30. BAILEY
Chapter thirty
BAILEY
By the second day of giving Finn space, I hate the space.
It’s easy to tell myself I asked for it because it was healthy and mature and necessary. It’s less easy to admit I also asked because loving Finn is starting to feel like standing at the edge of something deep with no railing, and pregnancy has made every emotion too sharp to hold barehanded.
I miss him.
Not the texts about prenatal vitamins. Not the baby links or the car seat research or the way he keeps trying to predict every possible thing I might need before I can need it.
I miss him.
His body taking up too much space in my kitchen.
His mouth on my temple when he thinks I’m half asleep.
The quiet way he watches me when he forgets to hide how much he cares.
The man who took me to the coast and talked about favorite books and old dreams like we still had time to set the baby aside and learn more about each other.
Which is why I’m standing in my kitchen organizing my tea while Emerson and Jade sit at my table pretending they are not watching me fall apart in a calm, functional way.
“You know,” Jade says, “when a person alphabetizes tea, there are usually two possibilities.”
“I’m not alphabetizing.”
“You moved chamomile before ginger.”
“That’s categorizing by mood.”
Emerson looks into her mug. “That might be worse.”
I turn from the cabinet. “I invited you over for support.”
“You got support,” Jade says. “Support sometimes includes observation.”
“I’m fine.”
“No,” Emerson says gently. “You’re working very hard to look fine.”
That pulls the air out of me.
I close the cabinet and grip the edge of the counter. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
Neither of them rushes to answer. That is the mercy of women who love you enough not to throw solutions at your feet just because you’re hurting.
Jade’s voice softens. “Do you want him back?”
My eyes sting immediately. “Yes.”
“Do you want him back the same way?”
I turn around and lean against the counter, pressing one hand to my stomach without thinking. “No.”
Emerson nods like that is the whole point.
“I need him to let me in,” I say. “Not all at once. It doesn’t have to be perfect. I know that isn’t how this whole thing is going to work, considering how quickly we ended up here. But I can’t build a life with the version of him who only shows up with supplies and a smile.”
Jade’s expression softens in a rare, unguarded way. “Then maybe the space is doing what it needed to do.”
“Maybe.”
The doorbell rings.
All three of us go still.
My heart moves first, fast and hard, like it knows before the rest of me does.
Jade looks toward the front hall. “Expecting anyone?”
“No.”
But my voice gives me away.
Emerson stands. “We can go out the back.”
“You don’t have to.”
“We do,” Jade says, already grabbing her coat from the chair. “Because if that’s Finn, this is not a group project.”
She squeezes my arm when she passes, firm and quick. Emerson hugs me, softer, then follows Jade toward the back door.
“Call if you need me,” Emerson says.
“I will.”
“And Bailey?”
I look at her.
Her smile is small. “Listen to what he says. Not what you’re afraid he means.”
Then they are gone, slipping out through the laundry room like two very emotionally aware burglars.
When I open the door, Finn is standing on my porch in jeans, a dark long-sleeved shirt, and no coat, even though the February air is cold enough to make me pull my cardigan tighter around myself. His hair is still a little damp, like he showered recently. His hands are empty.
No flowers or soup. No folder, and no phone.
Just Finn, standing beneath my porch light with fear in his eyes and no smile, ready to cover it.
The sight of him empties my lungs.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi.”
His gaze moves over my face like he’s trying to see if he’s allowed to get any closer, but he doesn’t move.
“I left my phone in the truck,” he says.
The corner of my mouth trembles despite everything. “That was probably wise.”
“Yeah.” His throat works. “I didn’t trust myself not to check it if this got hard.”
Something in my chest pulls tight.
He doesn’t smile after he says it. Doesn’t soften the truth with a quick line or make it easier for either of us to look at. He just stands there with empty hands and tired eyes, letting the admission sit between us exactly as it is.
I step back. “Come in.”
He comes inside and stops in the entryway while I close the door behind him. For a moment, neither of us says anything. My house feels too quiet around us, every small sound exaggerated. The hum of the refrigerator. The rain against the windows. My own breath trying to stay even.
Finn looks down at his empty hands, then back at me. “I don’t have anything.”
“I noticed.”
“I almost stopped four times. Flowers. Soup. Those crackers you like. Tea.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because I wasn’t coming here to prove I paid attention to what you said.” His voice is low, rough around the edges. “I was coming here to tell you what I’ve been too scared to say.”
