy what's left of our family."
Family. It's the second time that word strikes me today.
The word echoes through me like a hollow bell. I grip the wheel until my knuckles ache white in the dim light. My chest is so tight I can barely breathe. My father didn't deserve my grace. He had twenty years to reach out, twenty years to admit he was wrong.
But I gave it anyway. And it mattered.
Beckett's face flashes behind my eyes. His small hand in mine. The way he looked at me when I fixed his soccer kick. There is something that I can't put into words about a sacred bond between a father and his son. My father took it for granted. I won't.
"Warren?"
"I have to go."
I end the call, tossing the phone onto the passenger seat. The windshield blurs, and I blink hard, focusing on the road, on the white lines disappearing under my truck.
I won't wait until it's too late. Not with my son.