"Does he now? Pizza is for special occasions." I ruffle his dark hair, so like Warren's, it makes my chest ache. "Only if you've unpacked your books first. Remember, I want all of them in your bookshelf."
Dad lumbers past with a box marked KITCHEN. "Your mom organized everything by type and color. Woman's got a system that would make the military proud."
"I learned from the best." I smile at him, then turn back to direct a mover struggling with my desk.
By sunset, muscles I forgot existed are screaming. Empty boxes litter the yard, pizza crusts fill the trash, and the kids have crashed in sleeping bags on the living room floor.
Mom touches my shoulder. "We'll finish the kitchentomorrow. You look dead on your feet. You both have beds, so get some rest."
I check my watch. "Can't collapse yet. I have a late Zoom meeting."
"On a Saturday night?" Dad frowns.
"Healthcare never sleeps." I force a smile, not mentioning who'll be there. I still haven't had the guts to tell my parents I'm seeing Warren more at work than they've seen him over the last several years.
"How about we take Beckett, then. That way, you don't have to worry. Tyler is spending the night, too, so they can curl up to a movie."
"You've had us in your house for the last ten days. You sure you don't want a break?"
"I want him every night if you'll let me."
"Nope. But I will give in tonight."
The weight of all my worlds, mother, daughter, and professional, settles on my shoulders as I grab my laptop bag. One more mask to wear tonight, maybe the hardest one: colleague to the man whose son just left with his grandparents.
Two days ago,I was knee-deep in moving boxes, Beckett shouting ownership of every room like a tiny landlord. Now it’s Monday morning, and instead of unpacking, I’m across from Warren Carter in a conference room that is arctic with its blue-tinted spotlights and silent AC vents.
He sits with his tie loosened, sleeves folded, laptop glow throwing shadows beneath his eyes.
“These outreach numbers are optimistic.” His voice cuts through the silence.
I tap my pen against the spreadsheet. "They're realistic.We've mapped catchment zones for three community centers within transit access of our target neighborhoods."
"Transit assumes these families have bus fare." Warren glances up, his eyes meeting mine for a split second.
My skin prickles with heat despite the room's chill. I force myself to hold his gaze.
"The budget includes transit vouchers. Page fourteen, line thirty-two."
He flips through his packet, fingers tracing down the column. I watch his hands. They are the same hands that once traced patterns on my skin, that once tangled in my hair. My throat tightens.
I admire his perfectly groomed fingers, the veins that trace up from his hands, along his forearms, disappearing under the cuffs of his rolled sleeves.
Focus, Janie. This is just work.
"Good." Warren nods. "And the staffing ratios?"
"Two physicians, four nurses, support staff rotating between locations."
The scratch of his pen fills the silence. I stare at the budget numbers until they blur, hyper-aware of his breathing across the table.
He doesn't know. He can't know. Focus on the work.
"These vaccination projections..." Warren frowns, scrolling through his laptop. I'm not as well-versed in the hospital end of things, but these seem aggressive.
"Conservative, actually. Chicago's program hit twenty percent higher."
Warren makes a note. “We should implement your protocols here, then. That’s really neat, Janie, that you did that. I’m impressed.”