Chapter 29 Janie
TWENTY-NINE
Janie
"Bye, Becks. Have a great day."
I wave to his preschool teacher as they walk inside.
The hum of the engine as I pull away steadies me in a way nothing else can right now. I hit the number for the community outreach office at CHG on my CarPlay app.
"Good morning, this is Beth."
"Hey, Beth. It's Janie. How are things going this morning?"
"Not much to speak about. I'm finishing up the schedules you requested. I should have that done by the end of the day."
"Thank you. I'll be in a little later. Definitely by noon. Something's come up and I need to take care of it."
"I'll let the staff know. Thanks for calling."
I don’t think Beth heard the tremor in my voice, and thank god she couldn't see my unsteady hands or how my throat closed up after I hung up.
The document sits in my bag on the passenger seat. It's presence is neat and clinical on paper but pulsing with the threat to blow everything up.
Every bump in the road jolts it against the leather, a reminder of what waits inside.
My stomach twists. I should be heading to work, burying myself in patient charts and budget reports. Instead, I keep driving, mile after mile toward my parents’ house, like I can outrun the words inked across that page.
But I can’t.
Every mile is like driving into a storm I created but can't escape. My mind replays Warren's face when he left last night, how he couldn't answer the simplest question.
Do you really want a life with us?
His silence was answer enough.
No discussion, like two people who are a team, who want the best for everyone, not just themselves.
No warning. Just lawyers and court dates and official stamps.
I slam my palm against the steering wheel and fight back the tears that come anyway.
The light turns green, and I accelerate too quickly, the car lurching forward. My chest is hollow, like someone scooped out everything inside and left nothing but echoes.
By the time I pull into my parents' driveway, my stomach is in knots, my pulse hammering in my ears. Mom's car is there, thank god. I didn't give her a heads up I was coming. I knew I wouldn't be able to talk to her except face-to-face.
I need her now more than I've needed anyone in a long time.
I sit for a moment with the engine off, trying to collect myself. My reflection in the rearview mirror shows red-rimmed eyes and pale cheeks. I look like I did in those first months in Chicago, terrified and alone.
I lick my ring finger and try to smudge away the black from my mascara. I fan in front of my eyes to try to reduce the puffiness.
It's all for naught. There's no hiding it.
I grab the papers and step out into the morning sunshine that's uncannily bright and cheerful for what's happening.
What will I tell them? The truth, finally, after five years of lies? That Warren is Beckett's father, that I've been sleeping with him this whole time while hiding it from everyone?
I open the door. This house is more familiar and comforting than my own home.
"Mom? Are you home?" I call out.
Mom appears in the hallway, flour dusting her hands, her eyes widening at the sight of me.
"Janie? What are you doing here at this hour? Shouldn't you be at work?"
Her smile fades as she takes in my appearance. Without a word, she puts the rag in her apron pocket and opens her arms. I fall into them, inhaling the scent of vanilla and cinnamon that's always meant home.
"Oh, sweetheart," she murmurs against my hair. "Is everything okay?"
I can’t speak yet, just shake my head against her shoulder. She holds me tighter, then eases back, eyes searching mine with that careful scrutiny only mothers possess.
"Come on." She guides me toward the kitchen, her arm firm around my waist. "Sit down. Tell me what’s going on."
The kitchen table, the scratched wood that’s witnessed decades of family confessions, waits for one more. I drop into my usual chair, the folder landing with a soft thud on the tabletop.
"Mom." My voice cracks. "There’s so much I haven’t told you."
"Well," she says softly, folding her hands, "let’s start at the beginning."
"Warren is Beckett’s father."
Her lips part, but she doesn’t speak. Not yet.
Finally, she exhales, steady and slow. “I wondered,” she admits softly. “The way Warren looks at him sometimes, the way Beckett mirrors him, the fact that he's always around. I thought maybe, but I didn’t want to push you before you were ready. Why didn't you tell me?"
Heat floods my cheeks. I’ve carried this secret so long, I almost forgot my mother could see through me.
