Chapter 28 Warren
TWENTY-EIGHT
Warren
The board meeting ends with a smattering of polite applause, but it's hollow, like clapping at a funeral.
Papers shuffle, chairs scrape, and everyone files out already checking their phones. On the surface, it’s routine business. Underneath, it’s a death sentence waiting to be signed.
I gather my notes with steady hands that don’t match the thrum in my chest. They talked about numbers, three million here, one point eight there, as if they were debating cocktail menus instead of cutting the veins out of Janie’s program.
To them, it’s a line item. To me, it’s her job. Her identity. Her fight.
Men in suits file out, chattering about quarterly projections and market expansions. I stay rooted to my chair, waiting until everyone is gone.
Pope heads for the door, phone already pressed to his ear.
"Pope," I call out, my voice sharper than intended. "Can we talk?"
He glances at his watch. "Sure. Give me ten minutes to wrap this call."
I wave my hand at him and sit back down. He mouths without sound, "Coffee? Across the street?"
He points, and I nod as he disappears into the hall.
I head out and grab a coffee at Jittery Joe's. I grab a corner table and unbutton my suit jacket as I sit down in front of the window.
Pope walks in five minutes later and orders a coffee. He slides in across from me and dumps half a sugar packet into his coffee and stirs.
"Alright, Carter. Talk to me."
I lean forward, cutting through the bullshit. "I wanted to pick your brain about the meeting."
"I know you've got a personal stake in this initiative."
He has no idea.
"Yeah. Am I understanding this correctly? Outreach, without the Bransons' money, is it gone?"
Pope doesn't flinch. His eyes meet mine steadily, and I know the answer before he speaks.
"First thing to go. Three million isn't pocket change, even for us. I'm personally funding forty percent, but unless we find another donor, I don't think we can run this on just over a million a quarter."
My stomach drops. "And Janie?"
"We'd try to keep her. Shift to HR, maybe operations. She's talented, so she's safe. She just won't be working on this."
The rage rises before I can stop it. "That would kill her. She lives for this stuff."
"Dramatic much?" Pope raises an eyebrow. "It's business, Warren. We're not a charity. This is for optics. It won't go forever, just until we come up with a way to fund it."
"Outreach is everything to her. It's not just optics for her. It's what she built. Her entire fucking identity."
"Then maybe she needs a broader identity." He sighs, setting down his spoon. "Look, I like Harrelson. She's smart, driven. But what do you want me to do here, Carter? I bent over backwards to keep the Bransons. Call them."
I stare at the steam rising from my untouched coffee. Images flash through my mind—Janie's face when she presented the outreach metrics, Beckett running on the soccer field, the three of us decorating the Christmas tree. Our family, just beginning to form.
"What if I covered it?" The words escape before I can pull them back.
Pope freezes mid-sip. "Excuse me?"
"The three million. What if I put it up?"
"It's three million a year. That's twelve million for the four-year plan."
"I'm well aware of that."
You." His voice is flat with disbelief. "Family law pays better than I thought."
"I have access to funds. A trust. I'd do it anonymously. I don't want anyone on the board or the staff to know it was me."
Pope studies me, curiosity sharpening his gaze. "This isn't just about outreach, is it?"
I don't answer that. I can't. He can read between the lines if he wants to.
"Would it work? If I create an endowment to replace the Bransons, would that save the program?"
He nods slowly. "For now."
"Then I'm in."
Fuck. I swore I'd never touch that money. That tainted Carter fortune, built on my father's ruthlessness, was off-limits. Yet here I am, ready to dip into it for the first time—for Janie, for Beckett, for us.
"I'll need account details," I say. "I can get the trust set up and move money today. And this stays between us."
"Understood." Pope's expression shifts from surprise to something like respect. "You really care about her."
It's not a question, so I don't answer.
I balance three plates on my forearm like a waiter from my college serving days, careful not to tip the milk in Beckett's cup as I navigate to the table.
"Dragon incoming!" Beckett waves a crayon drawing overhead, nearly knocking spaghetti sauce everywhere.
"Whoa, easy there, pilot." I catch his elbow just in time, steadying the artwork with my free hand. "Mission control suggests a safe landing zone."
"But it's not a pilot, it's a dragon-rocket-ship!" His hazel eyes, with an intensity that knocks me sideways every time, widen with the injustice of my misclassification.
