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“My name is Finley Daniels,” she sobs.
“Jesus. I didn’t think about it.”
“Why would you? I lied to you!” She pulls away, still crying. “It’s been lovely, but perhaps I should go back if I’m not—if I’m not pregnant. Just give you a bit of time, now that your arms are moving a bit more and everything.”
My stomach flips so hard, I almost think I’m gonna be sick. “What do you mean? You want to leave?”
“No.” She steps closer. She’s still crying as she strokes my hair back. “Don’t go losing color in your face. We just got it back, you’ll recall.”
“I don’t get it.”
“It’s all right.” She’s wiping at her eyes. “I’m just…a bit afraid. And I don’t want to be a burden, ever.”
More tears streak down her cheeks, and she wipes them. “I adore it here. It seems too good to be true. I think I’m waiting for the other shoe to fall.”
I feel her tremble, and I realize—God, she’s gotta be so shaken up. I got shot, yeah, and it was hell worrying about her on the trip to Cape Town. Then I got worked up over the Dilaudid, and got kind of fucked up by withdrawing again right around the time she got here. But I’m American, and I’m back in America with Finley—who I love more than the world. If I can’t play ball again, I know I’ll do something. Staying here and making babies with her seems like a damn good backup plan to me.
For Finley, though, her whole life changed. “I’m so fucking self-involved, I didn’t realize.” She’s so sweet and strong, a guy could take advantage of it without even meaning to. “I’m sorry, baby. I don’t want to be like that. I want to know what’s on your mind.” I kiss her temple. “Don’t keep this stuff to yourself, okay? Being a moody prick and not talking about shit is my job.”
We make up with sex. The next morning, I wake up before her. I can raise my hands up to my ears now, if I’m careful, so I call around and make an appointment. The next day, a Tuesday, I get us an Uber and we go to tiny downtown Leavenworth.
We eat cheeseburgers at a picnic table by the creek, and Finley grins as I feed myself…slowly. Then I’ve got my first official PT session. I’m so sore after that Finley gives me tincture from her purse, so I’m a little fuzzy as I try to explain to her about the therapist.
“You did what?”
“I booked us in…to talk to this lady. She’s older…like mom-aged. If we had a mom.”
“It wouldn’t be the same mum.” Her eyes are huge. She looks completely confused. I start laughing, and I can’t stop till it hurts.
“Carnegie. Calm yourself.”
“Sorry.”
“We’re doing what?”
“I thought we could talk to this lady—her name is Rachel Meyer—about what happened.”
“What happened? Oh right,” she whispers. “You got shot, and I’m a widowed, hell-bound liar. I don’t want to tell this person about it. She’ll say you should never speak to me again. Who do you think has got the raw deal? It’s not me!”
“Siren. Dammit. Where’s your sense of self-love. Isn’t that the big thing? Like on Instagram? I see it all over the fucking place…you need self-love.”
“Do I?”
“Yeah, you gotta love yourself like I do.”
“Like you love yourself?” She crooks a brow, and I laugh. “No—like I love you.”
“And you love yourself like I love you?”
“I don’t know. There’s goals and there’s reality.” I laugh at myself. She sighs loudly and kisses me before we start to walk.
“How do you know where to go?” I ask.
“I’m following your walking GPS.” She holds my phone up. “Put her name in just now. Keep up, Rexie.”
“I’ll show you up when we get home.”
She smiles, but it’s not her normal smile. It seems tighter. I can’t figure out what about that tense smile bothers me so much until after the meet and greet with Rachel, our new sort-through-all-your-deepest-feelings-ologist.