"I don't know, Mom. I was scared. It was the night of the going-away party. I’d had too much to drink, and he’d been trying to keep me laughing when everyone else had left. And then it happened. Just once. I never told him I was pregnant."
Her brows knit. “Janie… you never told him?”
"I tried," I rush out. "I called, texted. But when I realized he’d blocked me… I just—" My voice falters.
"Oh, my god, Janie."
"He’s always said he didn’t want to be a father. And I knew how worried he was about Blake even back then. So I resolved I’d raise Beckett on my own."
She exhales a long breath, but her eyes stay kind.
"Everything was fine until I got this job back in Palm Beach, and realized he was on the board. We had to work together, and… one thing led to another. Against both of us trying not to, we ended up sleeping together again."
"Oh, sweetheart. What tangled webs we weave."
"Once that happened, I knew I had to tell him the truth. So I did. And he—" My throat tightens. "He didn’t take it well."
"Of course he didn’t, honey," she says gently. "You have to understand that."
"I know," I whisper. "But over the last several weeks, we’ve been working through it. Slowly. We’ve been seeing each other again."
A faint smile curves her lips. "That makes sense. He’s been everywhere lately, always circling close. A man doesn’t show up like that unless he’s already tied to you in ways he can’t let go."
My laugh is watery, short-lived. "But that’s done now. We’re over."
Her gaze sharpens. "Why?"
I pull the folder closer, flip it open with trembling fingers, and slide it across the table.
Legal language glares up from the page. "Last night, I found this. When I was wiping the counter after dinner, this fell out of his jacket pocket. He’s petitioning for joint legal custody.
He wants to be named as Beckett’s father. "
"There's nothing wrong with that, Janie. He wants to be in Beckett's life. That's a good thing."
Tears sting, hot and relentless. "I agree, but he didn't talk to me about it. I would have been all for it."
"So, what?"
"It was a punch in the gut, Mom. I thought we were being open with each other. I thought I was giving him the grace he needed, letting him have time while we kept building something. But all this time, he’s been working behind my back.
Without telling me. Without giving me a chance to get my own counsel.
He was going to blindside me for custody. "
The sob breaks free, ragged and raw.
She’s out of her chair in an instant, gathering me into her arms. "Oh, baby," she whispers, rocking me the way she used to when I was small. "I’ve got you. We’ll figure this out. You’re not alone."
Mom's eyes shift from me to the custody papers, her expression unreadable. My heart pounds so loudly I swear she must hear it across the table.
"He's going to take Beckett from me." My voice sounds hollow, foreign to my own ears.
"Let me see exactly what we're dealing with."
She takes the creased paper from the top and smooths it open. Her lips tighten when she reads the header: Petition for Joint Custody.
My chest heaves as I struggle for air. The betrayal burns hotter than any anger I've ever felt.
Mom reads through the document, her fingers tracing legal terms I couldn't bear to examine closely. I watch her face for clues, for some sign.
“A father,” Mom says simply. “Warren is Beckett’s father. He has rights.”
"Again, I agree. And I never had any intention of keeping Beckett from him. It’s the fact that he was putting off talking to me about us, about our future, while doing this behind my back.
I would have worked with him, not fought him.
I love him, and I want him in Beckett’s life, even if that means we don’t have a future. ”
Mom’s eyes meet mine, not unkind but steady, the kind of gaze that strips away excuses. She doesn’t dismiss my pain, but her quiet gravity forces me to listen through the storm in my head.
“Warren was raised by people who threw him away,” she says softly. “Now he has a son who was kept from him. Did you really think he wouldn’t take steps to protect himself once he knew? I’m not saying he’s perfect. But he’s an attorney. Drafting documents is what they do.”
The truth in her words stings worse than judgment would have. I know she isn't taking his side, but it still hurts that she's so goddamned calm right now. The fact remains. He should have talked to me. We were sleeping together. It's not like we hardly saw each other.
The kitchen clock ticks in the silence. Outside, a neighbor’s sprinkler hisses. I sit frozen, the weight of it pressing down. For five years I lived on edge, waiting for this secret to explode. Every milestone with Beckett carried the shadow of what I was keeping from Warren.
