We walk to the parking lot, Beckett skipping between us, chattering about soccer and dinosaurs and some cartoon I've never heard of. My son, full of life and stories that I'm only now beginning to learn about.
Our eyes meet over his head. For once, there's no anger between us, just the recognition that whatever happens next, it's no longer only about us, our anger, our hurt.
After kickingthe ball for a while with Beckett, I follow Janie into the kitchen, the smell of tomato sauce and garlic punching straight through me. It's not just dinner, it's memory. Sunday nights with the Harrelsons, laughter echoing while I pretended not to notice how badly I wanted to belong.
Her kitchen is neat but lived-in. Crayon drawings cover the fridge under a line of mismatched magnets. A row of superhero cups waits on the counter, bright colors against the marble.
“Can I help with anything?” I hover by the island, not sure where I fit.
“You could stir the sauce while I drain the pasta.”
We move around each other in a kind of careful choreography. The silence stretches, but it isn’t sharp like it’s been for weeks. Softer, charged in another way.
I clear my throat, reaching for safe ground. “Where were your parents today?”
“Oh, they went out of town with Blake and Cile. Emma had a dance recital in Orlando, and then they were taking the kids to Disney. I thought about going, but Beckett didn’t want to miss soccer. Can you imagine picking soccer over Mickey Mouse?”
“Actually, I can.” I glance at her, a smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. “I was the same way about soccer.”
Beckett thunders into the kitchen, dinosaur in hand. "Is the basketti ready yet? I'm starving!"
"Almost, buddy," Janie laughs, her voice lighter than when she talks to me. "Can you please put these on the table for me? Just the forks and napkins."
"I can do it!" He drops the dinosaur and pulls open a drawer, all business. His determination to do it himself sends a jolt through me.
He's mine. All me.
Dinner is chaotic in the best way. Beckett slurps his noodles with abandon, sauce speckling his chin and cheeks. He barely takes a breath between stories, jumping from playground politics to dinosaur facts to soccer.
"And then Coach Mike said we are going to have a big soccer party! I told him the special way you showed me how to fake out the other guys with the ball, Warren." He demonstrates with his fork, sending a piece of garlic bread flying.
I catch it midair. "Nice save, right?"
Beckett erupts in giggles, and I glance up to find Janie watching us, her eyes soft with something I'm afraid to name. She looks away quickly, but not before I catch the hint of a smile.
"Mom says I can join the club team when I turn eight if I keep practicing," Beckett continues, cramming half a meatball into his mouth.
"That's great. I played travel soccer when I was a kid."
"Really? Did you score lots of goals?" His light eyes widen in awe.
"A few. I was better than your Uncle Blake, I can tell you that." I laugh, fondly remembering our rivalry on the field.
"Mom has pictures of you and Uncle Blake playing. I love that he's your best friend. Will Marks is my best friend."
I look at Janie, surprised. She shrugs, cheeks flushed.
After clearing plates, Beckett tugs my hand. "You have to see my block city! I've been working on it all week."
"Maybe another time, Becks. It's getting late."
His face falls instantly. "No, tonight! You have to see it tonight!"
Something in his plea crumbles my resolve. I've missed over four years of his life. What's another hour?
"Okay, show me this masterpiece."
While Beckett arranges blocks across the dining table, his top teeth biting on his bottom lip in concentration, Janie touches my elbow lightly and nods toward the porch.