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, closeenough 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?