Now it’s finally happened. The bomb has detonated, and I’m standing in the fallout.
“Janie.” Mom reaches across the table, her fingers warm around mine. “This isn’t the end. It’s just a different beginning. But you have to protect yourself, too, while you figure out what that beginning looks like.”
Tears blur my vision. “What should I do?”
“I think you should talk to a family attorney,” she says firmly. “It doesn’t mean war. It just means you’ll understand your rights and Beckett’s. And depending on what the lawyer tells you, then yes, you should talk to Warren. Because communication is the only way this ends without damage.”
“I don’t know the first thing about finding an attorney. How do I even do that? Google?”
I almost laugh at the prospect, but I'm too spent from all the crying.
Mom pulls out her phone. “What was her name..? Nicole Jensen. She helped Cile’s sister with her divorce last year. She’s smart, tough, and I think you can trust her to give you a clear picture.”
I find the number online and click the blue hyperlink phone number on her site before I can second-guess myself. The receptionist answers on the third ring, and I force myself to speak clearly.
"Good morning. My name is Jane Harrelson." My voice wavers. I clear my throat and continue, "I need a consultation about a custody matter. As soon as possible."
The woman on the other end is professionally sympathetic, checking the calendar while I grip the phone tighter. "We can see you tomorrow at two, Ms. Harrelson. Are you familiar with where we are?"
"On Cedar and Main, right?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"I'll be there. Thank you."
The moment I hang up, something shifts inside me. My spine straightens, my jaw hardens. For the first time since finding that document last night, it doesn't feel like drowning. I'm still completely overwhelmed and angry. But now I have at least something to hold onto.
Mom studies me, her eyes soft but steady. “Promise me you’ll wait until after you talk to Nicole before you go to Warren. Protect yourself first. I don’t believe he’d hurt you, but he is an attorney. You need someone on your side.”
I nod, wiping a tear from the corner of my eye.
Sliding my phone into my pocket, I feel a strange calm settle over me. For a moment, I’m steady. Resolved. Then my phone vibrates against my thigh, shattering the fragile peace.
Warren’s name glows on the screen. The message is simple.
Can I bring takeout over for the three of us tonight?
My throat locks. Yesterday, those words would’ve made me smile, warmed me all the way through. The man I love wants to spend another night with me and our son.
Now they slice me open.
How dare he? How fucking dare he act like everything’s normal while drafting a custody petition behind my back. My mom says he wouldn’t hurt me, and God, I want to believe that. But right now? I don’t trust a word out of his mouth.
I set the phone face down on the table with deliberate slowness, refusing to let my fingers type a response. The screen goes dark.
"Warren?" Mom asks softly from across the table.
I nod once, my jaw gripping so tightly it aches.
She doesn't press further. The silence stretches between us, thick with everything I can't bring myself to say.
Outside, a car door slams. Birds chatter in the oak tree by the window. Life continues its relentless forward march while mine's frozen in this moment of betrayal, on hold until I talk to the attorney tomorrow.
“I should’ve known better. I should’ve protected Beckett more carefully.”
“Honey.” Mom’s voice cuts in gently, but firmly. “Please don’t jump to conclusions. Talk to Nicole. Get the facts first. I don't think having a formal custody arrangement is a bad thing. Maybe you two can still make it work after the dust settles.”
My phone tumps again. I ignore it.
Mom stays at the table, watching me with those eyes that have carried me through every storm.
“You know I love Warren, too,” she says quietly.
“I’ve always thought he was good for you, and I still don’t believe he’d ever set out to hurt you.
But right now, I love you and Beckett more. My advice comes from that place.”
The words splinter something in me. Because if even my mom, who has always defended him, thinks I need a lawyer, then maybe this really is as bad as I fear.
I stand, needing to stretch my legs, and brace my hands against the counter. I stare out at the backyard at the fire pit where this all started.
“I don’t think I can come back from this, Mom. Even if it is completely innocent, like you say.”
The words don’t tremble. They don’t waver. They’re final, solid things dropping into the universe. Right now, I hate him. And hating him feels safer than wanting him ever again.