My friend's certainty steadies me, a rock in choppy waters. She's been my anchor through everything. From the positive pregnancy test, the first ultrasound when I sobbed in the darkened room, to Beckett's birth when she held my hand instead of the father, who didn't know he was becoming one.
But nothing, not even Gemma's unwavering support, can quiet the fire in my chest.
Warren is showing up for Beckett. Not grudgingly or out of obligation, but with genuine interest. I saw it in his eyes at the carnival, the way they lit up when Beckett laughed. The careful way he adjusted those ridiculousbutterfly wings. The natural ease between them, which felt like watching two magnets connect.
Yet for me, there's nothing but cold professionalism. In meetings, Warren keeps his voice measured, his eyes never lingering. He passes me reports without making contact, discusses budgets like we're strangers who happened to share the same conference table.
The duality guts me.
I press my fist against my chest, as if I can stop myself from coming apart. Because it wasn’t just a one-time thing. It wasn’t just Beckett tying us together.
Somewhere along the way, I fell in love with him. Maybe I always have been. And I ruined it the moment I told the truth.
Now all he sees when he looks at me is the lie.
And I don’t know if he’ll ever look at me again and see anything else.
SIXTEEN
Warren
The contract draft for the Deaver custody settlement blurs in front of me. Words swim together after three straight hours of review.
I rub my eyes, reaping the strain of too many late nights and not enough sleep. The office is quiet except for the Xerox machine churning out copies on the other side of the wall and the occasional ping from my email.
My phone bounces on the leather-topped desk, skittering slightly across the hard surface.
Janie Harrelson.
My hand freezes halfway to the phone. Every muscle locks, anger rushing back like a tide. But beneath it, something deeper twists in my gut.
I should let it go to voicemail. That’s what I’ve done all week, keeping the wall up. We only speak when the work demands it, and even that feels like too much. This initiative was supposed to be straightforward, something I agreed to long before I knew it came tethered to her.
My fingers hold the phone tightly as I weigh whether I should take it now or respond to a voicemail.
I answer.
"Hello."
"Warren." Her voice comes through breathless, rushed. "I'm so sorry to bother you, but I'm stuck at CHG with an investor who flew in unexpectedly?—"
I wait, saying nothing, letting the silence stretch between us.
"My mom has Beckett, but she has her book club in thirty minutes, and Blake's on shift until ten tonight. Cile took the kids to visit her sister in Tampa."
More silence. I can hear her quick breathing on the other end.
"Uh, huh."
"If you can't, I understand. I'll just tell them I have to leave," she adds quickly. "It's fine."
An out. She's giving me an out.
My chest tightens. I think of Beckett's face at the Halloween carnival, the way his eyes lit up when I helped fix his costume. The way he tilts his head when he's curious, just like I do. All the moments I've already missed.
"Are you asking if I will hang out with Beckett until you get done?"
"Yes. But I'll figure it out if?—"