Chapter 35 Janie
THIRTY-FIVE
Janie
The classroom smells like glue sticks and construction paper. Beckett tugs Warren straight to a low table in the back, his untied shoelaces slapping against the linoleum.
“Look!” He waves his arms over a messy little village made of popsicle sticks and cotton balls. “That one’s mine.”
Warren bends, hands braced on his knees, as if Beckett’s creation is a masterpiece at the Met. “You built this? All by yourself?”
“With some help from Miss Jenny,” Beckett admits, chest puffing anyway. “It’s our snow village. I made it look like the Christmas tree village we went to. Mine has a sled.”
I cross my arms, leaning in the doorway, trying not to smile too wide at the way Warren’s face lights up.
“A sled,” Warren states more than asks, crouching down until his eyes are level with Beckett’s. “That’s genius. I never thought of that. When I was your age, I was still figuring out how to keep glue off my fingers.”
Beckett laughs, his eyes crinkling just like Warren’s. “Mine didn’t stick right at first. But then I held it longer. And now it’s stuck forever.” He runs his hand along the crooked sled, proud.
Stuck forever.
“It is perfect,” Warren coos softly, not looking at the project anymore but at his son.
The silence stretches a second too long, warm and heavy. I clear my throat. “Alright, Becks. It’s late. We need to get home.”
Beckett shakes his head hard, curls bouncing. “Five more minutes.”
“We need to go, Bud.” My voice is firmer now. “Bedtime.”
He turns to Warren, lips pressed together in his best pout. “You used to read to me. Why don’t you anymore?”
The question lands like a stone dropped into a still pond. Warren’s shoulders tense, his mouth opening then closing.
“Beckett—” I start, my throat tightening.
“I want Warren to read to me. Please, Mommy?” His voice is small now, all hope and no manipulation. “Just one book.”
I look at Warren. His eyes are on me, searching, as if he’s waiting for permission to breathe.
I exhale slowly. “One book,” I say. “Then bed.”
Beckett whoops, throwing his arms around Warren’s neck. “Yes! You have to do the voices.”
Warren laughs, low and shaky. “Of course I’ll do the voices.” He looks at me again, quiet, grateful.
I just nod.
Beckett grabs both our hands, tugging us toward the door like he’s pulling us into his little world, his grin wide enough to crack me in two.
And for the first time in what feels like forever, I don’t resist. I let him lead.
Beckett chatters the whole way home from the back seat, his legs swinging against the booster as he rehashes every detail Warren already saw in the classroom. By the time I turn into our driveway, he’s yawning between sentences, still going on, but winding down.
Warren’s car pulls in behind mine, headlights sweeping across the porch before cutting out. I sit for a second, hands resting on the steering wheel. All the shouting, all the apologies—they’re behind us. What comes next is the question.
I glance at the headlights behind me as they fade to dark.
I haven’t spoken to Warren about any of it—Nicole calling on Wednesday to say he withdrew the petition, Blake telling me earlier this week that Warren showed up at his door.
Those things don’t erase the hurt. They don’t make forgiveness simple.
But they sit in the back of my mind now, softening edges I’ve fought hard to keep sharp, even against my intense desire to believe everything he's telling me.
Beckett slams the car door and dashes up the steps. I blow out a slow breath and follow, hearing Warren’s footsteps fall in behind mine. He lingers in the entry, shoulders squared like he’s waiting to be told to leave.
“Go on,” I murmur.
He nods once and trails after Beckett.
By the time I catch up, Beckett’s already in his pajamas, wriggling to climb into bed without brushing his teeth.
“Uh-uh,” I warn. “Bathroom first.”
He groans but slides down. Warren crouches to meet him halfway. “I’ll race you,” he says, eyes glinting.
Beckett grins, bolts for the hall, and Warren chases after him. Their laughter bounces off the walls, loosening something tight in my chest.
A few minutes later, they return, victorious, toothpaste foam still clinging to Beckett’s chin. Warren wipes it away with his thumb before Beckett scrambles back onto the bed.
