So no more contracts. No more avoidance. No more hiding behind black and white.
If I risk everything—Blake’s friendship, Janie’s trust, even the only family I’ve had in years, at least I’ll know it was because I fought for the one thing that finally matters.
Her. Beckett. Us.
I grab my keys from the hook by the door. The petition goes into my leather portfolio. I bring it as a reminder ofmy mistake. The weight of it is everything I didn’t say when she asked me to be honest.
She wanted to know where I saw us. What the future looked like. I hid behind the moment, behind my anger, behind fear.
If she won’t take my calls, then she’ll hear it face-to-face. Not legal arguments. Not half-answers. The truth I should’ve given her from the start.
She needs to know that the truth has always been that I want her. I want Beckett. I want a life with both of them.
No more proxies. No more paperwork. Just Warren and Janie, deciding if there’s still something left to save.
Before I can overthink it, I've got my shoes on, keys in hand, and I head for the car.
By the time I turn onto her street, the fire in my chest is a blaze I can’t put out. Janie’s house comes into view, the morning dew still glistening on the lawn where Beckett’s toys lie scattered. My son’s toys.
I park at the curb and walk fast up the path, every step heavier with the silence between us.
My fist crashes against the door. The sound reverberates through the quiet street, more like a demand than a request.
Footsteps. Then the door swings open.
She’s in jeans and a loose sweater, hair pulled into a messy ponytail, dark circles smudged beneath her eyes. Even through the exhaustion, her beauty hits me. But her arms fold across her chest, a shield between us.
For a moment, I take her in, the familiar citrus of her shampoo drifting out, hitting me in the gut.
“Is Beckett here?” I ask, my voice low.
Her eyes narrow, weighing me. “No. You can’t just show up like this, Warren. We’re supposed to go through the attorneys.”
“I know,” I say, the words scraping out rough. “And I hate that. I’m not here to see him. I’m here because this—” I gesture between us. “This can’t be settled on paper.”
Her arms fold tighter across her chest. “My attorney told me not to talk to you without an agreement in place.”
The words are cold, practiced. But her voice wavers at the edges, like she hates saying them.
“I’m not here as an attorney,” I say. “No filings. No petitions. Just me. Will you please hear me out?”
She studies me, the silence stretching long enough that I brace for the door to slam in my face.
Instead, she exhales, shoulders dipping ever so slightly. “How can I trust you’re not here to trick me again? You never told me you were doing this. I thought we were working through it, and then I was blindsided. You really hurt me, Warren.”
“I know. And I’m sorry. I should’ve been stronger, braver. I should’ve handled it better. All I want now is to say the things I should’ve said sooner. I’ll do the talking. Just listen. Then, if you want me gone, you can slam the door.”
Her jaw tightens. Then, softer: “Five minutes.” She steps aside. “That’s all you get.”
I cross the threshold, notes of orange and lemon wrapping around me, familiar and brutal all at once.
The door closes with a thud, and with it, the resolve I walked in with wavers. My hands, steady on the walk up here, tremble now at my sides.
The den is frozen in the life I almost had. The tree we picked out together still glows in the corner, branches heavy with the ornaments Beckett insisted on hanging low where his hands could reach.
Beckett’s drawings cover the refrigerator.
Before I can take a breath, her voice slices through thequiet. “Why, Warren?” Her arms drop, her eyes bright with hurt that makes my gut twist. “Why make me believe we were healing, that we were moving toward a future together, when you were already plotting as a lawyer?”