We drift into safer topics. We touch on the initiative's metrics, Chicago's brutal winters, and Palm Beach's insufferable humidity. Dancing around what matters, never quite touching it.
She laughs softly, brushing a strand of hair from her face. The sound carries over the surf, light and unguarded, and it lands in my chest like it belongs there.
My grip on the railing eases, shoulders loosening without permission. Conversation drifts, but the space between us tightens, filled with things we’re not saying. She leans into the railing, and my body tilts toward hers like it remembers how to stand next to her.
The night air chills my skin, but she radiates warmth, steady and undeniable. Every light brush of her arm against mine winds me tighter, every glance she casts feels like it unravels something I’ve been holding together too long.
Being near her doesn’t feel like an effort. It feels like gravity.
"Pope's very impressed with your work," I offer, touching my bottom lip for something to do with my hands, a nervous tic.
"He should be. I'm good at what I do." No false modesty. No apology. The confidence in her voice hits me low in the gut.
"Yes, you are." The words escape before I can stop them, too honest.
Janie laughs again, this time unguarded and real, thesame sound I remember from firelight and whispered confessions.
“Your tie’s crooked,” she murmurs, reaching up.
Her fingers graze my collar, and I catch her wrist before I can think better of it. Her pulse flutters wildly against my thumb, betraying what her face won’t.
Our eyes lock. The space between us collapses.
I lean down as she rises, meeting halfway. The kiss detonates. Heat floods my veins, her mouth sparking against mine like it’s been waiting all these years.
Five years of restraint go up in flames. My hands clamp her waist, dragging her closer, while hers slide up my chest to my neck, fingertips burning trails into my skin.
I break first, breath ragged against her cheek. “This can’t happen,” I whisper, the lie splintering between us.
She doesn’t answer. Her lips are swollen, her cheeks flushed, and her silence damns us both. We’re not stopping. We’re only pretending we can.
I turn back to the ocean, gripping the railing until my forearms ache, the taste of her still on my tongue. Every breath cuts deeper because wanting her isn’t the problem anymore. Pretending I don’t is.
ELEVEN
Janie
The sunlight stretches lazy fingers across the living room rug, highlighting the auburn streaks in Beckett's dark hair as he zooms his red truck over the hills and valleys of scattered throw pillows.
"Vrrrroooom! Crash!" He tumbles sideways, his small body dramatically sprawling beside his beloved toy.
I sink deeper into the couch cushions, letting exhaustion melt into the upholstery.
Last night's kiss with Warren still burns on my lips. There's a phantom pressure I haven't been able to shake off. Every time I close my eyes, his hands are on my waist, pulling me closer with a desperate hunger that matched my own.
And it's growing louder.
"Mommy, look!" Beckett abandons his truck and grabs his dinosaur figure, making it stomp across the coffee table. "T-Rex is hungry!"
"Is he now? What's he going to eat?"
His face scrunches into a serious expression that mirrors Warren's so perfectly it steals my breath. Thefurrowed brow, the intensity of his focus. It's like looking at a miniature version of the man I've been avoiding and wanting in equal measure.
"Cookies!" He giggles, just as Mom's voice drifts in from the kitchen.
"Speaking of cookies, does my favorite four-year-old want chocolate chip or fruit for his snack?"
"Cookies! Mimi!" Beckett shouts, abandoning his dinosaur to race toward the kitchen.