He doesn't wait for my answer. He heads in the opposite direction, walking away across the grass, shoulders squared like steel. Each step widens the gulf between us.
I stand rooted, my stomach hollow. I've given him access to Beckett, something I've both feared and longed for, but at a cost of him walking out of my life for good.
"Mommy! Did you see? I almost scored!" Beckett crashes into my legs, his small face flushed with excitement.
I force my trembling hand to smooth his hair. "You were amazing, Becks."
"And did you see my new ball?" He holds it up like a trophy. "The tall man brought it. Coach says I can keep it!"
"That was very nice of him." My voice sounds strange, distant.
"He told me I'm getting really good." Beckett hugs the ball to his chest. "Is he your best friend?"
The question hits like a physical blow. What is Warren to me now? Not my lover. Not even my friend. Just Beckett's father, a title Beckett doesn't get to know yet.
"He's Uncle Blake's best friend. And he works with Mommy sometimes. Don't you remember you met him at Mimi and Hank's house?"
"Oh, yeah. He's nice."
I grip Beckett's hand as he bounces beside me, pride radiating from every inch of his small body.
"You're right, Bud. He is."
I force a smile for him, but inside I'm shattered. Beckett’s joy is the one thing in this world that means the most to me.
Even if it means giving up my own.
FOURTEEN
Warren
I sit paralyzed in my truck, parked at the far edge of the soccer field.
My fingers drum against the worn leather of the steering wheel, thumping to a rhythm that matches my heartbeat. The morning practice crowd has thinned to just a few stragglers folding up chairs and gathering forgotten water bottles.
But I only see them.
Janie crouches beside her SUV, buckling Beckett into his car seat. My son. The words are still foreign in my head, like they belong to someone else's life.
He's clutching that neon-striped soccer ball I gave him last weekend to his chest like it's made of gold, not cheap synthetic rubber from the sporting goods store. His mouth moves constantly. I can't hear him from this distance, but I can imagine the excited chatter, the questions, the observations that pour from him.
She brushes grass from his hair with gentle fingers, adjusting the straps of his seat with practiced efficiency.Then she leans in and presses a kiss to his forehead, her hand lingering on his cheek.
An unexpected warmth blooms in my chest. Gratitude.
He's happy. He's loved. He's safe.
For a moment, I can acknowledge that she's given him that much, at least. She didn't abandon him. She didn't fail him the way my family failed me.
But the warmth curdles just as fast, poisoned by rage that bubbles up like acid. Five years. Five fucking years.
The muscles in my jaw are tightening so hard I can hear my own teeth grinding. I roll my shoulders to relieve the tension balled up inside.
"Damn it." The words escape through gritted teeth.
I watch as Beckett rolls the ball in his hands, his small face alight with joy. He's an innocent child who doesn't even know I exist beyond being the tall man who gave him a ball. A child whose eyes are the exact shade of hazel-green as his mother's, but who has my dark hair.
How did I not see that when I first met him at the Harrelsons? It seems so obvious now.