Chapter 26 Warren
TWENTY-SIX
Warren
I drag myself out of sleep, one eye cracking open to confirm what my body already knows: I’m alone.
Her scent still clings to me. Warm skin, faint vanilla, the trace of her shampoo. It’s in my hair, on my chest, sunk into me deeper than a single night should allow.
The clock on my nightstand reads 5:17 AM. It's way too early for a Saturday. But sleep isn’t coming back. Not with my body still keyed up for her.
The shower doesn’t help. Water pounds my shoulders while images slam through me: Janie arching under me, firelight making her hair burn, her mouth opening on my name as she came apart, then her slick body under my hands in the shower, soap sliding over every curve.
I press my forearm to the tile, bowing my head. Control isn’t what I’ve lost, it’s clarity.
Do I want her body? Absolutely. God, yes.
But wanting her is a knot I can’t untangle. She’s Beckett’s mother. She's the one who has raised him up until now, when I didn’t even know he existed. The one who looked me in the eye after she came back and kept that secret she'd harbored for five years and still didn't tell me.
My chest tightens. How the hell do I reconcile that? How do I imagine a life with her, when part of me still can’t forgive her?
And yet, I do. In flashes, I can see it too clearly: a family. A home. The three of us.
I dig my palm against the tile like pressure alone can drown out the truth.
Coffee doesn't help either. I stare at the bare walls of my kitchen, realizing for the first time how empty this place is. No pictures. No mess. Nothing that says someone lives here beyond the basics.
My mug hits the counter harder than intended. Coffee splashes over the rim.
"Shit."
It's just coffee. But it's not just coffee. It's everything—this house, my life, the emptiness I never noticed until now.
Beckett's laugh echoes in my head. "We're all going to get Christmas trees! One for our house and one for Warren's!" The pure excitement in his voice, like it's the most natural thing in the world that we'd do this together.
It should be.
My chest tightens. My son. My son, who doesn't know he's mine.
I grab paper towels, mop up the spill, but freeze mid-motion. The memory of Beckett carefully cutting paper snowflakes hits me with physical force. His tongue, sticking out in concentration, makes me smile.
The way he looked up at me for approval melted me on the spot. "Like this, Warren?"
That's not my name to him. It should be Dad. It should have been Dad from the beginning.
But I wasn't there. And whose fault is that? Janie kept him from me, yes. But I blocked her. I walked away that morning. I was too afraid of what Blake would think, what her parents would say, to even consider what we might build together.
What a fucking douchebag coward.
Now we're sneaking around like teenagers. Hiding what we feel. Building something neither of us can name.
I don't know if I can trust this bubble thing between us. Don't know if it will hold when the truth comes out. Because it will come out. We can't hide a child forever.
The coffee spill mocks me. I'm not this guy. Not the type who spills things, makes messes, loses focus. Yet here I am, staring at the brown puddle spreading across my granite counter.
My phone vibrates. It's Janie's name on the screen, and my heart speeds up to a sprint.
I take a breath before answering. "Good morning."
"Good morning. I hope I didn't wake you."
"I've been up for two hours."
"Early riser on a weekend."
"Habit."
"Hey, I wanted to call and tell you again. I'm so sorry about yesterday." Her voice sounds hoarse, tired. "That Branson situation was a complete disaster. I really appreciate you stepping in so I could go deal with it."
"You don't have to apologize. I told you. Is everything okay now?"
"It's not settled, but we took care of the immediate issue. Pope flew in an allergy specialist from Charleston specifically to see his son." She sighs.
"You did all you could. Try to put it behind you so you can enjoy the weekend."
"Becks said he loved being with you. I love it, too."
I lean against the counter, a warmth filling my chest at the mention of his name. "He was perfect. I hope you like paper snowflakes for decoration. You have enough to cover the house."
"It looks like Christmas exploded around here. It's amazing."
"Good."
"He's excited about the trees. Are we still on for that? Do you have any thoughts about where we should go? Lowes down the street? I think I saw another one on Okeechobee yesterday on my way back home."
"Absolutely. But I have somewhere I want to take you both." The words slip out before I can second-guess them. "It's so much better than just going to a parking lot."
"Why does it sound like this just got a lot bigger than picking out trees together?"
"It's just over the border, in St. Mary’s, Georgia. I think three-ish hours drive. My grandfather used to bring me there when I was little. I googled to make sure it's still a thing, and it is. They turn the whole town into a Christmas village for the season. Tree farm, lights, cocoa. The works."