“Pick a book,” I tell him.
Beckett’s little hand hovers over the stack on his nightstand. He grabs the tattered copy of Where the Wild Things Are and thrusts it toward Warren. “This one. You always do the best monster voices.”
Warren takes the book carefully, like it’s a precious heirloom. He sits on the edge of the bed, and Beckett curls into his side without hesitation.
I lean against the doorframe, arms crossed, pretending to be immune.
Warren clears his throat and begins, his voice slipping into a low, dramatic rumble. "The night Max wore his wolf suit and made mischief of one kind—"
Beckett giggles, whispering the next line along with him. When Warren roars his best “terrible roar,” Beckett claps his hands over his ears, squealing with delight.
I bite my lip, fighting a smile, unshed tears forming in my eyes. It’s the most alive I’ve seen Beckett all week, the happiest.
By the last page, Warren’s voice softens. “‘And Max, the king of all wild things, was lonely and wanted to be where someone loved him best of all.’”
Beckett snuggles closer, eyelids drooping. “That’s you,” he mumbles.
Warren pauses, throat working. “What’s me, buddy?”
“I wanna be where you are.”
The room stills. Warren presses his lips to Beckett’s hair, not trusting himself to speak.
I swallow hard. “Alright, B. Time for sleep.”
Beckett’s already half there, clutching Warren’s arm like a lifeline.
Warren gently eases free, tucking the blanket up to his chin. “Goodnight, pal.”
“‘Night,” Beckett whispers, eyes fluttering shut.
I flick the light, leaving the soft glow of the nightlight. For a moment, I stand there, watching both of them, my chest aching with something too complicated to understand fully.
When I finally step into the hall, Warren follows, quiet at my shoulder. Normally, this would be the point where he leaves. Instead, I hear my own voice before I realize what I’m saying.
“Do you want to talk?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “I would love that.”
I step into the kitchen, flick on the small lamp by the sink. The warm glow settles over the room, making it intimate. Warren hovers near the table, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to sit.
I gesture to the chair across from me. “You can sit. I won't bite.”
He lowers himself slowly, hands clasped on the table like he’s in court, not my kitchen. His gaze flicks to me, then down again.
I clear my throat, my palms flat against the wood. “Nicole, my attorney, told me you withdrew the petition.”
His eyes close and open slowly. Then, he bites his bottom lip, but doesn't respond.
“That meant a lot,” I add softly. “More than you probably realize.”
His chest rises, shaky. “I told you I would.” He leans forward, voice rough. “And that was only the beginning. Janie—” He swallows. “I’ll do whatever it takes. Not to prove I deserve Beckett. To prove I deserve you. To prove I can do this with you. With you, Janie.”
The repetition lands like a fist against my ribs. My fingers curl into the table’s edge to steady myself.
“You say that now,” I whisper. “But saying it isn’t enough. You can’t just tell me. You have to show me.”
He doesn’t flinch. “Then let me. Please. Let me reset. Let me try again, the right way. Not hiding. Not holding back.” His hand presses flat against the table, closer to mine. “I want everyone to know I’m Beckett’s father. And I want everyone to know I love his mother.”
Air leaves my lungs in a rush. I grip the edge harder, blinking fast. His words are bold, reckless even, but they’re everything I’ve wanted to hear and was too scared to hope for.
“You don’t make this easy,” I murmur, a tear sliding free before I can stop it.
"What, forgiveness?"
"No, saying no."
"Well, good, then. I want you to say yes. I want to make it easy for you to say yes."
My hand trembles as I lay it over his. His palm is warm, steady, waiting. I want to believe him, God, I do. It’s all I’ve ever wanted—this, him, us. A family.
But wanting isn’t the same as trusting.
“I need to see it,” I whisper. “Not just tonight, not just in words. We both need to rebuild what we broke.”
“You will.” His eyes lock on mine, unblinking. “I’ll show you, Janie. Every day. I want us to be a family, out in the open. No more hiding. No more halfway.”
