23. FINN #2
I walk to her driver’s side, but I don’t open the door. I wait until she does it herself. When she steps out, she looks exhausted. Hospital tired, yes, but more than that. Like the shift took the surface layer off her and left everything underneath too close to the surface.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hi.”
I want to touch her. Put my hand on her back. Pull her into me. Do something useful, which is apparently where my brain goes when I don’t know what I’m walking into. But Bailey has that look on her face. The one that says if I’m too gentle, she might fall apart.
So I walk beside her to the porch. She unlocks the door, and this time her hands don’t shake, which scares me even more.
Inside the house, Bailey sets her keys down, then her bag. I stand a few feet away, giving her space I’m not sure she wants but probably needs.
“Do you want water?” I ask.
She looks at me, and I immediately regret the question. Not because it’s wrong, exactly. Just small. Ridiculous. Water. Like hydration is going to help whatever is happening here.
“No,” she says softly.
“Okay.”
She takes a breath, and I see the moment she decides not to drag this out any longer.
“I’m pregnant.”
For a second, I don’t hear anything except the rush of blood in my own head.
Pregnant.
My brain grabs the word and tries to turn it into something practical. Doctor. Appointment. Timeline. Vitamins. Her shift schedule. My travel schedule.
A baby.
Our baby.
That last thought comes so hard and fast I can’t move, and Bailey sees it. Her face changes just enough for me to know I’m already getting this wrong. I need to say something steady. Something that tells her I’m here, I’m not leaving, and I’m not saying the right thing just because I’m scared.
Instead, my panic grabs the wheel.
“Are you sure?”
Her chin dips like she expected the question. “Yes.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean, I just...” I drag a hand over my jaw. “You took a test?”
“Three.”
“Okay.” I nod too fast. “Okay. And you’re, how far, I mean, do you know how far?”
Her eyes lift to mine. “The wedding.”
My stomach drops and lifts at the same time, a sick, impossible motion.
San Francisco. The night I have replayed too many times and still somehow never imagined this.
I look away because the room tilts a little, and I need one second to get it back.
Bailey’s voice goes quiet. “Finn.”
I look at her immediately. “I’m here.”
The words come out rough, but true. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m not trying to, I’m just catching up.”
“I know.”
But she doesn’t sound like she knows. She sounds like she’s bracing, and that cuts through the static in my head.
“What do you need?” I ask.
Her expression tightens. Wrong question. No. Not wrong, exactly. Too logistical. Too soon. But my brain has already opened every drawer.
“Have you called a doctor? Are you feeling okay? You looked pale when you got out of the car. Are you nauseous? Do you need me to get anything? Or I can leave if you need space, but I’m not leaving leaving. I just mean I can step outside or sit in my truck or, fuck.”
I stop because Bailey is staring at me.
I close my mouth.
Smooth, O’Malley.
I take a breath, slower this time. “Sorry,” I say again. “That was too many questions.”
“Yeah.”
Her honesty almost makes me smile.
“I’m scared,” she says, and everything in me goes still.
I step closer, slowly. “Of me?”
Her eyes fill, but she blinks them back before the tears can fall. “Of your reaction.”
My chest aches. “Bailey.”
“I know you’ll do the right thing,” she says, and her voice shakes a little on the last word. “That’s the problem.”
I don’t understand at first, but when I do, I realize she’s not afraid I’ll run. She’s afraid I’ll stay for the wrong reason. Obligation. Guilt. Some ancient wound in me that hears pregnant and turns into duty because I grew up without a father or a mother.
I move closer, stopping only when there’s a foot of space between us.
“The right thing?” I ask.
She looks down. “You know what I mean.”
“No,” I say, gentle but firm. “Tell me.”
Her hands wrap around herself, fingers gripping the sleeves of her coat.
“I’m afraid you’ll say everything I need to hear because you’re a good man.
Because you know what it feels like when people don’t show up.
Because you don’t want to be the man who leaves.
” Her voice breaks now, just slightly. “And I won’t know if this is what you want, or if it’s just what you think you’re supposed to do. ”
For a second, I can’t answer.