"Three hours? That's a long way to drive to get a Christmas tree, Warren."
"It's worth it, trust me. Think: fresh-blown snow, hot apple cider, horse-drawn sleigh rides between the pines. It's a whole vibe." My heart pounds with excitement. "Beckett would love it."
"I don't know if that's a good idea. That's six to seven hours of driving today. I'm not sure I have it in me."
"We'll stay the night. Let me see if I can find a cabin."
Another pause. I can practically hear her weighing everything in that methodical way of hers.
The silence stretches so long I think I've lost her. Then comes a soft exhale.
"Okay. See if we can find a place to stay."
That single word, 'okay,' hits me like a physical force. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. It sounds neat." Her voice softens. "He'd love that, Warren."
I pull up VRBO while we are on the phone and lock down a two-bedroom cabin five minutes outside of town. We make plans to leave in about an hour, stopping for breakfast on the way. Simple logistics that are somehow monumental.
After we hang up, I stand motionless in my kitchen. The spilled coffee has dried into a sticky residue, but I don't care. We're going on a trip. Together.
One perfect day. Our son. The three of us.
Like a family.
"Warren! Mom says we're going to see REAL snow!" Beckett bounces into the back seat.
"Yep. Can you believe it? South Georgia snow?"
Janie slides into the passenger seat, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. She looks younger, more relaxed. Beautiful in a way that makes me tingle all over.
"Morning," she whispers, eyes still sleepy.
"Morning." The word catches in my throat.
Before we even get out of the driveway, Beckett's voice fills the cab with non-stop questions.
"Will there be elves? Can I throw snowballs? Are we getting BIG trees or little trees? I think colored lights are prettier, but Mom says the white ones look like stars. What do you think, Warren?"
I glance in the rearview mirror, meeting his eager eyes. "I've always been a colored lights guy myself. But I like all Christmas tree lights."
"See, Mom? Warren knows."
Janie laughs, the sound warming the space between us. Her arm brushes mine as she turns to answer him. Something electric pulses through that simple touch.
The miles slip away. Beckett finally dozes, leaving a pocket of quiet where our hands find each other. Deliberately this time.
"Thank you for this," Janie murmurs. "I don't remember the last time I saw him this excited."
I swallow hard. "I have a lot of missed adventures to make up for."
Her fingers find mine, just for a moment. "We're here now."
The Christmas village exceeds even my memories. Fake snow blankets everything, the carousel spins to "Jingle Bells," and Beckett's face—God, his face.
"MOM! WARREN! LOOK!" He scoops up a fistful of the fluffy white stuff and hurls it skyward, laughing as it rains down on his upturned face.
I pull out my phone, capturing the moment. Click.
Then I get another as he drags Janie toward the carousel. Click.
His face is sticky with hot chocolate, whipped cream across his nose.
"You're a natural with him," Janie says as we watch him pet a reindeer.
"He makes it easy." My voice comes out a little jagged, tight at the back of my throat.
Later, I snap a quiet picture of Janie alone, her face tilted up to the colored lights strung between the trees. There's the sweetest curve in her smile that guts me as I watch her beam at our son.
All the moments I missed because I blocked. All the nights she faced alone.
At the tree lot, Beckett runs between the pines, inspecting each one with serious concentration.
"This one's for the Mommy's house," he declares, pointing to a bushy blue spruce. Then he races to a tall Douglas fir. "And this one’s for the Daddy’s house!” Beckett declares, then adds with all the authority of a preschooler, “Every family has a daddy.”
The air stills. For a heartbeat, it’s only Janie’s wide eyes on mine, both of us unraveling under the words of a child who has no idea how close he’s cut.
I nearly stumble. Janie's eyes find mine, wide with panic.
"Warren's house," she corrects gently.
"It's perfect," I cut in, kneeling beside him. "The perfect tree for my house."
I'm still reeling from his innocent comment. It is for the daddy's house. His daddy's.
Once the man cuts our trees and secures them in the back of my truck, I pay, and we're on our way to the cabin. I wanted to make sure we arrive when there is still some daylight.
It's a quick, five-minute drive, and our rental appears around the bend. It's nothing fancy, just a small A-frame with a porch swing, ready for smoke curling from the chimney. Lights twinkle along the roofline, reflecting off the fake snow still clinging to our boots.
Janie's eyes widen. "How cute is this? You just found it this morning?"