The engine hums steadily as I head south on the highway, my headlights cutting through stretches of empty road.
Salt air slips in through the cracked window, stinging my eyes. Or maybe it's the approximately ninety minutes of sleep I got last night between the kicks to my ribs, the mosquitoes, and the hard ground.
My grip tightens on the wheel, knuckles aching.
The sound keeps replaying, a reminder I don’t want gone.
What I do want gone is the way Janie looked at me on that porch, like all those years of lines we swore not to cross, and the secret she kept anyway, didn’t matter.
The brush of her fingers, the hesitation in my own chest, none of that can happen.I'm exhausted. That's all that was. Not to mention, I'm still on a high from spending the last twenty-four hours with my son.
A momentary lapse in judgement.
I smiled at his high, squeaky giggle when his marshmallow went up in flames. Wide-eyed, not afraid. Pure delight. "Look! It's on fire! It's on FIRE!"
"That's how you know it's perfect, buddy."
The memory washes over me. His small body tucked against mine as we watched stars appear one by one. The weight of him as he finally fell asleep, head heavy against my chest, fingers sticky with marshmallow still clutching my shirt. I'd carried him to the tent, careful not to wake him, and spent ten minutes picking bits of grass from his hair.
My son. My boy.
I swallow hard, something raw and tender cracking open inside my chest.
Then another image intrudes. Janie. Fuck. The parting of her lips, like words were waiting there. Words I didn't let her speak.
My jaw locks. I’m still angry. I have every right to be fucking furious. Five years were stolen from me. Decisions made without my voice. He grew up not knowing me as his father, and I was denied the chance to see life through his eyes.I slam my palm against the steering wheel.
The truck cabin is suddenly making me feel claustrophobic. It's too small, too hot. I crack the window further, letting the cool, fall night air rush in. I gulp it down. It doesn't help.
I take the next turn too fast, tires protesting. The pain in my chest isn't just anger anymore. It's something worse. Something dangerous.
I'd stood there on that porch, looking at her, at the woman who'd kept my son from me, and still, I'd wanted to touch her face. To feel if her skin was as soft as I remembered. To see if her lips tasted the same.
"You're losing your mind, Carter," I mutter to the empty truck.
I force myself to focus on the road ahead, on getting home. On maintaining the hard line I've drawn betweenus. Between what we once were and what we can never be again.
Monday morning waits. Meetings. Briefs. Cases. The controlled, contained life I've built.
But as I pull into my driveway, I know with sickening certainty that nothing's contained anymore, and I'm in deep shit if I can't pull this together.
The fluorescent lightsin the CHG conference room reflect off the glossy table surface, casting an unforgiving glow over the spreadsheets and projections splayed between us.
I shift in my chair, acutely aware of the mere inches separating Janie's elbow from mine.
“The community vaccination program would open CHG doors to underserved families two evenings a week in the first quarter alone.” Janie gestures to the schedule grid on page sixteen of our presentation, her voice carrying that perfect blend of passion and practicality that makes board members lean forward. “We’ve already secured commitments from three community centers to help us identify families most in need.”
Her perfume drifts across the gap between us. I grip my pen tighter, focusing on the numbers instead of the curve of her wrist as she turns the page.
“Warren, what about liability concerns for extending services beyond our membership?” Caleb adjusts his bow tie. Today’s is navy with tiny sailboats.
I clear my throat. "I've drafted waivers that protect CHG while remaining accessible to families." I flip to the legal section, hyperaware of Janie's shoulder nearly brushing mine as she leans to see my notes. "We'll needstandard insurance riders, but nothing that would create barriers to the communities we're targeting."
"Impressive work, both of you." Dr. Parker Matthews nods approvingly. "Your complementary approaches make for a comprehensive plan. Legal protections without sacrificing accessibility. That's exactly what we need."
If they only knew.
If they could see inside my head, the rage still simmering beneath my practiced calm, the betrayal coiled around every interaction with the woman beside me.