Chapter 17
SEVENTEEN
Janie
The corridor stretches endlessly before me, a white-walled tunnel that seems to grow longer with each step.
My back aches from hunching over reports all morning, followed by a three-hour consult with the outreach team. I rub my neck, feeling the knots that have formed there.
"Janie!"
My head snaps up at the familiar voice. Blake strides toward me, still in his navy EMT uniform, radio clipped to his shoulder. His grin flashes wide and bright, the same one he'd wear when he'd sneak me ice cream after bedtime when we were kids.
"What are you up to? Looks like no good." I step into his hug, the familiar scent of his aftershave mixing with the hospital's antiseptic air.
"Just dropped off a patient. Thought I'd see if I could catch you before heading back to the station." He pulls back, studying my face. "You look wiped out."
I roll my eyes. "Thanks for noticing. I've been in meetings all day with surgeons and hospital administrators. It's got to be a form of torture in some countries."
"Still killing it though." He nudges my shoulder with his.
"Always." I smile despite my exhaustion. Blake has always been my biggest cheerleader, even when I couldn't stand myself. I cherish his constant support and admiration, grateful for our relationship.
The guilt sticks in my throat. The secret I've kept from him, too. I know it's only a matter of time before he knows the truth. I push it down. I don't have the capacity to deal with that now.
He shifts his weight, that specific way he does when he's about to ask for something. I know all his tells.
"So, I was thinking..." He scratches the back of his neck. "Tyler's been begging to go camping. You know, that spot up by Lake Worth we used to go to?"
"Mmhmm." My phone goes off in my pocket. I ignore it.
"I was thinking I could take Tyler and Beckett." His eyes brighten. "Kid's gotta learn to fish sometime, right?"
"You, by yourself, with two kids in the woods? I don't think so."
"Are you questioning my parenting skills?"
"Beckett is really young, bubs. Maybe we wait until he's a little older."
"Alright, well, what if I could convince Warren to go with me? We know those woods better than our own yards. And, I'll have an extra set of hands. It will be good for Becks."
My stomach drops so fast I'm light-headed. Suddenly, I have the need to sit down. Beckett. Warren. Together overnight in the woods.
"This weekend?" My voice sounds strange, too high.
Blake nods eagerly. "Friday and Saturday nights. We would come back early Sunday. Nothing crazy. Tyler's been asking for weeks."
The hallway feels suddenly smaller, the fluorescent lights too bright. I can't say no—Blake would ask why. But Beckett's never slept away from me except at my parents' house.
"I... guess that would be okay. But just one night, okay? He's still pretty young. And Gemma's visiting this weekend."
"One night is fine! They'll have a blast." Blake beams, completely oblivious to the turmoil churning inside me. "Warren used to be great at pitching tents, remember?"
I force my lips into what I hope passes for a smile. "I remember."
My worlds are colliding. Warren will spend more time with Beckett and every moment brings us closer to the truth spilling out. Will Warren feel compelled to tell Blake if they are together, just the two of them, for so much time?
"Cool. I better go. My partner is waiting for me. I'll let you know what time I'll pick up the little booger. Pack some warm clothes. I'll take care of the rest."
"Sounds good. Love you."
"Love you!"
Blake waves goodbye, and I stand frozen in the corridor. His words bounce around in my skull. Beckett. Warren. Camping. Together.
The drive home is mechanical. My body is on autopilot while my mind races. What if Blake puts it together? What if he already has, and that's why he's putting this together?
No, he would have asked me. Definitely.
By the time I unlock my front door, my hands are trembling.
The evening passes in a blur of dinner preparation and Beckett's endless stream of dinosaur facts. I help him pack his tiny backpack for tomorrow's camping trip, each item feeling like another piece of my heart I'm sending away.
"Will Warren teach me to catch a fish?" Beckett bounces on his toes, clutching his stuffed dog.
"I bet he will." The words catch in my throat.
After tucking him in, I sit on the couch staring at my phone. I think I should text Warren and warn him. But he's made it clear he doesn't want to talk to me about anything outside of what is absolutely necessary.
He can handle himself with Blake.
Right?
The doorbell rings at precisely 5:25 the next evening. I nearly trip over Beckett's backpack rushing to answer it. The moment I pull the door open, Gemma sweeps in with her usual flair, her suitcase bumping the threshold. She wraps me in a hug that nearly breaks me in half.