Not because she’s right. Because she’s standing in front of me, scared that my choice could start looking like an obligation, and I hate that she has to wonder.
I hate that this is happening so fast that the thing between us might get buried under appointments and panic, and the word baby before I can make her understand I was already here.
I wanted her before I knew. I wanted whatever this was becoming before two lines on a test turned it into something neither of us could ignore.
The baby doesn’t make me choose her.
It makes the choice matter more.
I close the last bit of distance between us.
“Look at me,” I say.
She does.
Her eyes are wet now, and seeing that almost drops me to my knees.
“I am scared out of my mind,” I tell her.
A tear slips down her cheek.
I reach up and catch it with my thumb.
“I’m scared because I don’t know what I’m doing.
I’m scared because there are already ten thousand things I should probably know, and I don’t know any of them.
I’m scared because this is huge, Bailey.
It’s huge, and it’s us, and I’m standing here trying not to ask another stupid question about vitamins because apparently that’s where my panic goes. ”
For a second, she just looks at me.
Then her face starts to crumple, so I pull her into me before she can hide it, wrapping both arms around her and holding her against my chest. She stiffens for half a heartbeat.
Then she breathes.
A real breath this time. Shaky. Uneven. The first one I’ve felt from her since she got out of the car. She grips my shirt, and I hold her tighter.
“I’ve got you,” I say, because it’s the only thing I know for sure. “I’ve got you.”
“I don’t know what to do,” she whispers into my shirt.
“Me neither.”
She lets out a tiny sound that might be a laugh if either one of us were less wrecked.
“But I’m all in,” I tell her, because I need there to be no space for doubt there. “Appointments. Weird cravings. Panic shopping for baby stuff we don’t need. Reading whatever books you tell me to read. Whatever comes next, I’m in.”
She pulls back enough to look at me. “Finn.”
“I mean it.”
“I know you mean it right now.”
“No.” I cup her face because I need her to hear this. “Not right now. Not because I’m shocked. Not because I’m trying to do the right thing.”
She nods, but it’s small. Fragile.
I press my forehead to hers. “Do you need to sit down?”
She exhales, shaky. “There’s the logistics again.”
“I lasted almost ninety seconds.” That gets me the smallest curve of her mouth. Not a smile exactly, but close enough that it feels like progress.
“I should probably take off my coat,” she says.
“Good idea.”
I help her out of it, then we sit on the couch, her shoulder leaning into me.
She stares at the coffee table. “I haven’t scheduled anything yet. I only found out last night.”
“Okay.”
“And I don’t want everyone to know yet.”
“Then they won’t.”
“I told Emerson.”
“Good.”
Her eyes flick to mine.
“I’m glad you had someone,” I say.
For a few minutes, we sit there without talking. Rain taps against the windows. Bailey’s hand rests on her stomach, tentative, like she isn’t used to it being there. I look at it and feel something break open inside me so fast I almost can’t breathe.
Our baby.
I am terrified, but I’m not leaving.
“I’m going to need you to tell me what you want,” I say. “Not all of it tonight. Just as we go. If I’m too much, tell me. If I’m not enough, tell me that too.”
She looks down at our hands. “What do you want?”
The question pulls the truth right up to the surface. I know what I want. Because it isn’t only the baby. It isn’t only about doing the right thing. It’s Bailey, this room, my hand in hers, and the life I’m already picturing.
So I start with the part I can say. “I want to be here.”
Her eyes lift to mine. “With you,” I say. “For this.”
She swallows, and I feel her fingers tighten around mine. “And I want you to believe that someday.”
Her gaze searches mine for a long time. The fear is still there, in her eyes, in the careful way she holds herself beside me, but it isn’t the only thing I see anymore.
“Someday might take a while,” she says.
“I can do a while.”
The words come out before I can think about them, but once they’re there, I know they’re true.
So I hold her hand and stay still beside her, letting the quiet do what one speech can’t.
I’m here.
I’m in.
I’m not going anywhere.