My stomach twists, and a lump forms in my throat.
The small boy peeks from behind Janie's leg, studying me with curious eyes. I can't look away from him.
"Mom, give us a second." Janie's hand settles protectively on the boy's shoulder. She takes a breath. "Warren, this is my son, Beckett."
My son. Two simple words that hit like a physical blow. My eyes immediately go to her left hand. Did I miss a wedding ring? Is she married?
No ring.
"She kneels down beside him. "Beckett, introduce yourself."
The boy steps forward, chin raised with a familiar determination, and holds out his hand like a miniature gentleman. "Four and a half," he announces.
"Almost," Janie corrects with a soft smile. "You just turned four in May."
I can't speak. My voice is literally gone, and I'm stunned. Janie has a son.
"Beckett," Janie nods with her eyes, "this is Warren. He's Uncle Blake's bestest friend in the whole wide world. I've known him since I was your age."
Beckett.
Blake's middle name.
My throat finally opens, allowing me to speak. I drop to one knee, bringing myself to his level. "Hi, Beckett. I'm Warren." I offer my hand in return. He gives me a generous shake.
The boy studies it for a moment before gripping it with surprising strength. His palm is warm and impossibly small against mine. Something twists in my chest.
"You have a watch," he observes seriously, touching my wristband.
"I do," I manage. "I need all the help I can get."
He nods, satisfied with this obvious explanation, then darts off after Emma and Tyler, already forgetting me.
I straighten up, my legs unsteady. Janie watches me, her expression carefully neutral.
In the dining room, chaos reigns. Platters pass overhead. Blake teases Cile about burning the rolls. Hank carves the brisket with surgical precision.
Through it all, I can't stop watching Janie. I'm in awe of the practiced way she cuts Beckett's food into perfect bite-sized pieces, how she remembers Emma's aversion to tomatoes, the warmth of her laugh when Beckett tells a jumbled story about a lizard he found.
"Warren, pass the potatoes?" Her hand brushes mine as she reaches for the dish, and electricity shoots up my arm. I nearly drop the bowl.
Beckett giggles. "Mr. Warren's face is red."
"Eat your green beans," Janie tells him, not meeting my eyes.
Across the table, Blake's gaze shifts between us. His expression darkens.
After that stressful dinner, I escape to the backyard as dishes are cleared, desperate for air. A pit in my throat refuses to clear. I don’t know if it’s guilt or longing.
The grill sends thin wisps of smoke skyward, still cooling from dinner. A half-empty beer bottle dangles from my fingers, condensation cooling my palm.
The bullfrogs that are unseen, but in full chorus, fill the silence, a reminder of countless summer nights spent in this exact spot. Except now everything's different.
The screen door creaks, and Blake steps out. He's got two fresh beers in hand. He passes one to me without asking, taking my empty and tossing it into a plastic trash bin by the house.
"Man, it's good to see you here." He settles into a teak chair, stretching his legs. "Tyler wouldn't shut up about you throwing the football with him."
I take a long pull from the bottle. "He's gotten tall."