Page 146 of A Little Secret

There’s a lot of blood.

The words haunt me as I stare at the closed door separating me from my everything. Since when is there blood? Did it start during the game? Has it been going on for a while, and she didn’t tell me? How can I fix this? I need to fix this. I need to make sure she’s okay. That the baby’s okay.

“I need to fix this,” I voice aloud, though I’m not sure who I’m telling.

Stepping closer, I reach for the door, but Uncle Mack grabs my bicep and stops me. “Sometimes, we can’t fix things, Griffin.”

My gaze slices to his. He looks…scared. And my Uncle Mack is never scared. He’s like a moat. A quiet protector. He surrounds the people he loves, giving them room to grow and to be safe and to fucking thrive. But he’s never scared. Not even when Maverick dropped to the ground at a family party last summer. So, what the hell is this?

“Don’t say that,” I grit out. “Don’t tell me I can’t fix this.”

“I just want to make sure your expectations are where they should be,” he warns.

Like a punch to the gut, the air sputters from my lungs. I want to scream. I want to hit something. I want to run into Fin’s room and carry her out of here. Far away. Where nothing can touch her. Not even fate. The same familiar burn spreads from behind my eyes to the back of my throat, and I fist my hands at my sides. “What do I do, Mack?” I rasp, looking at Finley’s father like he holds all the answers because I sure as hell don’t. Not right now. Not in this moment. I feel helpless, and I hate feeling helpless. Like my hands are tied behind my back. Like it doesn’t matter what I do, I’m still spiraling. And sois Fin. I need to get to her. I need to…do something. Anything.

“You be the man my baby needs.” His voice cracks, and my chest splinters at the sound. Because if Mack is worried? If Mack’s worried, then there’s something to worry about, and I have no fucking clue if I’m strong enough to handle what’s on the other side of this door. My shoulders hunch as if I’m carrying the weight of the world, and maybe I am. Because if Fin’s okay, but the baby isn’t, I’m not sure how to handle it. If I can handle it. And if Fin’s not okay? I won’t survive it.

“Go on,” Mack mutters. “I’ll wait for everyone out here.”

My body feels like sandbags are tied to my limbs, but I force myself to move, knocking my split knuckles against the door, then I slowly push it open.

Aunt Kate’s sitting in a chair next to the hospital bed. A hospital gown covers Finley, and itchy sheets are spread out along her legs as she talks to her mom over the beeping machines. When Kate’s gaze lands on me, Finley follows it, her lips parting on a gasp when she sees me.

“Griff?” Her brows crash together, like she doesn’t trust her eyes. “What are you…what are you doing here? What about the game?”

Rushing toward her, I sit on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle her as I cup her face. “Are you okay, baby?” She looks pale, her gray eyes stormier than normal, her bottom lip trembling before she sucks it into her mouth.

“I, uh,”—a sheen hits her eyes—“I’m gonna go with no. I’m not okay.”

Pulling her into me, I hold my broken girl against my chest as her hands twist in my T-shirt.

“Stupid question,” I mutter against the top of her head, and she laughs softly.

“Kind of, yeah. But don’t worry. I forgive you.”

Hot tears seep into the fabric, and I squeeze my eyes shut, hating how lost I feel. How fucking helpless. I hate this. I hate this so fucking much, and I don’t know how to fix it.

A soft knock cuts through Finley’s quiet sobs, and she lifts her head, turning to the sound. A doctor in a pair of black scrubs stands at the entrance, his expression stoic but unreadable.

“Hello, I’m Dr. Brandish. I hear you’re having some cramping and bleeding?” He steps into the room.

Wiping the tears from her face, Finley answers, “Uh, yeah.”

“And how long has this been happening?”

“Uh,”—she licks her lips—“the, uh, cramping started a little bit last night but got progressively worse, and the, uh,”—she lets out a slow breath, her body tensing as another cramp hits her—“the bleeding started about…” turning to her mom, Finley gives her a questioning look. “Thirty? Maybe forty-five minutes ago?”

“And how far along are you?” Dr. Brandish prods.

“Um.” She presses her fingers into the corners of her eyes, then wipes beneath her nose. “Eleven?—”

“Twelve weeks on Tuesday,” I finish for her.

Dr. Brandish turns to me. “And you’re the father, I assume?”

The question hits as hard as it did the last time we were in a hospital together. When everything was so different, yet I wanted the answer to be the same, regardless. The reminder that whatever perceived control we convince ourselves we possess couldn’t be further from the truth is still very present. The realization that our lives, regardless of outcome, are about to be irrevocably changed, and there’s nothing I can do about it.

“He is,” Finley answers.

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