But grief plays tricks. My mind won’t leave it there. It drags up the softness, too, the way he tucked Beckett in, the warmth of his kiss against my shoulder in the early morning light.
I push myself up on wobbly legs. My reflection in the hall mirror shows a stranger. My eyes are swollen, mascara streaked, hair wild from where I've been gripping it.
I’m supposed to meet Blake and the kids in just over an hour. The thought is absurd. I can barely stand, much less smile through pancakes and Santa photos. I can’t even drag myself to the shower.
I need something to flush this out of me before I try to get myself presentable.
I stumble out to the porch where my phone sits abandoned on the side table. The morning air is bright, too normal for a world that's sinking in on me by the second.
My fingers shake as I dial. I fall into the chair.
"Gemma? I'm so sorry—I know it's early..."
"Janie? What's wrong?" Her voice is thick with sleep but instantly alert.
I sob so hard that I can't form words. She lets me cry into the phone, staying silent, waiting for me to get it out. "He—he was here. Warren." My voice breaks.
"Oh, honey."
"I was such an idiot. I wanted him to make it all better. I was still holding onto hope after everything." Fresh tears choke my words. "All he did was blame me."
"Take a breath. You're not an idiot."
"I let myself believe?—"
"I know. Just breathe."
I pull my knees to my chest, clutching the phone like alifeline while my free arm wraps around my legs, trying to hold myself together.
Gemma’s voice stays soft, steady. “You’re okay.”
I nod, even though she can’t see me. My throat is too tight to answer.
And then I freeze. Footsteps crunch the grass. My pulse spikes, as a sick jolt of fear slams through me. I look up, and his figure materializes in front of the porch.
My stomach drops. Warren.
I drag the phone closer, as if talking quieter and directly into the phone will make him not notice me sitting here falling apart. “Gem—I’ll call you right back.”
I end the call before she can respond, my fingers shaking so badly I almost drop the phone.
"The front door was locked," he says quietly. "I couldn't just... leave it like this."
My instinct screams to tell him to go. To protect what's left of my pride. To not let him get to see me broken open like this.
"There's nothing left to say." My voice sounds hollow even to my own ears. "I told you we were done. Please, leave, Warren."
He takes another step toward the porch, opening the screen door. "I'm not leaving until I say what I came here to say."
He runs a hand through his hair, a gesture so familiar it makes my chest ache.
I don't respond. My silence is a form of permission, because the truth is, I hate how this all just ended.
"I handled everything wrong." His voice is stripped raw, nothing like the controlled attorney who coldly threatened me minutes ago. "The petition... I never meant for you to find it like that."
Of course I wasn’t supposed to find it. He wanted the papers ready, filed before I knew what hit me.
My chest burns, because even while that’s true, the crack in his voice doesn’t sound like a man preparing for battle. It sounds like a man unraveling.