"My mistake." I set down the plates and lean closer to inspect his masterpiece. "Tell me about this... dragon-rocket-ship."
Beckett launches into an elaborate tale involving space travel, fire-breathing, and what sounds like a pit stop on Jupiter for ice cream. The story makes absolutely no logical sense, yet I find myself nodding along, completely absorbed.
Janie glances over her shoulder from the stove, a small smile playing at her lips as she stirs the pasta. Something shifts in my chest, a dangerous warmth I can't afford to acknowledge spreading through my ribs like wildfire.
"And then the dragon went WHOOSH and the rocket went ZOOM!" Beckett demonstrates with explosive hand gestures.
The front door opens without warning.
"Hello, hello!" Margaret's voice rings through the house. "I've brought dessert!"
The warmth in my chest crystallizes into ice. I straighten instantly, moving away from Beckett.
Margaret bustles into the kitchen, arms full of Tupperware. "Chocolate chip for the little astronaut, and those coconut ones you like, Warren." Her smile is genuine, her eyes crinkling at the corners as she sets everything down.
"Thank you, Mrs. H." My voice sounds strained even to my own ears.
"Oh please, stop being so formal. You're thirty-seven. It's time you start calling me Margaret. You're making me feel old." She waves off my formality.
The words hit like a sucker punch. I focus on arranging napkins to hide my expression.
"Beckett's lucky," she continues warmly, reaching out to ruffle his hair. "Having you around. Janie, you're lucky too."
I glance up to see Janie's knuckles whitening around the wooden spoon. She tries to play it cool, to not give anything away, but she looks constipated instead. I laugh to myself.
"We certainly are," she manages.
The meal proceeds with Margaret chatting about neighborhood gossip, recipes, and how Blake's been working too hard. I nod in all the right places, pass the parmesan when asked, but every minute is like walking a tightrope.
Beckett slurps noodles enthusiastically, sauce speckling his chin. "Mimi, want to see my dragon-rocket?"
Twenty excruciating minutes later, I stand to excuse myself. "It's been a fun night. Thanks for the dessert, Margaret. I need to get home."
"You should stay, Warren. I'm leaving. I'm sure Janie could use your help getting Beckett in bed."
The door clicks shut behind her, and Janie and I exhale simultaneously. Our eyes meet across the table—relief, fear, maybe some delirium for good measure. Beckett chatters on, blissfully oblivious to the secret hanging between us.
Janie and I both crack up at the situation.
"What’s so funny?" Beckett asks.
"Nothing, honey. It’s time for bed. Upstairs."
He groans but slides off his chair, thumping toward the stairs with his dragon clutched to his chest. Janie trails after him, and I hear their voices drift down—her reading, his insistent corrections when she skips a line.
Upstairs, the muffled sound of Beckett’s dragon story fades at last. The creak of his bed, Janie’s low murmur, and then the hush of silence that only comes once he’s out cold.
When she steps back into the kitchen, her shoulders sag like she’s dropped a hundred pounds. She pours herself a splash of wine, then leans on the counter beside me.
For the first time all night, it’s just us. The kind of quiet that’s fragile, almost sacred, lingers.
I run a dish towel over the last blue ceramic plate I washed from dinner. Our shoulders brush as she passes it to me, our fingers connecting briefly in the exchange. Something in the routine feels dangerously right.
I duck into the restroom down the hall, rinsing the soap from my hands and catching my reflection in the mirror. I look lighter than I feel, like this could almost pass for normal.
When I return, the air has shifted. Janie stands at the sink, glass in hand, her posture rigid where moments ago it was loose and tired.
Her voice cuts the silence, softer than usual but edged with steel. “We can’t keep doing this, Warren. Sneaking, hiding, and pretending aren't sustainable. And it's not healthy.”
My hand rests on the cool granite. I guess Margaret dropping by has her all tied up.
I don’t look at her.
“I’m not asking for a public announcement.” She sets the glass down, water circling the drain in a small whirlpool. “But I need to know there’s a direction here. Something more than ‘just be happy now.’”
Everything she's saying makes sense. It's reasonable. Logical. And yet something inside me rebels against being cornered, against being forced to define something I'm still processing.
"Warren?" Her voice has an edge now. "Say something."
The anger I've tucked away since we stepped back into this rises in my throat. I look at her with hurt disguised as anger.
"You kept my son from me for five years," I say, my voice low but sharp. "And now you want me to make life-altering decisions in a matter of weeks?"