"God, I missed your face." Her voice carries the faint trace of Texas that five years in Chicago never quite erased.
"Auntie Gemma!" Beckett bounds over, wearing his Halloween butterfly costume despite Halloween being behind us. "Look what I got!" He holds up the neon soccer ball, spinning it between his small hands.
"Well, look at you! A butterfly soccer champion!" Gemma kneels, examining his wings with exaggerated awe. "Those are some serious colors, buddy."
Beckett basks in her laughter before darting off to continue whatever game he's invented in the living room.
"Chinese food's in the kitchen." I gesture toward the cartons lined up on the counter. "I got your favorite and made it extra spicy. Blake's on his way over to get Beckett, so we can wait until they leave it you want."
"Absolutely. I need some Becks loving before he leaves me. Get over here, you beautiful butterfly."
A rumbling engine draws our attention as Blake's forest-green pickup turns into the driveway. My stomach twists when I spot Warren in the passenger seat, his profile sharp against the fading daylight. Tyler's face appears in the back window, waving frantically.
Blake kills the engine. "Camping crew, assemble!" He leaps out with that big-brother energy he's never outgrown.
Warren unfolds from the passenger side. The sight of him in worn jeans and a navy jacket, dressed down and casual, somehow hits harder than I'd prepared myself for. He looks like he belongs in our lives, in this ordinary Friday night moment.
Beckett races toward Tyler, the boys colliding in an excited tangle of limbs and laughter.
"Hey, Gemma. What a nice treat to see you." Blake’s voice carries across the driveway. He walks directly to my friend, my ride-or-die, and hugs her.
They do a brief catch-up while Warren slips in, his focus locked on Beckett. He gives Gemma a curt nod as he passes. “Warren Carter,” he offers with a quick, polite wave, and then reaches his hand as an afterthought.
“Gemma Alvarez,” she says, her smile tight but knowing. They shake briefly in passing. She folds her arms across her chest and finishes her conversation with Blake.
Then Warren crouches down in front of Beckett and Tyler, shutting out the rest of us like we’re background noise.
My chest squeezes tight as Warren's hands move to Beckett's jacket, zipping it higher against the evening chill. His fingers are steady and sure. A father's hands.
"We're going to catch the biggest fish at the lake!" Beckett's arms wave dramatically.
Warren nods, his face serious. "You bet we are."
"Will you help me?"
"That's why I'm here."
Those four words knock the air from my lungs. Warren's hand rests on Beckett's shoulder, the same shoulder I've kissed goodnight a thousand times. The same shoulder that carries Warren's DNA.
Blake tosses bags into the truck bed. "Everyone ready for adventure?"
As the boys scramble into the backseat, Warren straightens up. He's so close now I can smell his cologne. His eyes meet mine briefly before sliding away, like I'm a storefront he's passing without interest.
But then, he pauses, for just a moment, but I notice. His gaze flicks back toward me, something unreadable flickering across his face. It's nothing. It's everything.
My heartbeat thunders in my chest.
He turns and climbs into the truck without a word.
I wave until they disappear around the corner, my smile fixed in place for Beckett's sake. The silence that follows their departure fills my ears like cotton.
"Alright, let's get to that wine! We've got some catching up to do," Gemma says as she pulls me inside.
I fill our glasses and put the food on a tray. "Couch eating and drinking, like old times?" I ask. But I already know the answer.
"Is there any other way?"
She flicks the TV on low, more for background than anything, while I bring everything over. Crazy Rich Asians, our favorite go-to, rolls on in the background.
We curl into the couch, lo mein cartons balanced on our knees, laughter already spilling as we trade stories.
On the tv, Nick Young drops to one knee in the middle of a plane cabin. Gemma snorts into her wine.
"That is not how real men apologize." She points her glass at the muted screen. "Too many words, not enough groveling."
I manage a weak laugh, my mind miles away at Lake Worth, where Warren is teaching my son, our son, to fish right now.
"He's ridiculously hot, by the way." Gemma refills her glass, red wine sloshing dangerously close to the rim. "Seeing him in person answered every question I've ever had about this crazy story with one glance. I get it now. And he definitely lingered on you. Don't tell me you didn't notice."
