Tears spill again, but this time with relief. “I don’t know how to thank you both.”
“You don’t have to.” Warren’s tone softens. “Take your boy home. Nurse him back to health. Let me handle the rest. You’re not getting kicked out. Take my card and touch base with my office sometime tomorrow.”
Melissa nods quickly, clutching the folder of next steps like it’s a lifeline. “Thank you,” she whispers, gathering Juan’s stroller.
When she leaves, Warren’s card tucked in her pocket and her shoulders a little straighter, the door shuts with a muted click. The fluorescent light hums louder in the sudden quiet. Darcy bends her head to her keyboard just outside the doorway, pretending to type.
Across the table, the scattered papers mark the problem we tackled together and found a solution for. At least in the short term. Melissa walked out with options she didn’t have an hour ago. That matters.
I gather the leftover documents, stacking them neatly, a small surge of purpose settling in my chest. We did that together. He with the law, me with the people. For a tiny moment, it's not impossible to think about how well we worked together to find a solution for her.
But just as quickly as we fell into our roles to help her, it ends. Warren snaps his briefcase shut. No more warm words, just a clipped nod toward the door.
The hallway swallows us up, our footsteps echoing against polished tile. Evening light filters through the glass ahead, stretching long shadows across the floor. He walks beside me, steady stride, close enough that our arms might brush if either of us shifted.
Silence stretches tightly between us. If it were anyone else, I’d high-five them for how we handled Melissa. Instead, I keep it to myself, a fist pump tucked against my ribs.
“Thank you,” I say at last, my voice barely above a whisper. “For helping her today.”
Warren’s jaw flexes, his gaze locked forward. “I’m glad you called me. She’s exactly the kind of person I want to help. You can pull me in for something like this anytime.”
“You’re a good man, Warren.” The words scrape my throat on the way out. I mean them, but after saying them, they almost seem trite.
He slows, his muscles working in his jaw. For a moment, I think he might actually look at me.
“I’ll have my assistant send over the emergency paperwork,” he says finally, clipped again, keeping his gaze forward. “I’ll have her update you when I know more.”
I reach for the case file under his arm. “I should probably take that for HR. I can have Darcy send you whatever you need.”
Our hands collide in the narrow space between us. The brush of skin jolts me, heat racing up my arm. Warren freezes, breath catching audibly.
Then he looks at me. Really looks. And for the first time in weeks, the mask slips. Hurt. Anger. And something else there. Whatever it is, it's sharp enough to make my heart stutter.
One heartbeat. Two. The air between us cracks open.
Then his eyes shutter, and the walls slam back in place. He thrusts the folder into my hands like it burns him and strides for the exit. His shoulders stay rigid under his tailored suit.
The glass doors swing closed behind him, leaving meclutching the file to my chest, my pulse hammering in the empty hall.
For a heartbeat I thought I saw him. And then he was gone.
TWENTY
Warren
The sideline is my sanctuary, as far from Janie as the field allows.
Wind bites through my jacket, but I barely register the rare November chill. My focus tunnels to the small figures darting across the field in their oversized jerseys, especially the lanky boy with number eight emblazoned on his back.
My son.
The word still lodges in my throat whenever I let my mind go there. I still can't believe I have a son.
I shove my hands deeper into my pockets, feeling the crumpled copy of Beckett's schedule I've carried everywhere since Margaret gave it to me. The paper's soft now, worn at the creases.
A shout erupts from the cluster of parents. I glance across to where Janie stands, wrapped in that chunky gray sweater she's had forever. A large pink Stanley cup is clutched in her hands, hair whipping across her face.
She's bouncing slightly on her toes, yelling for Beckett like he's a varsity player in a defining game, not a gaggle offour and five-year-olds that look more like a herd of unorganized chaos.