The words hang between us, sharper than I intended. I don't apologize. Can't.
Janie flinches as if I've struck her. Her hands grip the edge of the sink, knuckles whitening.
"That's not fair," she whispers.
"No." I look directly at her now. "It wasn't fair. None of this has been fair."
The kitchen is suddenly too small for the both of us. The domesticity of the moment is a cruel joke.
This isn't real. It's a fantasy we're playing at, built on a foundation of secrets and lies.
"I'm trying, Janie." My voice sounds hollow even to my own ears. "But you can't push this. Not yet."
Janie doesn't flinch. Her hands drop from the sink edge as she steadies herself, shoulders squaring beneath her thin sweater. Her eyes lock onto mine, refusing to give ground.
"You think I don't know how unfair it is?
" She steps closer, not backing down. "But we're here now, and we can't keep dancing around each other.
Your truck is in my driveway every night.
My mom drops by unannounced. She's not an idiot.
Blake's been asking questions about why you're suddenly at every soccer game, why your boots are at my goddamned door on a Friday morning. "
The truth of her words lands like concrete blocks. I've felt the weight of Blake's curious stares, seen the flash of speculation in Margaret's eyes.
"This isn't just about us," Janie continues, her voice softening. "It's about Beckett. He deserves stability. And goddamnit, I deserve someone who will be honest with me."
Her voice cracks slightly on our son's name, but she holds firm. The kitchen light catches the unshed tears in her eyes, making them shine like amber. My chest tightens.
"You think I don't want that?" I run a hand through my hair, frustration making my movements jerky. "I want that too, Janie. I want a life with you. With both of you. But I need time before I can come to peace with everything. This is a lot to digest in a short amount of time."
The words sound hollow even as I speak them. Time for what? To fortify myself against the inevitable fallout? Or am I still clinging to the comfortable limbo where I don't have to fully confront what her deception cost me?
Janie's gaze doesn't waver. She steps closer, close enough that I catch the faint scent of her shampoo. "Do you really mean it?" she asks, quiet but cutting. "That you want a life with me? With us?"
I open my mouth to answer, but the words stick in my throat. Of course I want them. I've never wanted anything more.
So why can't I say it?
The silence stretches between us, filling the kitchen more completely than any words could. My lack of answer is louder than anything I could say.
I watch the moment curdle between us. Something flickers and dies in Janie's expression as she waits—one second, two, three—for words that don't come.
The firelight from the back filters through the window, dancing across her face, highlighting the disappointment settling into her eyes. She looks away first, reaching for a dish towel to dry her hands with methodical precision.
"That's what I thought," she whispers
"I should go," I mutter, reaching for my jacket draped over the kitchen chair.
Janie's shoulders tense, but she doesn't turn around. Instead, she nods once. Her voice is barely audible when it comes. "Yeah. You probably should."
I wait for her to fight back, to yell, to make some kind of plea for me to stay and figure this out. But nothing comes. She's done fighting.
The silence stretches between us like a widening fault line.
"I'll call you tomorrow about the program budget," I add, as if talking about work somehow makes this less of what it is. Deflect to work when I don't want to confront my own demons about abandonment and betrayal.
"Sure."
The flatness in her voice slices through me. No anger, no tears. Just quiet acceptance that whatever we've been building has crumbled in our hands.
I move toward the door, each step heavier than the last. My fingers close around the doorknob, cold metal against my skin. Behind me, I hear the soft rustle of the dish towel as Janie hangs it up.
"Warren."
I freeze, my heart hammering against my ribs.
"Lock the handle when you leave."
Not what I wanted to hear. Not even close.
The door clicks softly behind me as I step onto the porch. The night air hits my face, carrying the scent of jasmine from her garden. I stand there for a moment, willing myself to go back.
But I physically can't.
I finally force myself down the steps and onto the sidewalk. Anger and regret twist together in my gut like serpents. At her for pushing. At myself for not being able to answer the simplest fucking question.
Do you really want a life with us?
Of course I do. It's all I think about. Waking up to Beckett's laughter. Janie's sleepy smile in the morning light. The three of us, sitting around the breakfast table.
A real family, the kind I never had.
But saying it means committing to it. Committing means risking everything. Committing means I won't hold onto the lie and hold it against her, against us. I'm not there yet.
And the thing that scares me the most is, I'm not sure I'll ever be able to fully forgive her.