28. BAILEY
Chapter twenty-eight
BAILEY
By the time Finn asks whether I’ve noticed a pattern between nausea and weather changes, I know something has to give.
Not because the question is awful.
It isn’t.
It’s thoughtful, technically. Most of what Finn does lately is thoughtful if I examine each piece on its own.
The ginger tea he leaves on my porch after late practice.
The crackers he keeps in his truck, his hockey bag, and possibly every room he has entered since January.
The way he texts me after road games, even when I know he’s tired.
The way he remembers which smells have become enemies and which foods are currently not allowed within a five-foot radius of my body.
I know he’s trying.
But somewhere between the appointment and now, trying has started to feel like standing under fluorescent lights while someone keeps adding items to a checklist I never asked for.
I’m sitting on my couch with my feet tucked beneath me, wearing leggings and one of Finn’s Ravens hoodies, because apparently I’m now the kind of woman who steals clothing from the man currently overwhelming her. The universe has a very specific sense of humor.
Finn is in my kitchen, rinsing the mug I used for peppermint tea and pretending not to glance at his phone every forty seconds.
He thinks I don’t see it.
I see him all too well now.
Maybe pregnancy didn’t give me a glow, but it absolutely sharpened my ability to notice when Finn O’Malley is one nervous thought away from turning into a spreadsheet.
“Is that from a website?” I ask.
He looks over his shoulder. “What?”
“The nausea and weather thing.”
His face does the thing it does now when he realizes he has been caught caring too loudly. Not guilt exactly. More like a kid hiding a broken vase behind his back when the pieces are already on the floor.
“I saw something,” he says.
“Of course you did.”
“It wasn’t a weird site.”
“That’s not really my concern.”
He dries his hands on a towel and comes back into the living room. “I’m not trying to annoy you.”
“I know.”
He sits on the other end of the couch, close but not close enough.
We never used to sit like that. Even before the pregnancy, there was always some kind of pull between us.
His thigh brushing mine. His hand finding my ankle.
My shoulder leaning into his before I had fully given myself permission to want that.
Now there are spaces everywhere. Not because he doesn’t want to touch me. Because he is constantly measuring himself.
Too much. Not enough. Too careful. Too worried. Too useful.
I hate it.
I hate it because I miss him while he’s sitting right there.
He sets his phone facedown on the coffee table, and the gesture should make me feel better. It doesn’t. I know the phone is still there. I know the notes are still there. I know his head is still full of questions he’s trying not to ask.
“What did I do?” he asks quietly.
My chest tightens because he doesn’t sound defensive yet. He sounds tired.
“You didn’t do one thing.”
“That sounds worse.”
“It’s not worse. It’s just...” I press a hand to my stomach, still more habit than awareness. “It’s been building.”
He looks at my hand, then away, like even that small gesture affects him.
I take a breath. “You’re tracking everything.”
His brows draw together. “Tracking?”
“My nausea. What I eat. How much I sleep. What time I text you back after work. When I sound tired. When I sound too awake. You’re keeping notes in your phone.”
His mouth opens, then closes.
So I was right, and I wish being right felt better.
“I’m not doing it to be creepy,” he says.
I let out a sad little laugh. “I didn’t say you were.”
“I just don’t want to forget anything that helps you.”
That is the worst part. The softness under it. The way the explanation makes sense. The way I can see the care and still feel trapped beneath the weight of it.
“I know,” I say. “But I feel like I’ve become something you’ve been tasked with managing.”
His face changes, and the first real hurt moves through his expression before he can hide it.
“That’s not what you are to me.”
“I know that.”
“Do you?” he asks, and now there’s an edge there. Not sharp enough to cut, but enough to show me how close we are to bleeding anyway.
I shift toward him. “Finn, I’m not saying you don’t care about me. I’m saying the caring keeps turning into tasks.”
He rubs both hands over his face, then drops them between his knees. “Because tasks are something I understand.”
The admission comes out low. Almost unwilling.
My throat tightens.
“Then help me understand the rest.”
He looks at me.
I keep my voice quiet. “What are you scared of?”
He exhales once and looks toward the dark window. Outside, rain streaks down the glass, silvered by the porch light. Inside, my living room feels too small for everything we are not saying.
“What am I scared of?” he repeats.
“Yes.”
“A lot.”
“That’s a start.”
He lets out a breath that almost becomes a laugh, but there is no humor in it.
“Currently? That I’ll miss something important.
That I’ll be on a road trip when you need me.
That I’ll say the wrong thing. That I’ll say nothing and make it worse.
That I’ll be too much. That I’ll back off and you’ll think I don’t care.
That every choice I make has twelve ways to hurt you if I get it wrong. ”
For a second, he is right there, close enough that I can feel the fear beneath the words. Then his gaze cuts to the phone, and I know what’s about to happen before his hand even moves.
“I was looking at car seats earlier,” he says, like he can catch the fear and put it somewhere safer.
“Not to buy one. Just to understand what we’ll need eventually.
There are installation classes, actually, and some hospitals do checks.