My chest aches so fiercely that I press my free hand against it. I don’t say yes, but I don’t let go of him either.
The silence stretches. His thumb brushes against my palm, tentatively, almost reverently. I know if I don't pull back now, there's no going back.
“Janie…” His voice drops, hoarse with need and fear.
I lift my eyes to his, and the breath catches in my throat. Everything I’ve ever wanted stares back at me. Love, regret, determination, accountability.
He stands and leans in slowly, giving me every chance to stop him. I don’t. His lips press to mine, soft at first, almost questioning.
The ache in my chest breaks wide open. I fist his shirt, pulling him closer, and his kiss deepens, rougher now, a lifetime of holding back spilling out. His chair scrapes back as he fumbles forward, his hands sliding to my face, then my hips, desperate but careful.
I let myself melt into him, my body answering what my words can’t yet promise.
Every nerve in my body is tuned to this man, this moment.
It’s desperate, rough, our kiss swallowing the weeks of silence, the years of hurt, the endless wanting. I clutch at his shirt harder, twisting the fabric in my fists as if I can keep him tethered to me.
“God, Janie,” he mutters against my mouth, his breath ragged. “I've missed you. I missed this.”
My answer is a whimper as I shift my middle into him, pressing hard. His hands slide to my hair, then down to my ass, dragging me flush against him. There’s no mistaking how badly he wants me.
We stumble back from the table, fumbling, laughing into each other’s mouths when my hip knocks into the corner of the counter.
His hands are everywhere: under my sweater, on my skin, kneading like he can’t decide where to touch first. I yank his shirt over his head, our mouths breaking only long enough to strip it off. My sweater follows, tossed somewhere on the floor.
We bump into the wall, hard, his palm slapping against it beside my head. His other hand slides beneath my waistband, fingers hot, causing a broken sound to escape my throat.
“Bedroom,” I pant.
He groans like the word itself undoes him. “Lead the way.”
We half-run, half-stumble down the hall, shedding clothes like breadcrumbs—his belt clattering on the hardwood, my bra dangling from his fist.
He kicks the bedroom door shut behind us, his mouth never leaving mine, his kiss devouring.
I push him back a step until his shoulders hit the wall. He freezes only long enough to watch me fumble with his fly, my fingers clumsy, desperate. His laugh is low, rough, cut off when I finally shove his pants down his hips.
“Jesus, Janie,” he mutters, dragging me up with him, my legs locking around his waist. He presses me hard against the wall, his body pinning mine, his chest heaving against my breasts.
His mouth is everywhere—my jaw, my throat, the hollow of my collarbone—biting, kissing, worshipping like he’s starving.
I claw at his shoulders, pulling him closer, tilting my hips until the hard length of him rubs exactly where I need.
“I've missed you,” I whisper, my voice breaking.
The snap of latex, quick and practiced, cuts through his ragged breathing, then he’s lifting me higher against the wall.
He groans, burying his face in my neck as he thrusts into me in one sharp, claiming stroke. My cry echoes off the walls. He holds me there, braced, filling me so deeply I can’t think, can’t breathe.
“Mine,” he growls, teeth grazing my ear. Not a question. A vow.
“Yes.” My nails dig into his shoulders. “Yours.”
He drives into me again, and again, rough and unrelenting, my back pressing into the wall with every thrust. The room blurs, the world blurs.
It’s frantic, messy, a collision of bodies and hearts. Weeks of denial burn away with every thrust. I meet him, wild and unrestrained, the slap of skin and broken moans filling the room.
“Janie,” he gasps, forehead pressed to mine. “I love you. I love you. I’m never letting you go.”
I choke on a sob, on a laugh, on a prayer. My body tightens, release slamming through me so hard I scream his name. He follows, shuddering, burying himself deep, his roar muffled in my neck.
We collapse together, tangled and shaking, his weight anchoring me, his arms holding me like he’ll never let go.
And for the first time in forever, I believe him.