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.
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 blackfrom my mascara. I fan in front of my eyes to try to reduce the puffiness.