Chapter 30 Warren
THIRTY
Warren
The office lies silent around me, the early morning light barely filtering through the blinds.
I stare at my phone in my palm as I scroll through the string of one-sided texts I've sent Janie over the last several days. Each one stares back, the blue bubbles taunting me with their lack of response.
Can I bring takeout over for the three of us tonight?
How was Beckett's day?
Just checking in. Please don't shut me out.
Why are you punishing me because I'm not ready to define this? Did your mother stopping by bring this on? Everything turned so suddenly.
Please talk to me.
Nothing. Not a word for almost a week now. My jaw tightens as I scroll back further, past the moment everything seemed fine. The last message she sent was a simple "See you soon" with a heart emoji.
Now, silence.
I tap my finger against the desk, the hollow sound matching the emptiness spreading through my chest. Something's wrong. Something beyond the usual complications between us.
Is this her line in the sand? Did she crack? It's only been a few weeks since we got back on solid ground with each other. How could she expect I could jump in with both feet after everything? I just needed some more time to work through everything.
The custody petition sits in my desk drawer, ready to file. I'd planned to talk to her about it first, explain my reasoning, my fears. But each time I tried, the words stuck in my throat. How do you tell the woman you're falling in love with that you don't trust her not to take your son away?
I know that isn't really how I meant it. It's a safeguard. Specific arrangements are best for everyone, no matter what happens between us.
I drop the phone on my desk and press the heels of my hands against my eyes until stars burst behind my lids.
"Fuck." The word echoes in the empty room.
My stomach twists into a cold, hard knot. Why am I always a day late and a dollar short? Things were going so well. I thought we had time to work through this together.
I pick up the phone again, this time scrolling to Blake’s number.
My finger hovers over the call button before I set it back down.
What would I even say to him? Hey, by the way, I’ve been sleeping with your sister, and she’s avoiding me.
Can you help me out? Oh, and also, did I mention Beckett is actually my son?
I push to my feet, pacing the narrow strip of carpet until the walls close in around me. The knot in my gut tightens with each step.
"Goddammit," I mutter, running my hand through my hair.
I know this pattern. I’ve walked too many clients through it. Silence is never neutral. It’s the first shot across the bow. The slow slide from relationship into litigation.
My phone vibrates on the desk. Margaret Harrelson's name scrolls across it.
I stare at the screen a beat too long before answering. “Margaret.”
“Warren.” Her voice is calm, low, with a thread of steel underneath. “I don’t normally call like this, but I didn’t want you sitting alone, stewing. I want you to know we still care about you. Janie may be my daughter, but you’re like a son to me. And you're my grandson's father.”
The words slam through me. My throat closes. Heat flashes behind my eyes, then drains just as fast, leaving me cold. The phone is slippery in my palm, my grip clumsy like I might drop it. For one dizzy second, I can’t breathe at all.
Fuck. She's told her family. Of course she has. I need to call Blake.
I swallow hard. “She won’t take my calls.”
“I know.” A pause. “She found a petition you drafted. She felt blindsided, Warren. Why didn't you talk to her before doing that?”
Shit. I had a draft copy in my pocket. It must have fallen out at her house that night. I had brought it to talk, but her day had been so crazy, I chickened out.
My eyes close. “I planned to. I just hadn't yet. Everything makes more sense, now.”
“That’s why,” she says gently. “She’s protecting herself and her child. That’s her instinct. It doesn’t mean she wants to cut you out. It means she’s scared, Warren. And I know you well enough to know that so are you.”
I lean against the window, forehead pressed to the cool glass. “I should’ve handled it differently. All of it. It was a lot all at once.”
“You’ve spent your life trying not to rock the boat,” Margaret says, her voice softer now.
“It’s how you learned to survive after your own family turned their back on you.
But sometimes not rocking the boat lets it drift out to sea.
If you want Janie and Beckett, you’re going to have to steer. Out loud.”
My throat tightens. “I thought it was the only way to make sure I didn’t lose him.”
