"Sir? Next?"
I step forward and place the withdrawal notice on the counter. The clerk, whose nameplate read, Denise in black carved letters, glances up with practiced disinterest.
"Filing a withdrawal for case number HC-238974."My voice comes out surprisingly steady, even to my own ears.
Denise skims the form, slides a stamp across it with mechanical precision. "Sign here and here."
The pen weighs ten pounds. My signature looks different somehow. It's less confident, maybe, but more honest. The ink bleeds slightly into the paper as I press too hard.
"All set." The clerk stamps the withdrawal, slides a copy across the counter, and drops the original into a basket. "Next?"
That’s it. Seventeen years of law practice, and I still expect thunderclaps when a man rewrites the course of his life.
I tuck the copy into my briefcase, the entire exchange over in less than two minutes. But something fundamental has shifted. For the first time, I’ve given up control on purpose.
No fight. No safety net. Just trust.
I push through the glass doors, sunlight spilling across the courthouse steps. My phone rings. I pull it out of my pocket as I walk down the steps, and I nearly stumble. And then I stop in my tracks.
Janie.
My chest seizes. Two days since she told me she’d call. Two days of silence, of trying not to hope. I swipe before I can think.
"Hey."
"Hi. Good morning."
Her voice is careful, and I take a breath for what she's going to say. I can't speak.
“Beckett’s school holiday concert is on Friday at six.” A pause. “I wanted you to know.”
Relief punches the air from my lungs. “It’s already onmy calendar,” I admit. My instinct is to say I’ll be there no matter what. But instead, I force the words that cost me something. “I wasn't sure if you would be okay if I came.”
There’s a beat of silence. Then, flat but not cold, she says, “That's why I called you. I know he'd love to see you.”
He'dlove to see me. It isn’t an invitation back. It isn’t forgiveness. But it’s a thread I could break just by reaching. Still, it’s real.
"Okay. I'll be there."
When the line clicks dead, I sit on the courthouse steps with the phone still in my hand. I’ve let go of the only leverage I had, and for once, it doesn’t feel like losing.
Blake's truck is here.He's home. There's no going back.
I pull into the driveway, cut the engine, and sit for a minute gathering my courage. The modest two-story with its weathered basketball hoop looks exactly the same as it did when I helped him put it in seven years ago. The only problem is, everything else has changed.
I wipe a small bead of sweat from my upper lip. Stop stalling.
I climb out, and each step across the familiar cracked sidewalk is like I'm walking to my own execution.
The doorbell echoes inside. Then I hear footsteps approach.
Blake opens the door. His expression flickers. At first, I think it's a surprise, then something harder.
“Warren.” My name comes out flat. "What are you doing here?"
“Can we talk?” I ask.
He leans on the frame, arms crossed. “Does Janie know you’re here?”