Chapter 20
TWENTY
Warren
The sideline is my sanctuary, as far from Janie as the field allows.
Wind bites through my jacket, but I barely register the rare November chill. My focus tunnels to the small figures darting across the field in their oversized jerseys, especially the lanky boy with number eight emblazoned on his back.
My son.
The word still lodges in my throat whenever I let my mind go there. I still can't believe I have a son.
I shove my hands deeper into my pockets, feeling the crumpled copy of Beckett's schedule I've carried everywhere since Margaret gave it to me. The paper's soft now, worn at the creases.
A shout erupts from the cluster of parents. I glance across to where Janie stands, wrapped in that chunky gray sweater she's had forever. A large pink Stanley cup is clutched in her hands, hair whipping across her face.
She's bouncing slightly on her toes, yelling for Beckett like he's a varsity player in a defining game, not a gaggle of four and five-year-olds that look more like a herd of unorganized chaos.
My chest tightens. I jerk my attention back to the field.
Beckett has the ball now, nudging it forward with careful, clumsy kicks, his face screwed up in determination. Blake always said I looked constipated when I concentrated too hard.
I smile to myself at the goofy resemblance.
"Go, Beckett!" The words escape before I can stop them.
The ball connects with the back of the net. Beckett throws his arms up, face splitting into a grin that punches me square in the gut.
Then he's running, not to me, but straight to Janie. Her arms open wide as he crashes into her, their laughter carrying across the field. She lifts him, spinning once before setting him down and ruffling his hair.
Something breaks open inside me. That should be us. All three of us.
I turn away, swallowing hard against the knot in my throat.
The referee's whistle pierces the air. Game over. Parents begin folding chairs, gathering stray water bottles. I should leave. I've seen enough to keep me awake for another week of what-ifs.
I take three steps toward the parking lot when a small voice stops me cold.
"Warren! Did you see my goal?"
Beckett stands before me, cheeks flushed, eyes—my eyes—bright with excitement. Grass stains streak his knees, and his jersey hangs off one shoulder.
"I did." My voice comes out rough. "Great follow-through on that kick. You're really getting good at that."
He bounces on his toes, just like his mother. "You should come over for dinner tonight. Mommy makes the best basketti. And after we can practice kicks in the yard!"
The air leaves my lungs. Over his head, I see Janie freeze, snack bags clutched in her petite hands. Her eyes meet mine, wide with panic.
"I don't think—" she begins.
I know she's trying to save me from saying no. All I have to do is hitch onto that, to brush it off as a bad time.
“Please?” Beckett grabs my hand. His small fingers wrap around mine, and something fierce and protective surges through me. “I’ve been practicing that special kick you showed me. I want to do it with you some more.”
How do I explain this to him? That his mom and I aren’t destined to sit around a dinner table like he wants? That there’s too much wreckage between us for something as simple as spaghetti and laughter?
Once, before everything imploded, Janie and I had an easy friendship. We cut up when Blake was the serious one, teased until we cried laughing.
Now, we can hardly stand in the same room without choking on the silence. And in the middle of all that distance stands this boy who wants nothing more than for two people in his small world to be able to be civil.
Looking down at his hopeful face, a reflection of myself in his eyes, I know I can’t hand him the weight of all that.
I nod once, decisively.
“Spaghetti sounds great. If your mom's okay with that?” I look up at Janie.
She swallows hard, resignation settling across her features as she gathers Beckett's gear.
"Mom! Can Warren please come for basketti?" Beckett races back to her, victory in every step.
I can see her throat working before the words come out. “Of course.”
Her voice is even, but her eyes flick away, and she grips Beckett’s bag a little too tightly as she slings it over her shoulder. She’s not saying yes to me. She’s saying yes to him.
Letting me come isn’t about wanting me there. It’s about giving Beckett the night he wants, even if it means inviting frost into the comfort of her home.
The thought lands heavily in my gut. I’m the reason her easy night at home just got less appealing. The notion softens my anger toward her ever so slightly. She's willing to allow herself to be uncomfortable to give her son what he wants. To allow me to be with my son.
We walk to the parking lot, Beckett skipping between us, chattering about soccer and dinosaurs and some cartoon I've never heard of. My son, full of life and stories that I'm only now beginning to learn about.