“I understand. I really do. And you have every right to do that,” she sighs.
“But talk to her. Don’t let the lawyers talk for you.
And for God’s sake, get your own counsel, too.
If y'all are doing this, don't represent yourself. Protect yourself, yes, but also show her you’re willing to stand up for what you want.”
Her words land like stones. For a second, I can almost see her across the table, eyes steady, hands folded like she’s praying for me to listen.
“I’ll try,” I whisper.
“I don't know what you two want to do about your relationship. But I know you can co-parent. Communicate with each other,” she says. “If you fight, Beckett will be the one to pay for it.”
"Thank you for calling, Margaret. I mean it."
The line clicks off. I stare at my reflection in the window, at a man who has spent his life hoping love would stay if he just didn’t push too hard.
“Fucking amateur,” I whisper.
Now I've waited too long, and we're fighting through attorneys and her mother. We aren't talking. And if I don't protect myself, I'll be even more fucked. I don't want to do it like this, but I have no one to blame but myself for finding us here, now.
I yank open my desk drawer and pull out the custody petition. The paper is heavy in my hands, weighted with all the words I couldn't say to her face.
My phone dings. For a split second, hope flares in my chest. But it's just Kaley with a meeting reminder. I toss the phone onto my desk and resume pacing.
What would I tell a client in my position? Document everything. Secure your rights. Don't wait for the other shoe to drop.
Well, I didn't secure my rights, and the other shoe didn't just drop. It torpedoed.
My hands strangle the steering wheel as I drive across town, knuckles bleached white against the leather. The custody petition, that goddamn piece of paper, sits in my briefcase on the passenger seat. I can sense its weight through the leather, like a black hole pulling everything toward it.
For two weeks, I've carried it around like a loaded gun. Now I'm finally pulling the trigger.
Traffic crawls past palm trees and pristine storefronts that blur into meaningless shapes. My mind keeps circling back to Beckett's face, how his nose scrunches when he concentrates, the way his eyes light up when he talks about dinosaurs.
It's for him. For Beckett.
But even as the words form in my mind, tears well in my eyes. Everything is so fucked up, now. This isn't how I wanted it to go.
The courthouse looms ahead, its concrete facade bleached white in the Florida sun. I park and grab my briefcase, feeling the weight of what's inside.
The clerk’s office reeks of paper and industrial cleaner. A fluorescent light flickers overhead, painting everything in a sickly glow. I fall in line behind an elderly woman arguing over property records.
My phone signals. Blake. Not now. I need to get this done.
When my turn comes, the clerk barely glances up. Her eyes are flat, practiced in disinterest.
“Filing?”
I nod and slide the petition forward. Joint custody. The words glare up at me, final, irrevocable. In the back of my mind, I hear my father’s voice: Don’t expect anyone to save you.
She points at the signature line. I uncap my pen and press so hard the paper nearly tears. Each letter feels like an act of violence.
“That’ll be filed today. You’ll get confirmation once it’s processed and served.”
The stamp drops with a hollow thud. Official. Done. No going back.
“When will she be served?” My voice is rough, foreign.
“Within three business days. We’ll notify you when it happens.”
Three days. Seventy-two hours before Janie’s world detonates by my hand. If she's mad at me now, this may be the final straw.
But it has to be done.
I tell myself it’s not punishment. It’s Beckett. It’s protection. It’s making sure I don’t lose another day with my son.
The sun hits me like a slap as I step outside, bile rising fast. My chest aches, hollowed out. I've never felt so deflated.
This isn’t protection. It’s loss, spreading like ice through my veins. I’ve already lost.
I slam the front door behind me and stalk into my empty condo. The silence greets me like an old friend, the only one I haven't betrayed or been betrayed by.
I drop into my chair, yanking at my tie, the weight of the day settling like chains across my shoulders. The collar is strangling me, a physical manifestation of everything closing in.
My phone rings. Kaley. For a second, I consider ignoring it. I’ve had enough judgment for one day. But I swipe to answer anyway.
