"Almost?"
"He leaned in, and I thought it was about to go down, and then he stopped and said he had to go."
Gemma sighs. "That man has more restraint than a monk."
The memory of Warren’s conflicted face flashes through my mind. “The weird thing is, even though nothing happened, and I know he’s fighting it, I can picture it.”
“Picture what?”
My throat goes dry. “Warren. Not just as Beckett’s dad. As… mine too. Like he belongs with us. Shit. I'm a goner.”
The words crack something open in me, equal parts longing and terror.
“That terrifies you,” Gemma says softly.
“Of course it does.” I rub my pointer finger along the corrugated sleeve of my coffee cup. “Because if I’m wrong, if I let myself believe he wants more than just showing upfor Beckett, then I’m not the only one who gets crushed. Beckett will too. And Blake…” I trail off, shaking my head. “There’s a lot more at stake than my heart.”
Across the field, Beckett runs after another child on the field.
Gemma's voice softens. "Janie, you deserve to live again. You're only twenty-seven. You've been in survival mode for years. Let yourself take a leap. Maybe you need to be the one to push. Based on what you're saying, I think he wants it, but you're going to have to make the move. If it fails, then you pick yourself up and you'll survive."
"What if I'm reading it all wrong?" The words come out as a whisper. "You're hearing all of this through my lens. Maybe I'm crazy."
"You're definitely crazy. I stand by my advice. Go for it and see what happens."
"I have to go. We're heading to Mom's to help with Thanksgiving prep for tomorrow."
"Is Warren still coming?"
"Oh, yeah. God help us."
I hang up and tuck the phone into my pocket, calling out to Beckett.
"Time to go, buddy! Mimi's waiting!"
He races toward me, cheeks flushed, eyes bright. Warren's eyes.
Mom's kitchensmells like sage and butter. I came over yesterday to help her get most of this ready, but we have a few day-of things to prepare.
I whisk the gravy, trying not to watch the door while everyone bustles around me.
"Janie, those potatoes need mashing." Mom points witha wooden spoon. Her apron reads Kiss the Cook, faded from a hundred washings.
I abandon the gravy and grab the potato masher. "On it."
Beckett races through the kitchen, Emma and Tyler at his heels. "Mom! Tyler's got a new space game upstairs!"
"That's great, Becks. No running in the house," I yell after him.
The kids disappear in a thunder of footsteps. Dad turns up the football game, settling into his recliner with a contented sigh. Blake and Cile set the table, arguing playfully about the proper way to fold napkins.
The doorbell rings. My heart slams against my ribs.
"I'll get it!" Mom calls, wiping her hands on her apron.
I keep mashing, harder than necessary, potato bits flying.
"Warren!" Mom's delighted voice floats from the entryway. "Happy Thanksgiving, you handsome turkey! So glad you could join us."