My chest tightens.
“Okay,” I whisper.
He takes a breath and looks toward the living room. “Can we sit?”
I nod.
We sit on the couch, close enough that I can feel his body heat but not touching. I want to reach for him, but I keep my hands in my lap.
Finn leans forward, forearms on his thighs, eyes on his hands.
“I had clinic today,” he says. “Carter had a rough day.”
I don’t say anything. I just wait for him to continue.
His mouth softens for half a second. “Still quiet and terrifying. Still better at looking like he doesn’t care than almost anyone I’ve ever met.”
“Almost?”
His eyes flick to mine.
There is the smallest breath of humor between us. Not escape or performance. Just relief that we are still us somewhere beneath the hurt.
“Almost,” he says.
Then it fades.
“He said something about the little kids. About how they fall and don’t care. And I could hear what he meant.” Finn looks down again, rubbing his thumb over the knuckle of his other hand. “That it must be nice to mess up and not expect it to become a reason someone gives up on you.”
My throat tightens.
“I told him I was in foster care,” he says.
I go very still.
He nods once, like he knows what that means. Like he wants me to know this is not a thing he hands out casually.
“I told him I knew what it was like to think being easy made you easier to keep. Funny if they wanted funny. Quiet if they wanted quiet. Useful before anyone had to ask.” His voice catches, and he stops for a second, jaw tight.
“I thought I was talking to him. Then I realized I was saying all the things I should’ve understood about myself. ”
I reach for his hand then because I can’t stop myself. He looks at our joined fingers like I’ve given him something to hang onto while he continues.
“I used to keep my stuff in trash bags,” he says.
The sentence nearly breaks me.
“When a placement ended, that’s what went with me.
Clothes, books if I had any, whatever I could keep.
I hated the sound of the plastic. Still do.
” He swallows. “The worst part wasn’t always leaving.
It was knowing it was coming before anyone said it.
Adults would get quiet. They’d stop looking right at me.
Start saying things like it isn’t your fault. Which meant it was already over.”
“Finn,” I whisper.
He shakes his head, not to stop me exactly. More like he needs to get it out while he still can.
“I learned to watch people. Learned what they needed. Learned how to become less work.” His eyes finally lift to mine, and they are bare in a way that makes my heart ache. “I didn’t know I was still doing it. Not like this. Not with you. But I was.”
His fingers tighten around mine.
“When you got pregnant, I was happy,” he says. “Terrified, yeah. Completely. But happy too. I wanted it. Not because it was easy or because I knew how to be anyone’s father. I wanted you. I wanted the baby. I wanted this family so badly, I didn’t know what to do with it.”
My eyes burn.
“So I started doing the only thing I know how to do when wanting something scares me.” His voice drops. “I tried to become impossible to send away.”
Tears press behind my eyes, but I hold them back. He’s still talking, and I want him to be able to get it out.
“I researched. I planned. I kept notes. I tried to be useful enough that you’d never have to wonder if I was serious. But the whole time, I was making you feel like a project instead of the woman I love.”
The word stops the room.
Love.
No announcement. No grand build. No dramatic pause made for effect.
Just Finn, looking at me like he is done hiding behind every safer version of himself.
“I love you,” he says.
My breath catches.
He doesn’t rush to fill the space after it. He doesn’t soften it with a joke. He doesn’t ask me to say it back.
He just lets the words sit there, real and exposed between us.
“I think I’ve loved you longer than I knew what to call it,” he says. “Before the baby. Before all of this got big and complicated. And I’m sorry I made it harder to believe that.”
Tears spill before I can stop them.
He starts to reach for my face, then stops himself.
That nearly breaks me.
I take his hand and press it to my cheek. His thumb moves carefully over my skin, wiping away one tear, then another.
“I was never asking you to be perfect,” I say.
“I know that now.”
“No.” I turn into his touch. “I need you to really hear me. I was never asking for perfect. I was asking for you. Messy, scared, unsure, whatever version is real in the moment. I can work with that. I can love that.”
His eyes close.
“I can’t love a performance forever,” I whisper.
When he opens his eyes again, they’re wet.
“I don’t want to make you chase me through it anymore,” he says.
“Then don’t.”
“I’m going to mess up.”
“I know.”
“I’m probably going to try to be useful when I don’t know what to say.”
“Probably.”
His mouth trembles. Not quite a smile. Not quite pain.