Chapter 27 Janie
TWENTY-SEVEN
Janie
I close my eyes and inhale the cool Saturday morning air.
The coffee mug warms my palms as I settle into the comfy chair on my back porch, stretching my legs on the coffee table. For once, the house behind me is silent. There are no cartoon theme songs, no soccer balls thumping against walls, no requests for snacks or juice boxes.
Peace and quiet, I think to myself, savoring the reality like the first sip of coffee. "What a concept."
My phone sits on the small table beside me. I stare at it for a long moment before picking it up and tapping Gemma's contact. The guilt already prickles. It's been over a week since we really talked. We've played a little phone tag and texted, but so much has happened since we talked.
"Happy Saturday," Gemma answers on the third ring. "We finally catch each other."
"Sorry. It's been a crazy week."
"Are we talking crazy busy? Or, crazy horizontal?"
I laugh despite myself. "All of the above. Work is insane, and after work, we're with Warren pretty much every day."
"Mmm hmm," she hums, and I can picture her arched eyebrow through the phone. "You just dropped that in like it's no big deal."
"It’s not—"
"Janie." Her warning tone makes me grin and wince at the same time.
"Fine, maybe it is. The boys drove down to Fort Lauderdale this morning to see the Inter Miami pro soccer game. Warren got tickets from a client. So I have the day to myself."
"The boys," Gemma repeats, no judgment but plenty of observation packed into those two words.
I curl my legs beneath me, watching a cardinal hop along the fence.
"Yeah. It's still surreal saying it like that.
Last weekend, we took Beckett to the Christmas tree village in some small town just over the line in Georgia, and it was…
God, Gem, it was magical. He was over the moon with all the lights and fake snow.
And Warren and I could almost act like a couple in public. "
"Couple how?"
"Like we weren’t worried about who might see us, or if we laughed too much for someone to notice. We just got to be together, and I don’t know how else to say it. It felt like we were a family."
"Sounds almost normal," she says dryly. "Like how two people who like each other might behave. Too bad you had to go to another state to do it."
Her sarcasm isn’t lost on me, but I keep going. "It was…" My voice catches on the last word. "I absolutely live to see Beckett so happy. He keeps asking when we can all go back."
"So, have you guys told your family?"
I bite my lip. "We had a close call. Blake came by early one morning when Warren’s truck was here. I made up something about Warren dropping off paperwork, but Blake saw his boots, and I know he’s not an idiot."
"Boots?"
"Big muddy work boots. Not exactly subtle."
"Oof. Did he say anything?"
"I mean, he asked, but I deflected and he dropped it."
The silence stretches between us.
"So what does Warren say about where this is going?" Gemma finally asks, gentle but direct.
My stomach tightens. "He doesn’t. Not exactly."
"Not exactly means not at all."
"He’s incredible with Beckett. And when we’re together—"
"In bed?"
"Not just that. But yeah, that too." Heat rushes to my face. "He looks at me like I’m everything he wants. It's all so perfect."
"But he won’t say it."
I rub my temple. "He said we should take it day by day. That there’s too much to work through."
"Janie." Her voice softens. "Are you sure you're not in deeper than he is?"
"You don't see us together."
"I see you falling in love with a man who won't talk about tomorrow."
"It's complicated—"
"It always is. Just be careful with your heart, okay? And Beckett's."
Thankfully, we move on to less emotionally draining topics. I hear about her new crush in Savannah, and we make plans that Beckett and I will come up to visit soon. Talking with Gemma always grounds me in a way I need, especially right now.
After we hang up, I stare at the empty yard, her words clinging like smoke I can't wave away.
Still, the weekend softens the edges. Saturday night, we curled on the couch, Beckett asleep between us, Warren’s hand brushing mine under the blanket.
Sunday meant pancakes and sticky fingers, Warren chasing Beckett through the yard until all three of us collapsed in the grass.
Ordinary things, but threaded with something that felt extraordinary.
By Monday morning, the magic has evaporated. My direct line rings, the caller ID flashing “Pope Carrigan.”
My stomach tightens. Pope never calls me unless something's wrong. Especially at eight in the morning.
"Good morning, Pope."
"Janie." His tone lacks its usual polished charm. "We need to discuss the Branson situation."
I sit back, and the chair rolls slightly away from my desk. "What is it now? They seemed pretty happy after we jumped through hoops last weekend. Their son received priority care."
"They were. Until they weren't." His words clip short, efficient. "I've just received confirmation that they've pulled their family membership from the concierge program."
"That's unfortunate, but—"
"They've also revoked their endowment."
The floor seems to tilt beneath me. I lean forward, resting my forearms on my knees. That endowment funds nearly sixty percent of my outreach program.
"I don't understand. We handled everything exactly as protocol dictated, and then some. We took care of everything they wanted. On Thanksgiving weekend, for Christ's sake."
"Apparently not. Charles Branson mentioned something about bedside manner during overnight care." Pope's sigh carries through the phone. "The details aren't important now. What matters is the three million dollars that just vanished from next quarter's projections."
My throat tightens. "What about the patients we already have enrolled? The clinic schedule for Liberty Heights starts next week."
"The board will be meeting on Thursday to reassess priorities." He pauses, the silence heavy with what he isn't saying. "I suggest you prepare alternative funding proposals. Or a restructuring plan that requires fewer staff."