I thought maybe if I knew what the options were before we had to think about it, then it would be one less thing for you to deal with. ”
The ache inside me breaks open.
“Please stop.”
His hand goes still around the phone.
I don’t raise my voice.
“Please stop turning away from me every time you get close to saying something real.”
He stares at me. “I am saying something real.”
“No. You’re saying true things. That isn’t the same.” My eyes burn, and I blink hard because I don’t want to cry through this. I want him to hear me. “The fear was real. What you just said about being scared to get it wrong, that was real. And then you ran straight into car seats.”
His jaw tightens.
“I’m trying to be responsible.”
“I’m not asking you to be irresponsible.”
“Then what are you asking me to be?”
The question hangs there, raw and frustrated.
I look at him, at this man I’m falling in love with, this man who holds my hand like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he loosens his grip, this man who wants so badly to be good for me that he’s slowly disappearing behind the effort.
“I’m asking you to be here,” I say.
“I am here.”
“No, you’re not. Your body is here. Your research is here. Your lists are here. Your panic is definitely here.” My voice catches, but I keep going. “But every time I get close to the part of you I need, you bury it under another plan.”
He flinches. I hate that, but I keep going while I have his attention.
“I don’t need the team mascot,” I say more softly. “I don’t need the guy who keeps everyone entertained so nobody notices when he’s scared. I don’t need a perfect co-parent performance or a man who can recite safety ratings before we’ve even figured out what dinner I can keep down.”
He tries to smile then.
It’s small. Automatic. Gone almost before it fully forms.
“Good,” he says, voice strained. “Because I’d be a terrible mascot. I don’t have the knees for it.”
And there’s the joke. One small, tired attempt to slide out from under the moment.
And something in me finally reaches its limit.
“Don’t.”
His smile vanishes.
“Bailey.”
“I mean it. Don’t do that right now.” My voice shakes, but I don’t look away. “I don’t need a performance, Finn. I need you.”
The room goes painfully quiet.
I can see the words get through. Not because they’re cruel. Because they leave him with nowhere to go.
No joke that will fit. No article to open. No gear to research. No errand to run.
Just me, sitting in front of him, asking for the part he has spent most of his life protecting.
His face goes still in a way that scares me more than anger would.
“I don’t know what that means,” he says.
The honesty in it nearly breaks me.
“Yes, you do.”
He shakes his head once, looking down at the phone in his hand like he doesn’t remember picking it up. “No, Bailey. I know how to show up. I know how to do things. I know how to make sure you have what you need. I know how to be useful.”
“You are more than useful to me.”
He looks back at me, and there is something lost in his eyes now. “Then what am I when I’m not?”
The question is so quiet I almost miss it.
I wish I could answer it for him.
I wish I could reach inside him and pull out the truth, hold it up where he can see it, prove that he is wanted without earning it, loved without performing, needed without being turned into a job.
But I can’t do that part for him.
And I’m so tired.
Tired from work and nauseous. Tired of being scared. Tired from wanting him so badly while feeling him slip away from me inside his own panic.
I press both hands over my face for a second, then lower them.
“I think I need tonight,” I say.
He freezes. “What does that mean?”
“It means I need space to breathe. Just tonight.”
His face empties so fast I want to take it back.
But I don’t. Because if I do, we’ll keep doing this. He’ll keep trying to be perfect. I’ll keep pretending I’m not lonely while he stands right beside me. We’ll bury the real thing under plans and good intentions until neither of us can find it.
“I’m not asking you to disappear,” I say quickly.
His throat moves. “It feels like it.”
“I know.” The words hurt because I can see that they’re true for him. “But I can’t keep trying to reach you while you’re trying this hard not to be reached.”
He stands slowly, as if moving too fast might make the whole room collapse.
“I don’t know what to say,” he says.
“I don’t either.”
He looks toward the door, then back at me. “Do you want me to go?”
No.
Yes.
I want him to stay and be different. I want him to sit down, put the phone away, and let himself fall apart in front of me so I can hold him through it. I want him to know how to do that without me dragging it out of him.
“I think I need you to,” I say.
Pain moves across his face before he turns away from it.
He picks up his jacket from the chair, then stops with it in his hands. For a second, I think he’s going to argue. Promise. Explain. Try to fix the leaving before he has even walked out.
Instead, he looks at me.
“I’m not gone,” he says.
My eyes fill.
“I know.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
He nods once, but it doesn’t look like he believes me. Not fully.
Then he leaves.
The door closes softly behind him.
I sit on the couch, still wearing his hoodie, still feeling the shape of his absence in every corner of the room.
For a few minutes, I don’t move.
Then my phone buzzes on the coffee table.
Finn: I’m here if you need me. I’m not going anywhere.
I read it once.
Then again.
My chest aches so badly that I press my palm against it like that will help.
I type three different responses and delete them all.
Finally, I send the only one I can manage.
Me: I know.
The dots appear.
Disappear.
Then one more message comes through.
Finn: I’ll be here tomorrow, too.
That is what finally makes me cry.
Not hard. Just enough for everything I’ve been holding to spill over.
Because I believe him, and believing him still doesn’t make tonight hurt any less.