"Yeah, outgrowing shoes every month." Blake studies me, head tilted. "You look like shit, by the way. Are you taking care of yourself?"
A laugh escapes me unexpectedly. "Thanks."
"When's the last time you took a vacation? Or slept more than four hours?"
I shrug, avoiding his eyes. Blake's always been able to read me too well.
"I'm just busy. Cases stacked up. It's like I can never get ahead. I'm sorry I've been MIA for the last few years. I need to work on my work-life balance."
"Mmm." He doesn't push it, just sips his beer and watches the fireflies appearing at the edge of the yard.
My fingers tighten around the bottle. My heart hammers against my ribs as I force the words out, casual as I can manage. “So, why didn’t you ever tell me Janie had a son?”
Blake’s eyebrows lift, but he doesn’t turn to me. “Figured you didn’t care.” No cruelty, just matter-of-fact. “Big attorney life. You haven’t exactly been around. Honestly,bro, I guess it never came up. I didn't even realize you didn't know.”
I laugh, but it sounds hollow even to me. The truth lands like a blow. Ihavebeen absent. Deliberately so.
“He seems like a great kid,” I manage. “Full of energy. Can’t believe I missed all of this.”
Blake tips his beer toward the yard where Beckett’s voice carries. “He is. Smart as hell. Stubborn, too. Wonder where he gets that.” Pride roughens his voice, the same way it does when he talks about Emma or Tyler.
I swallow, making sure to be careful what I say. “Chicago’s no joke. Raising a kid there couldn’t have been easy.”
Blake finally looks at me then, brows furrowed, as if trying to decide whether I’m asking about Janie’s life or about the man who isn’t here. He shrugs. “She managed. That’s Janie. Always tougher than people give her credit for.”
My throat tightens. I want to press. Was there a husband, a partner, someone who walked away? But the words stick in my chest. The silence stretches, heavy with everything I can’t ask.
Later, inside, the living room glows with soft lamplight. Tyler and Emma sprawl on the rug with a board game while Hank tells one of his contractor stories, Margaret correcting details when he exaggerates.
And there’s Janie, curled on the couch, Beckett tucked against her side. His dark head rests on her shoulder as she absently strokes his hair. His eyelids flutter, fighting sleep.
From the doorway, I watch them, as something shifts in my chest.
She looks at peace. Like she’s exactly where she’s supposed to be.
And maybe that’s what guts me most, how natural it feels to picture myself there, too.
Driving home, salt air whips through the open window. I tell myself to keep it professional when I see her at CHG. To stay detached.
But the truth presses hard in my chest: it isn’t professionalism I’m fighting. It’s the pull toward her. The woman she’s become, the mother she is.
NINE
Janie
I curl deeper into the worn leather corner of the couch while Mom picks up discarded napkins from the coffee table. Dad leans back in his recliner, his beloved remote in hand, but the TV still dark.
Beckett's finally asleep upstairs after two bedtime stories, three glasses of milk, and a foot rub.
"So nice seeing Warren tonight." Mom's voice has that warm, nostalgic tone. "He looked thin, don't you think? I hope he's taking care of himself."
"Probably works too much." Dad clicks his tongue. "Though it felt like old times, didn't it? Took you coming home, Janie, to drag that boy over here after years of excuses."
I keep my expression neutral, fingers picking at a loose thread on my sleeve. "Has he really been that scarce?"
Mom settles beside me, patting my knee. "Oh, honey, we barely see him anymore. Blake invites him for holidays, birthdays. But he always has a case or a client emergency."
"Different worlds now." Dad's voice rumbles deep in his chest. "Blake's got family, Warren's got work."