"Of course." Mom links her arm through mine as we head toward the field. "I've been dying to see this little bug in his costume anyway."
"I'm not a bug, Mimi! Butterflies are insects!" Beckett skips ahead of us, wings bouncing with each step.
Mom leans closer, voice slipping into casual chatter. “Oh, I ran into Warren at Publix yesterday. He said he went to Beckett’s game on Saturday. Isn’t that sweet?”
My fingers lock on the backpack strap until the canvas strains. My pulse pounds in my ears. Warren spoke to my mother. About Beckett.
“Did he?” My voice comes out thin, foreign.
“He’s such a good man,” she says, smiling like it’s obvious. “You can tell he wants a family of his own. Taking Beckett under his wing since…” Her gaze flicks to be sure Beckett’s out of earshot. “…since he doesn’t have a dad.”
The words hit me like a punch to the gut, one after another. I choke down a response, stretching my lips into something that might pass for a smile while my throat threatens to close. The irony is suffocating. Warren plays the part of a doting friend while standing in plain sight as Beckett’s father.
“You’re right. He is… a good man,” I manage, the words bitter in my mouth.
“And he promised to come to the carnival,” Mom adds,squeezing my arm. “We can hardly pin him down for dinner anymore, but he lit up when I mentioned it.”
The floor tilts. My minds eye shows me everything. Warren at the carnival. Warren watching our son in butterfly wings. Warren and my mother trading small talk about my child, our child, while I’m left holding the secret like an intruder in my own life.
I shake it off. I can't do this here, now, with my son and my mom. And now Warren.
"You ready, B? Let's go."
"They've got pumpkin bowling this year, and I heard there's a booth where they're doing face painting with those special paints that glow in the dark." Beckett places his tiny hand in Mom's, and she beams at him, soaking up his every word.
"Maybe we can turn you into a glow-in-the-dark butterfly," she says.
"Yeah!" Beckett pumps his little fist in the air.
As we near the field, I see all of the beautiful decorations, the festivity of it all. But, rather than being joyful, all I can think about is the dread of seeing him here, of faking a casual friendship, when we both know the truth about Beckett.
What happens when Warren decides he's done with this charade? When he tells Blake? When he looks my parents in the eye and tells them the secret I've been hiding from everyone?
The preschool parking lot overflows with minivans and SUVs. Carnival booths line the playground, strung with orange lights and decorated with hay bales. Children dart between stations, faces sticky with cotton candy and caramel apple drizzle.
"I want to throw rings!" Beckett tugs Mom's hand,dragging her toward a booth where plastic rings sail toward soda bottles.
And then I sense it, that prickle across my skin, the sensation of being watched. I don't need to turn to know he's here.
Warren stands near the face-painting station, tall and commanding even in jeans and a navy quarter-zip. It's odd seeing him here at this time of day and not in his suit.
Several mothers cluster nearby, stealing glances. He doesn't notice them. His eyes are fixed on Beckett.
My throat closes as Warren strides toward us, his movements fluid and confident. He drops to one knee in front of Beckett, eye-level with our son.
"Those are some serious wings you've got there." Warren reaches out, adjusting a strap that's twisted on Beckett's shoulder. "You think you can fly with these?"
"They're just pretend." Beckett's laughter bubbles up, pure and delighted by the attention. "But I'm leading the parade!"
Warren's smile, the one I've missed for days, breaks across his face. "That's a big job. You must be pretty special."
I stand frozen, watching the scene I wanted more than anything—and feared just as much. Father and son, connecting as if pulled by invisible threads. The carnival noise fades to a distant hum while my heart splits clean in two.
I'm outside this circle, excluded from the warmth building between them.Instead of it bringing us all together, the truth has ripped everything into shreds.
The digital clockon my nightstand reads 11:43 in bright green numbers. I curl my fingers into the edge of the comforter, staring at the outline of the ceiling fan circling overhead. The house is quiet now. There's no more butterfly wings flapping, no more excited chatter about ring tosses and face paint.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. Gemma's face lights up the screen, and my chest loosens for the first time all day.