Page 17 of A Little Secret
“What’s in your back pocket?”
My body freezes, and I reach for the stupid test, pressing my hand to it as if it’ll make the damn thing disappear. “Nothing.”
“I saw it, Fin,” Griffin counters. Pushing himself away from the wall, his eyes narrow in suspicion. “What is it?”
“A thermometer,” I blurt out. “I haven’t been feeling one hundred percent, and I figured if Everett knew, he’d call my parents, and they’d freak out, or better yet, he’d insist on staying home and making sure I’m okay, and I didn’t want him to worry, which is also why I was suspicious of you deciding to stay home out of the blue.”
Damn, I’m a good liar.
Sometimes, I even impress myself.
“Speaking of which,” I fold my arms, “why’d you decide to stay if it wasn’t to nurse me back to health? Everyone’s been gushing about this trip of a lifetime for weeks, that, by some miracle, you were able to squeeze in between games.”
Ignoring my question, he asks one of his own. “How are you feeling? Dizzy or anything?”
“I’m not going to have a seizure, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“That’s exactly what I’m asking,” he counters. “And are you sure?”
Sometimes, I hate my diagnosis. Epilepsy isn’t for the faint of heart, and even though my mom has the same neurological disease and held my hand through all the ups and downs, it doesn’t make it easier. The looks of pity. Concern. The kid gloves people use with me. Like right now. With the look in Griffin’s eyes, you’d think I told him I might puke all over the floor.
“You know, if you get to dodge my questions, I don’t see why I can’t dodge yours,” I argue. “Why’d you decide to skip the trip?”
“Not sure I owe you anything after your boyfriend’s little ultimatum,” he counters.
My lips press into a thin line as I stare up at him. Yeah, I’m short. Like can-I-put-her-in-my-pocket short. But even if I wasn’t, Griffin would still tower over me. All the guys do. Then again, I’m pretty sure being built like a brick wall is a prerequisite for being a hockey player, so it’s not like he’s anything special, but what do I know?
That’s right. Way too much, thanks to growing up with uncles who played in the NHL professionally and passed along their obsession with the sport to all their kids. Well, except for Tatum and me. Tatum is Ophelia’s little sister and one of my younger cousins. But I digress.
“You still letting Drew call all the shots, Fin?” Griffin demands.
“You really think I let anyone call the shots?”
“The old Finley wouldn’t have. This one, though?” His stone-cold gaze flicks over my body. “You tell me.”
This is the most we’ve spoken since SeaBird. And considering his chilly yet white-hot expression, I’m gonnasay, even though I’ve missed him, I think I prefer the silence over this. I want to call him out. I want to tell him he’s wrong, and I’m still the strong, independent woman who doesn’t let anyone push her around, but lately? Lately, I’m not so sure. And that’s…that’s a problem for another day. I dig my teeth into the inside of my cheek and squeeze the pregnancy test in my grasp. It’s still hidden in my back pocket. Still nauseatingly light considering how heavy its result might be. You’d think the weight of my future would be heavier, but nope. The thing is flimsy and plastic.
Reading my silence as stubbornness, Griffin rocks back on his heels. “That’s what I thought. Don’t have a seizure,” he warns. “And if you start to feel shittier, I’ll be in my room.”
His gait is familiar as he walks away. Like this is simply another day in the life of Griffin Thorne. And maybe it is. Maybe he’s used to putting up with me and my stubbornness. Especially lately. But watching him leave? It’ll never get easier, even if it’s something I should be used to by now.
I hate it.
CHAPTER FIVE
FINLEY
Istill haven’t looked at the pregnancy test results. Stupid? Yes. Cowardly? Also, yes. Justified? Not in the least, but hey. You win some, and you lose some. The test is tucked in my underwear drawer. After my shift at Rowdy’s, a restaurant where I waitress, I came home, changed into sweats, and started a murder documentary because, honestly? There’s nothing like a good, old-fashioned serial killer documentary and some popcorn to soothe a girl’s soul. I’ll also take Ben & Jerry’s in a pinch, but right now? I want some salty, buttery popcorn more than my left boob, which is weirdly sore, now that I think about it.
Reaching onto my tiptoes, I blindly dig in the cabinet for some kernels of the gods but come up empty. Of course, I do. With a huff, I climb onto the counter and stand up on it so I can actually see the top shelf.
Reeses’ peanut butter cups.
Nope.
Sweet Tarts.
No, thank you.