Fewer staff. My staff. My program.
"I understand." My voice remains professional while my mind races through the implications. Without this position, without this salary...
"Good. I'll need those proposals by tonight if you can pull them together so I can turn them around for the board."
"I'll put off everything I'm working on now to focus on this."
The call ends, and I stare at my computer screen. If I lose this job, Palm Beach becomes impossible. Chicago's market might welcome me back, but that would mean taking Beckett away from Warren, right when he's finally connecting with his father.
Right when we're starting to feel like a family.
I have about ten hours to figure out how I'll convince Pope this program is worth saving. Otherwise, I could be out of a job and a viable way to stay in Palm Beach.
I roll up my sleeves and dive into the spreadsheets, praying there’s a way to keep this alive.
The spreadsheet blurs on my laptop screen, numbers dancing after five hours of desperate financial gymnastics. My eyes burn and my neck aches from hunching over, trying to save my program on paper.
How do you trim one point eight million dollars when you’ve already cut it to the bone?
A knock pulls me out of the numbers. I glance at the clock. How is it already six thirty?
"Come in," I call.
The door opens slowly and I blink in surprise. Warren stands there in his suit, a slim leather portfolio under one arm.
“I was dropping off some things for tomorrow’s board meeting,” he says. “Figured I’d check if you were still chained to your desk.”
“Guilty.” My laugh is brittle.
He steps in, gaze sweeping the papers scattered across my desk. “Is Beckett with your parents?”
"Yeah, my mom picks him up from preschool, and they hang out until I get off. I didn't mean to work so late. Of course, I have shit that can't wait."
"Want me to get him for you?"
“No, I'm packing up. But maybe you can come by?” I mutter, quickly replacing my furrowed brow with a smile.
He lifts the bag in his hand. “Okay, I'll do that. I brought cookies. The kind Beckett demolished last time.”
Warmth flickers in my chest despite the storm in my head. “He’ll love that.”
Warren studies me for a beat too long. “You okay?”
I hesitate, then hear myself ask, “Have you heard?”
“Heard what?”
I exhale, pressing my palms flat on the desk to ground myself. “The Bransons pulled. Even after everything—flying in that specialist for their son, the whole dog-and-pony show on Thanksgiving weekend.”
His brow furrows. “That’s disappointing. But they’ll find other donors. These things happen.”
I nod quickly, too quickly. “Of course. It’s just frustrating.”
He doesn’t realize what it means. It means that their decision could take my job, dismantle the outreach program I built from scratch. No one has said it outright, but I can see the writing on the wall as clearly as if it were printed across my budget sheet.
I tell myself it’s kinder not to burden him yet. He has enough weight on his shoulders without mine. So I swallow the fear and offer him a smile that surely looks steadier than I am.
“Anyway,” I say lightly, “let's get out of here.”
Later, after Beckett is tucked in and the house has gone quiet, Warren and I settle on the porch. The night air is cool, cicadas humming in the distance, a half-empty bottle of wine between us.
For the first time all day, with him beside me, I can finally relax.
I lean into him, letting the silence stretch before I whisper, “Do you ever think about what’s next? For us?”
His chest stills under my cheek, breath caught before he lets it out slowly.
“I’m here every day for our son. I’m not fit to promise you anything until I can promise it without resenting you. I need to work through that, or I’ll break this before it even begins. Can you give me time?”
He kisses my forehead, soft lips against skin, words anything but. “Let’s just enjoy being together, the three of us.”
The wall goes up, invisible but solid. I stay with my head on his shoulder, clinging to his warmth while the emptiness of his answer gnaws.
“Yeah,” I murmur. “I guess you’re right.”
But my fingers twist around a string that is loose on the hem of my shirt. I wrap it so tight around my finger it stings, the blood flow choking off like the words I can’t bring myself to say.
The small porch lamp in the corner hums. Moonlight paints silver stripes across the ceiling, and I count them, over and over. The task gives my mind something to focus on other than my frustration and fear.
“Are you cold?” Warren’s voice is gentle.
“No.” I shift, take a sip of wine to keep from crying. The glass trembles anyway, and I know he notices.
He watches me. I force a smile. “It's been a long day. I finally got some stuff to Pope, but I still have more work to do on that.”
"You're amazing."
He nods, like saying that is enough. It's the other stuff he isn't saying that I need right now.
He doesn’t see the Bransons’ polite smiles in my mind, or hear Gemma’s warning echoing in my ears.
“You want to go to bed?” he asks quietly.
“Yeah. Will you hold me?”
“I can’t think of anything I’d rather do.” He presses another kiss to my hair, then stands and offers his hand.
It’s moments like this, when he’s tender, thoughtful, that make me question if I’m the one making problems where there aren’t any. Maybe he just needs more time. It's only been just over a week since we decided to cross this line, after all.
Maybe we’re fine. If I stop pushing, we will naturally figure out how and when to do more.
But as he leads me inside, dread coils tight beneath my ribs. Because time is the one thing I may not have.
And if the walls close in, if my job is cut, and if this bubble bursts, I don’t know if whatever this is will stretch wide enough to keep us together.
I want to believe it will. I want to believe in us. But belief doesn’t buy us more time.”