“Call me tomorrow. I’ve got to get a few things done before bed.”
“Sounds good. Love you.”
I end the call by switching over to Mom.
“To what do I owe the pleasure, Mother?”
I measureflour into the mixing bowl while Beckett spins around the kitchen island, dinosaur in one hand, soccer ball tucked under his arm.
"And then Coach Mike said I was getting really good at dribbling, Mommy. Did you see me? Did you see how Ikept the ball away from Cassidy?" He doesn't wait for my answer, continuing his breathless recap of yesterday's get-together for the kids to kick the ball around.
"I saw, buddy." I smile despite my exhaustion. "You were amazing."
Sunlight streams through the kitchen windows, catching dust motes in golden beams that dance across the countertop. I'm trying desperately to focus on these cookies Beckett begged for, but my mind keeps drifting to Warren sitting across from me at the fire the other night, his face softening for just a moment before his walls went back up.
A knock at the back door startles me from my thoughts.
Warren stands there, one hand raised against the glass. My pulse quickens embarrassingly as he steps inside, moving through my kitchen with the ease of someone who belongs here.
"Warren!" Beckett abandons his toys, barreling toward him. "I was just telling Mom about soccer! You should have seen us play yesterday!"
Warren crouches down, meeting Beckett at eye level. "Oh, you played yesterday? I thought your footwork looked sharp at the game on Saturday."
"It was a structured playdate, not a game or practice," I offer, worrying he thought I didn't let him know about a soccer event. I brace myself for Warren's usual pattern, which has been ten minutes of politeness before he makes an excuse to leave. Just long enough to connect with Beckett but avoid me entirely.
But instead, he clears his throat, standing taller. “There’s a fall festival set up in Delray tonight. Thought Beckett might like it.”
I freeze, flour-covered hands hovering over the bowl. He thought of it. He planned something for Beckett.
My chest stutters.
Beckett’s eyes go wide. He bounces on his toes, practically vibrating with excitement. “Please, Mommy! Please, please!”
I wipe my hands on a towel, trying to steady my breath. “Sure. Just have him back by seven?—”
"I was thinking the three of us could go."
My stomach flips, a rush of heat curling through me at the thought of the three of us together. This is progress, but I know better than to read anything into it, not yet, not when forgiveness is still so far away. But God, am I pumped.
I grip the edge of the counter to steady myself, flour dust smudging into my palms. His eyes stay locked on mine, steady, unblinking, like he’s daring me to turn him down.
“I’d like that,” I manage, trying to hide my complete excitement. I turn off the oven and pull out the cookies.
Ten minutes later, we pile into Warren's truck, Beckett buckled securely in the backseat, chattering about cotton candy and Ferris wheels.
In the front seat, the air is charged between us, every accidental brush of our arms electric.
It's a surprisingly quick drive. We pull into the dusty parking lot about fifteen minutes later. Thankfully, Beckett filled the air with his chatter, so it wasn't too terribly awkward.
The fair sprawls across the field like a neon-painted dream. Blinking lights, whirling rides, and a symphony of sounds wrap around us as we walk through the entrance.
Beckett bounces between Warren and me, his excitement physically impossible to contain. His small hand grips mine tightly, then, without warning, he reaches out and grabs Warren's, too.
My breath catches. Here we are, connected by our son's sticky fingers, walking three across like...
Like a family.
"The spinning teacups! Can we go on those first?" Beckett pulls us forward with surprising strength.