Heat floods my face. "It doesn't matter if I noticed. Plus, if he lingered, it was hate magnetism. Whatever that means. I can assure you it wasn't a warm linger."
"Whatever you say, Miss Thing." She grins wickedly.
I groan, dropping my head against the cushions. "It doesn't matter. He hates me, Gem."
"That man does not hate you." She sets her glass down with a decisive clink. "He's mad, yes, but I saw the way he looked at you. That's not hate."
"You saw him for thirty seconds in my driveway."
"Thirty very informative seconds." She taps her temple. "These eyes don't miss much. Especially not the way he checked to make sure you were watching when he helped Beckett."
My stomach flips. "He was just being a good... whatever he is."
"Father. The word you're looking for is father." Gemma's teasing smile softens. "Look, I'm not saying forgiveness happens overnight. But that tension? That's not indifference."
I want to argue, but the words catch in my throat. Because I desperately want her to be right. What if beneath Warren's icy exterior, something still burns for me?
"It doesn't matter," I whisper, not wanting it to believe myself, but convinced there is no going back. "Even if he doesn't hate me, I've done too much damage."
Gemma reaches over, squeezing my hand. "Love isn't a balance sheet, Janie. It's less linear and black and white than that."
Her words burrow under my skin, planting a dangerous seed of hope I'm afraid to water.
We spend the night the way only two women with too much wine and too many feelings can—half-laughing, half-crying, looping back to the same impossible questions until exhaustion finally wins.
By morning, Gemma drags me through the farmer’s market, pressing a croissant into my hand, making me try oat-milk lattes. The ache is still there, but dulled, tucked under the easy rhythm of friendship. Having her here is exactly what I needed.
The headlights sweep across my porch as Warren's truck pulls into the driveway early Saturday evening.
My heart climbs into my throat as I step outside, the wooden boards creaking beneath my feet. The cicadas create a wall of sound in the humid evening air.
Beckett bursts from the truck first, backpack bouncing wildly as he races toward me. His face is smudged with what might be chocolate or dirt—probably both.
"Mom! Mom! We caught THREE fish and I got to help build the fire and we saw stars and Tyler fell in the water and Uncle Blake said a bad word and—"
I laugh, smoothing his wild hair. "Breathe, buddy. You can tell me everything inside."
Warren steps out of the truck, looking tired but somehow more relaxed than I’ve seen him in weeks. The porch light catches the stubble on his jaw, highlighting shadows I never noticed before.
“He was great,” Warren offers, his voice low enough that only I can hear. “Natural outdoorsman.”
My fingers tingle, restless with the jolt of seeing him and discussing our son, both of us beaming. “Takes after his uncle Blake, I guess.”
Warren's eyes meet mine for a heartbeat before sliding away.
Beckett tugs my hand. "Can I show Auntie Gemma my marshmallow stick? I saved it!"
"Go ahead inside. Wash those hands first!"
He bolts through the door, leaving Warren and me alone in the bubble of porch light.
Warren shifts the backpack at his feet. “We stopped at Blake’s on the way back. Tyler was about to explode if we didn’t. Since they were already home, I told Blake I’d bring Beckett the rest of the way. Saved him the extra trip.”
"Thank you." I want to say so much more, but I don't know what, so I let those two words suffice.
He lifts the bag, handing it over. “His water bottle is in there. And the hoodie he refused to take off, even though it got to nearly eighty degrees today. I'm sure it's ripe.”
Our fingers brush as I take it. The touch is electric, unavoidable. His hand lingers a minuscule moment before pulling away.
The night air is suddenly thick, making it hard to breathe. Warren shifts his weight, opens his mouth like he might say something more. I wait, pulse hammering against my ribs.
But the moment passes. His jaw tightens, and he gives me a clipped nod.
"Goodnight, Janie. Becks ought to sleep well tonight."
He called him by his nickname. And I’m officially undone.
He turns, shoulders squared beneath his jacket, and walks toward the waiting truck.
I step inside and close the door, pressing my back against it. My hand still tingles where our fingers touched. I close my eyes, drawing in a shaky breath.
"Not hate. See, I told you."
Gemma's voice makes me jump. She leans against the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, watching me with eyes that think they know more than I feel.
I swallow hard, the lump in my throat refusing to dissolve.
Maybe he doesn't hate me, but he definitely doesn't want me. That might be worse.