"I never wanted this," I say, gesturing between us. "This legal bullshit. But you forced my hand."
"I forced your hand?" Janie's voice rises, raw emotion scraping her words. "What are you even talking about? I did nothing but show you how sorry I was, give you time, and open my home up. You had those papers drawn up while you were reading bedtime stories to our son! While you were in my bed! I found it, you didn't show me."
My chest heaves as I try to control my breathing, to lower my voice. Everything inside me is tearing apart.
"I don’t trust you. I can still show up for him. Those are different muscles. I can use both."
"Ouch. I get it."
"I don't want to fight you, Janie," I say, my tonedropping raw. "But I will. If it's the only way I get to be his father, I'll fight you."
The words aren't what is in my heart. It's not what I want, but I have to take a stand. I don't want courtrooms and custody schedules. I want morning pancakes and soccer practice, and Christmas trees. I want to come home to them. I want the future that felt possible just days ago.
This isn't how this was supposed to go. How did we get here?
We're inches apart now, close enough that I can see the gold flecks in her hazel eyes, close enough that her breath mingles with mine. Our anger is intimate, too personal to be anything but heartbreak.
Her eyes shine with tears, and my instinct is to wipe them away, to kiss her, to undo every jagged word we've thrown at each other.
But pride wins. I step back instead.
"I can't lose him again," I whisper, and what I don't say hangs between us: I can't lose you either.
But some admissions come too late.
“Your five minutes are up, Warren. Thanks for coming.”
“Janie, wait—please. I came here to tell you?—”
Her hand lifts, sharp, final. “I don’t want to hear another word. Not now. Maybe not ever. I should have taken my attorney's advice. I never should have let you in.”
Her voice cracks, but her spine stays straight. She points to the door.
The words burn my tongue, desperate to spill, but her eyes are steel as she physically guides me out.
I can’t force them past the wall she’s thrown up. Not like this.
I walk out with nothing but silence and the sound of the lock sliding into place behind me.
THIRTY-THREE
Janie
I kick the closed door as Warren walks back to his truck. The hollow thud sends a shooting pain up my leg. I hop around, grabbing my shin, and then fall to the floor.
Silence crashes over me. I can't breathe. Can't think. I pull my knees tight against my chest and bury my face, tears streaking down my legs.
The first sob rips from somewhere deep inside me, then another follows, and another, until I'm clawing for air between each broken sound. My leggings are damp with tears I can't control.
God, I was so stupid. So fucking stupid.
Why did I let him in? Why did I think he could answer questions, that he would somehow make it make sense?
I let him plead his case, and he took no responsibility for any of this. He sees himself as Beckett's savior. Like Beckett needs saving.
Jesus Christ. It was never about me. I was his fuck hole so he could spend time with his son and sneak the custody petition on me. The illusion of us being a family was his Trojan Horse, his way to get my guard down.
My body rocks with another wave of sobs. I can’t stop picturing Warren’s face. First, it's the fury from moments ago. His eyes were so sharp and cold.