All of that, though, doesn’t erase the loss or the betrayal. But it makes it easier to understand.
The fire crackles, a log collapsing inward with a shower of sparks. Like us, it's breaking apart, reshaping into something new.
I open my mouth, not sure what will come out?—
"Warren! Come see, I finished my tower." Beckett's excited cheer cuts through our moment, his small face pressed against the sliding glass door, breath fogging the pane.
I nudge the door open, following my son's excited voice.
"Coming, bud."
I step into the family room where Beckett stands proudly next to what appears to be an elaborate stadium. Dozens of blocks are arranged in neat tiers, forming a bowl-shaped arena with a green napkin as the playing field.
I crouch beside him, my knees cracking in protest. "This is incredible, Becks."
"It's a soccer stadium." He points to a row of toy dinosaurs arranged along one side. "These guys are the fans. And look—" He places a small action figure in the center. "That's me scoring the winning goal!"
I nod gravely, as though I'm inspecting an architectural masterpiece rather than a barely recognizable replica. "You've done a great job."
He beams at the unfamiliar words, pride radiating from his small face. Behind me, I hear Janie's soft footsteps.
For one fleeting second, I’m whole. My son is beside me, vibrating with joy. Janie behind me, her breathing a steady rhythm like it was weeks ago, before everything shattered.
This could be mine. This could be us. If it weren't for all the shit that got us into this situation, the lies, the years lost.
The thought hits so hard I have to stand, my chest too tight to breathe.
“I should get going.” My voice comes out rough.
Beckett’s face crumples. “But I thought we were going to practice kicks again!”
“Another time, buddy. Now it’s bedtime. I promise we will do it again soon.” I ruffle his hair, marveling at the softness.
He studies me, then nods solemnly. “Pinky swear?”
I hook his small finger with mine. “Pinky swear.”
Janie walks me to the door, arms crossed, holding herself like armor. The foyer is warm, lived-in. A row of shoes by the mat, Beckett’s jacket half-zipped on the hook.
At the door, she hesitates and bites her lip. “You could stay,” she blurts. “Maybe a movie? Beckett loves those dinosaur documentaries.”
Hunger rips through me. My gaze lingers on the flecks of gold in her hazel eyes, the small scar above her eyebrow. My hand almost lifts before I force it down.
God, I want to.
But I shake my head. “No. Thanks for dinner. I enjoyed tonight.”
I step into the night, the cool air sharp against my heated skin.
“Goodnight, Warren.”
“Goodnight, Janie.”
The door clicks shut. Beckett’s laughter carries through the walls, and I stand frozen on the porch.
It’s never been harder to walk away.
TWENTY-ONE