“Sorry, did I wake you?” I don’t stop my laps back and forth across the living room’s rug as I speak.
“No. I… I couldn’t sleep either. Do you want tea?” Warren asks, his eyes following my frantic movements.
“Yes, please. Thanks.” I collapse into the armchair that faces the rest of the apartment, knees pulled into my chest. Warren walks over to the sink to fill the kettle.He sends me a quick, sympathetic glance over his shoulder before going about the kitchen.
I hug my knees tighter.Six hours until our visit with Connie.Today might be nothing, or it could be the start of the heartbreaking process where Connie decides Willow is too perfect to miss.How could she not?
A few minutes later, Warren hands me a warm mug. Instead of setting himself up on the couch across the room, he sits on the floor at the foot of my chair with his back leaned up against the coffee table.
“Thanks.” I take a small sip.
“How you holding up?” Warren asks, brows furrowed.
“Oh… you know…” I attempt to make my voice sound unburdened, but my tears threaten to pour, and my voice catches.
Something about the combination of Warren looking up at me with concern, the gesture of making me tea, the early morning quiet, the condensation on the windows blocking the view from outside—it all makes me feel safe to let my emotions run free.
Warren nods, thoughts whirling in those deep eyes of his. He takes a long sip from his mug before speaking.
“Ram has been bugging me about not taking time off. Last year I didn’t use any of my vacation days and um… I actually think I’m not feeling up for work today. So, if you’d like, I can drive you guys this morning. Stick around outside or—”
As Warren talks, I put my tea down on the side table and go to my knees on the floor in front of him. I shuffle closer until my arms are wrapped around his shoulders and my forehead is pressed into the side of his neck.He took the day off work forus.
Warren places his mug behind him, then wraps both arms around my waist. I twist, and with a small look of permission, sit across his lap. I curl myself into him.
I cry. He holds.
Minutes pass—ten, fifteen, twenty. He doesn’t rush me by speaking until I exhale a shuddering breath as my eyes dry.
“No one is going to take her from you, Chloe…” Warren’s voice is stern. “I’d love to see them try.”
He brings one hand up to my head and does a few long strokes over my messy morning hair, then down my back. I could fall asleep from the calming touch.
“Is this okay?” He shuffles his lap and holds me to him with one arm curling around my lower back, the other across my stomach, both meeting in a firm clasp at my hip.
“Perfect,” I mumble.Like a weighted blanket for my soul.
Last week, after I got the call about Connie’s visits, Luke and Warren sat with me for hours once Willow was in bed. They’ve had their dad come in and out of their lives—visits here and there. A few times it seemed like he would step up, but he never did. Their insight was comforting, and their vulnerability meant so much.
I told them about the day Connie didn’t show at the bus, the day she got custody back and we got ice cream, the day she hadn’t taken me to school one too many times without checking in, the day she ran out of chances. I bared my soul to them. It felt ugly but real. I hated it during, but afterward I felt a million weights lift off me.An authentic exchange.
Warren and Luke held space for my fears, my hurt and my worries. Not once did I feel like I needed to hold back, diminish, or hide. I had never felt that way before. Even in CPS-mandated therapy sessions, I had always suspected the wrong thing would get back to my parents. More than that, I really wanted the therapist to like me. She once called me her favourite client, and I never wanted that to change.
Show me your messy, Warren had said, and I was starting to believe he truly meant it. This morning confirmed it, once and for all.
“Warren?” I say, voice nasally from tears and snot.
“Yes, dove?”That peculiar nickname again.
“I’m so glad you’re here.”
I uncurl myself from his neck and sit up in his lap, reaching to place my palm on the stubble that surrounds his sharp jaw. I rub my thumb across the hollow of his cheekbone.
“Thank you.” I say, looking deep into his eyes.
Warren’s nostrils flare as he looks around at the carpet underneath us.
“Yeah.” His voice is strained and gruff. I know he keeps his words brief to avoid whatever emotions are coming up. He clears his throat with a deep inhale and a few coughs. “I know this weekend is a lot…” His voice trails off.