Our eyes meet over his head. For once, there's no anger between us, just the recognition that whatever happens next, it's no longer only about us, our anger, our hurt.
After kicking the ball for a while with Beckett, I follow Janie into the kitchen, the smell of tomato sauce and garlic punching straight through me. It's not just dinner, it's memory. Sunday nights with the Harrelsons, laughter echoing while I pretended not to notice how badly I wanted to belong.
Her kitchen is neat but lived-in. Crayon drawings cover the fridge under a line of mismatched magnets. A row of superhero cups waits on the counter, bright colors against the marble.
“Can I help with anything?” I hover by the island, not sure where I fit.
“You could stir the sauce while I drain the pasta.”
We move around each other in a kind of careful choreography. The silence stretches, but it isn’t sharp like it’s been for weeks. Softer, charged in another way.
I clear my throat, reaching for safe ground. “Where were your parents today?”
“Oh, they went out of town with Blake and Cile. Emma had a dance recital in Orlando, and then they were taking the kids to Disney. I thought about going, but Beckett didn’t want to miss soccer. Can you imagine picking soccer over Mickey Mouse?”
“Actually, I can.” I glance at her, a smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. “I was the same way about soccer.”
Beckett thunders into the kitchen, dinosaur in hand. "Is the basketti ready yet? I'm starving!"
"Almost, buddy," Janie laughs, her voice lighter than when she talks to me. "Can you please put these on the table for me? Just the forks and napkins."
"I can do it!" He drops the dinosaur and pulls open a drawer, all business. His determination to do it himself sends a jolt through me.
He's mine. All me.
Dinner is chaotic in the best way. Beckett slurps his noodles with abandon, sauce speckling his chin and cheeks. He barely takes a breath between stories, jumping from playground politics to dinosaur facts to soccer.
"And then Coach Mike said we are going to have a big soccer party! I told him the special way you showed me how to fake out the other guys with the ball, Warren." He demonstrates with his fork, sending a piece of garlic bread flying.
I catch it midair. "Nice save, right?"
Beckett erupts in giggles, and I glance up to find Janie watching us, her eyes soft with something I'm afraid to name. She looks away quickly, but not before I catch the hint of a smile.
"Mom says I can join the club team when I turn eight if I keep practicing," Beckett continues, cramming half a meatball into his mouth.
"That's great. I played travel soccer when I was a kid."
"Really? Did you score lots of goals?" His light eyes widen in awe.
"A few. I was better than your Uncle Blake, I can tell you that." I laugh, fondly remembering our rivalry on the field.
"Mom has pictures of you and Uncle Blake playing. I love that he's your best friend. Will Marks is my best friend."
I look at Janie, surprised. She shrugs, cheeks flushed.
After clearing plates, Beckett tugs my hand. "You have to see my block city! I've been working on it all week."
"Maybe another time, Becks. It's getting late."
His face falls instantly. "No, tonight! You have to see it tonight!"
Something in his plea crumbles my resolve. I've missed over four years of his life. What's another hour?
"Okay, show me this masterpiece."
While Beckett arranges blocks across the dining table, his top teeth biting on his bottom lip in concentration, Janie touches my elbow lightly and nods toward the porch.
"Hey, Beckett. I'm going to step out on the porch with your mom for a minute. When you get done setting it up, come get me. Okay?"
He hums affirmatively but doesn't look up.
I follow Janie onto the back porch, where she's already lit a small fire in the fireplace. The flames cast dancing shadows across her face as she settles into a swivel chair. I take the one beside her, keeping a careful distance that is both necessary and impossible.
Inside, through the crack of the French door, Beckett arranges his blocks with fierce concentration, his tongue sticking out between his clamped lips. It's yet another habit I've noticed we share.
Initially, I thought there was something she wanted to talk about. But now I think she's showing me we can do this together, that it doesn't have to be tense and only focused on Beckett.
At least, that's what I'm coming to realize. We need to have peace between us to be better for him.
The night air carries the scent of jasmine and smoke. Familiar. Too familiar. The silence stretches between us, broken only by the pop and hiss of burning wood.
"Funny," Janie finally murmurs, a wry half-smile playing at her lips. "The last fire we sat around together changed everything."
A low chuckle escapes me, surprising us both. My shoulders loosen slightly.
"That it did."