I press send.
"More pancakes?" Beckett holds up his empty plate, syrup smeared across his cheek. "Will Mimi and Hank be there today?"
"One more, but then we need to get ready. And, no, they can't come today. They had to go somewhere for the day, and hate that they are missing it. I told Mimi I would take lots of pictures to send to her, though."
Nothing from Warren. Except that he's left me on read again. At least I'm not blocked, still.
By the time Beckett’s cleats are laced and his water bottle is packed, I’ve checked my phone twenty-seven times. Each blank screen twists the knife deeper.
At the field, folding chairs line the edge where miniature soccer players race around in neon-colored pinnies. I settle into my seat, tugging my baseball cap lower against the morning sun."
"Go, Beckett!" I cup my hands around my mouth and shout as he darts after the ball, all gangly limbs and fierce concentration.
Warren isn't coming.
I tell myself this is for the best. Last night was too raw, too painful. It's too soon. He needs time to process. I check my phone again, anyway. Still nothing.
Coach Mike blows his whistle, gathering the kids into a huddle. Beckett's dark hair stands out among the group, his tiny shoulders squared with determination. He high-fives his teammates, that little furrowed brow so exactly like?—
My breath catches.
Warren.
He's walking across the field, long strides eating up the distance. Sunlight catches his dark hair. His hands areshoved in his pockets, his jaw clenched tight enough to crack walnuts. He doesn't look at me, not even a glance.
My heart hammers against my ribs.
Warren stops short of where I'm sitting, beside Coach Mike, dropping to one knee on the grass. From beneath his arm, he produces a sleek soccer ball with black and electric green hexagons and pentagons.
I strain to listen to what he's saying.
"Thought the team could use a backup," he says, voice carrying just enough for me to hear. He's casual, so controlled. It's as if he hadn’t ripped me open last night when he stormed out, and then shown up here today, shattering me all over again.
It’s not for the team. I know it immediately. It’s for Beckett. For his son. The truth slams into me so hard I'm disoriented for a moment.
My throat closes up, and my vision blurs. Warren didn't stay away. He came, not for me, but for Beckett. The realization hits like a physical blow, leaving me doubled over inside, like I’ve been punched from the inside out.
But I hold my head high. I can do this. I can do this. I repeat the mantra in my mind. Eventually...
Coach Mike laughs, accepting the ball with a hearty slap to Warren's shoulder. "Always good to have fresh equipment! Are you a soccer fan?"
"I played in college." Warren's gaze stays fixed on the kids, scanning until he finds the one face that matters.
Beckett spots the new ball, eyes widening with delight. He breaks from the huddle, bouncing on his toes.
"That's so cool! Can we use it today?" His small voice carries across the field.
Warren's composure cracks for a second, a flash of something raw and vulnerable crossing his face before he masters it again.
"Sure thing, buddy," Coach Mike calls back. "We'll use it for the second half."
The air between us shifts, charged with possibility. My son doesn't know that the tall stranger with the perfect gift is his father. But Warren knows.
And I know.
The whistle blows for the second half, and the kids scatter across the field, chasing after Beckett's new ball. My fingers dig into the fabric of my folding chair, knuckles white as Beckett takes his position.
He approaches the ball tentatively at first, giving it light taps with the inside of his foot. I recognize that careful concentration, the way he's so focused on that ball, his tongue poking out between his teeth.