We spend the night the way only two women with too much wine and too many feelings can—half-laughing, half-crying, looping back to the same impossible questions until exhaustion finally wins.
By morning, Gemma drags me through the farmer’s market, pressing a croissant into my hand, making me try oat-milk lattes. The ache is still there, but dulled, tucked under the easy rhythm of friendship. Having her here is exactly what I needed.
The headlights sweepacross my porch as Warren's truck pulls into the driveway early Saturday evening.
My heart climbs into my throat as I step outside, the wooden boards creaking beneath my feet. The cicadas create a wall of sound in the humid evening air.
Beckett bursts from the truck first, backpack bouncing wildly as he races toward me. His face is smudged with what might be chocolate or dirt—probably both.
"Mom! Mom! We caught THREE fish and I got tohelp build the fire and we saw stars and Tyler fell in the water and Uncle Blake said a bad word and?—"
I laugh, smoothing his wild hair. "Breathe, buddy. You can tell me everything inside."
Warren steps out of the truck, looking tired but somehow more relaxed than I’ve seen him in weeks. The porch light catches the stubble on his jaw, highlighting shadows I never noticed before.
“He was great,” Warren offers, his voice low enough that only I can hear. “Natural outdoorsman.”
My fingers tingle, restless with the jolt of seeing him and discussing our son, both of us beaming. “Takes after his uncle Blake, I guess.”
Warren's eyes meet mine for a heartbeat before sliding away.
Beckett tugs my hand. "Can I show Auntie Gemma my marshmallow stick? I saved it!"
"Go ahead inside. Wash those hands first!"
He bolts through the door, leaving Warren and me alone in the bubble of porch light.
Warren shifts the backpack at his feet. “We stopped at Blake’s on the way back. Tyler was about to explode if we didn’t. Since they were already home, I told Blake I’d bring Beckett the rest of the way. Saved him the extra trip.”
"Thank you." I want to say so much more, but I don't know what, so I let those two words suffice.
He lifts the bag, handing it over. “His water bottle is in there. And the hoodie he refused to take off, even though it got to nearly eighty degrees today. I'm sure it's ripe.”
Our fingers brush as I take it. The touch is electric, unavoidable. His hand lingers a minuscule moment before pulling away.
The night air is suddenly thick, making it hard to breathe. Warren shifts his weight, opens his mouth like hemight say something more. I wait, pulse hammering against my ribs.
But the moment passes. His jaw tightens, and he gives me a clipped nod.
"Goodnight, Janie. Becks ought to sleep well tonight."
He called him by his nickname. And I’m officially undone.
He turns, shoulders squared beneath his jacket, and walks toward the waiting truck.
I step inside and close the door, pressing my back against it. My hand still tingles where our fingers touched. I close my eyes, drawing in a shaky breath.
"Not hate. See, I told you."
Gemma's voice makes me jump. She leans against the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, watching me with eyes that think they know more than I feel.
I swallow hard, the lump in my throat refusing to dissolve.
Maybe he doesn't hate me, but he definitely doesn't want me. That might be worse.
EIGHTEEN
Warren