"What's up, Kaley?"
“The clerk’s office called. Judge Harrington signed off, and Marcus Jones starts the diversion program tomorrow,” she says, her voice bright with the kind of cautious hope I barely recognize these days. “I just hung up with them.”
I close my eyes, leaning back in the chair. “Judge Harrington signed off on it?”
“He did,” she says proudly.
A breath leaves me slow and uneven. “That’s good news.”
“It was the right move. You worked hard on the emergency appeal,” she says softly.
“Yeah.” My throat tightens. “Thank God for second chances.”
"I'll let you go. Phone's ringing."
The line clicks off. I set the phone down, staring at it until the screen goes dark. The mentorship diversion makes it ninety days at an in-house boys' home instead of eighteen months in a rough juvenile detention center. A much better outcome for him.
A win. Small, but solid. Something that actually went right today.
The feeling doesn’t last, though, when I catch a glimpse of the petition sticking out of my briefcase.
"Should've done this the second she told me." My voice sounds raw, even to my own ears. "Shouldn't have waited. Shouldn't have hoped. Shouldn't have let myself fall for her."
The silence answers back, oppressive. I close my eyes, but all I see is Janie. Then I hear her laugh on the porch, feel her hair brushing my jaw, the way her body curved against mine as if she was meant to fit there.
My heart twists in my chest. I wanted to believe, even for a handful of nights, that the fairy tale could be real. I clung to the hope that we could somehow build something out of this mess.
Now the realization that this is irretrievably broken is louder than the memory.
She'll take him away again. The fear is metallic on my tongue. First sign of trouble, and she'll run. Just like before.
I reach for the bottle of Macallan on the side table. It's too early for a drink, but I need something to drown the noise. The amber liquid catches the late afternoon light as I pour three fingers into a glass.
I think of my father's deathbed, his gray eyes hollow with regret. Being a father means showing up.
The whiskey warms nothing but my tongue. The numbness refuses to spread deeper. I'm about to pour another when a knock rattles the door.
My pulse quickens. Immediately, my mind goes to Janie. She's here to talk. Maybe Margaret called her, too, and she had more balls than me. Hope surges.
I set down the glass with unsteady hands, a foolish surge of hope drowning out the lawyer's voice in my head. Maybe we can fix this before things get ugly.
My bare feet move across the hardwood, each step pulling me forward like a tide. I reach for the handle before caution catches me.
"Coming." No answer. Just another knock.
I pull the door open, her name already forming on my lips.
Instead, a man I've never seen before stands on my threshold. Trim haircut, expression blank as fresh paper. His eyes sweep over me without interest, focusing on the crisp envelope in his hand.
"Warren Carter?"
I nod once, hope crumbling into wariness.
"You've been served." He presses the envelope into my palm like he's passing a baton, then turns and walks away without another word.
I stand frozen, door still open, night air sliding cool fingers across my skin. The envelope weighs nothing and everything.
The door shuts behind me with a hollow click. My thumb slides under the flap, tearing through the paper with mechanical precision. I know what this is. I've prepared thousands just like it.
There's one en route to Janie.
My eyes skim the document, muscle memory from years of legal practice carrying me through paragraphs until the words register like body blows.
Petition for Sole Physical and Legal Custody.
Not mine. Hers.
Janie filed first.
My stomach caves inward. The paper trembles in my hands, the words blurring together. I scan for details, grounds, claims, and accusations, but I can't focus past the header.
"Fuck." The word scrapes my throat raw.
I stumble backward until my legs hit the couch. She did it. She fucking did it and served me first. For sole custody.
Betrayal scorches through me, deeper than anything my family ever did. Being cut off by my father was painful. Losing twenty years to silence was abandonment. But this is infinitely worse.
This is her. This is the woman I let myself trust. The woman I let myself love.
My fists grip tightly around the papers, crushing them into my palm. The last fragile thread between us snaps, leaving nothing but silence and the taste of ashes in my mouth.