A Little Secret (The Little Things #4)

Chapter 31

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

FINLEY

M y knee bounces as I sit on one of the red cushioned chairs. We’re late. Three minutes, to be exact. Maybe the doctor is going to reschedule? It isn’t unheard of. Although I would feel bad wasting Griffin’s time and all, but he’s a big boy, and it’s not like he was doing anything anyway, so it’ll be fine. Completely. Totally. Fine.

“You nervous?” Griffin asks.

Jumping at the sound, I twist my hands in my lap and glance at the receptionist’s desk. “I can’t decide.”

He smirks. “You can’t decide whether or not you’re nervous?”

“I mean, I’ve already heard the heartbeat,” I point out as the memory of my emergency room visit not so long ago rises to the surface. Man, it feels like a lifetime ago. I shake it off, adding, “So, it’s not like they’re going to tell me anything too crazy, right?” My teeth dig into the inside of my cheek. “Although, I did go down the rabbit hole a couple of days ago about everything that can go wrong during a baby’s development, and it didn’t exactly give me any warm fuzzies, so...”

Griffin reaches for my hand in my lap and squeezes softly. “So that’s why you’re anxious.”

I shift toward him in my seat. “Am I so obvious?”

“The bouncing knee gave it away.” His grin softens. “You and the baby are going to be great, Fin. All the neurologist is going to do is make sure you and your brain and your baby are all in perfect condition. It’ll be fine.”

When his lips brush against my forehead, I hum, “Mm-hmm,” though I’m not entirely convinced. Not yet. And now that I’ve officially had some time to warm up to the idea of being a mom, the idea of losing the opportunity kind of really sucks.

“Finley?” a nurse calls. “Finley Taylor?” She must be new because I don’t recognize her. I know everyone at my neurologist’s office, thanks to my consistent visits since I was a baby. Dr. Reed and Dr. McDougal kind of split their duties as my primary neurologist thanks to moving in middle school, then winding up back here a few years later. Pretty sure both of them know me as well as my grandparents do, and that’s saying something. But the nurse? The nurse is new, and it feeds my anxiety. Short, curly silver-blonde hair. Baby blue scrubs. Probably my mom’s age. I’m sure she’s nice, but what if?—

Stop. Obsessing. Over. Nothing.

My legs wobble as I stand. Griffin joins me on my feet, keeping our fingers threaded together as we walk toward the nurse. She smiles, her eyes flitting over our hands, and she guides us to one of the rooms at the end of a long hallway. Doors line each side, and she stops at a scale, motioning for me to step onto it.

Once the numbers are recorded, she leads us to the last room, takes my vitals, and asks about any changes in medication and if I’ve had any other ER visits. Picking at my nails, I answer each and every question as the nurse makes notes in my file.

Satisfied, the nurse adds, “Dr. Reed will be right in.”

“Thanks.”

As she closes the door behind us, Griffin takes a seat on one of the vacant chairs and rubs his hands along his thighs, his eyes scanning the exam room with unrestrained interest.

I climb onto the large leather chair in the center of the room, cross my legs, and lean back on my hands. “Like what you see?”

“Just curious.”

“About what?” I prod.

“Don’t get me wrong. I know you’re an open book when it comes to epilepsy, but seeing the other side of it is…”

“Intriguing?” I offer.

His gaze falls to me, and he smiles. “Just like the woman herself.”

I laugh. “You know everything about me. Not sure the term intriguing fits. Not anymore.”

“Pretty sure I could spend the rest of my life with you, and I’d still find a secret or two.”

“Are you saying I have…layers?” I quip.

He smirks. “Are you about to quote Shrek ?”

“Like an onion?” I continue, ignoring his completely accurate assumption. “Am I an onion, Griffin?”

“You’re more like cake.” He stands, moves closer, and grips the sides of my chair, shifting closer. “Everybody loves cake.”

“Nah, I’m an onion,” I argue as my eyes fall to his mouth. “A big, stinky?— ”

A knock cuts me off, and Griffin jerks away from me like he was caught with his pants down.

Ha! Been there, done that.

“Hello,” Dr. Reed greets us. He hesitates, scanning Griffin’s tense posture and my red cheeks. “Did I interrupt something?”

“Only me and my boyfriend about to make out since you were taking so long,” I quip.

“Ah, so you’re the infamous Drew?” Dr. Reed offers his hand. “It’s nice to finally meet you. I’ve heard?—”

“This is Griffin,” I interrupt. “Griffin Thorne.”

Dr. Reed’s big eyes bulge behind his thick, black frames. “Oh. Of course. I apologize.”

“Don’t,” Griffin deflects. He takes Dr. Reed’s hand and shakes it. “Finley’s a hot commodity. Had to snatch her up while I could.”

Relief shines back in Dr. Reed’s expression as he lets Griffin go. “Of course. I assume it’s why you tied her down with a baby, too?”

Griffin opens his mouth to correct Dr. Reed, but I cut him off. “I mean, he’s a hockey player. It’s his job to slip one past the goalie, am I right?”

Griffin’s eyes cut to me, and he tilts his head.

Giving him a smile, I turn back to Dr. Reed. “And speaking of babies, I believe you owe me a congratulations, Dr. Reed.”

His laugh is warm and inviting as he shakes his head back and forth. “Congratulations, Finley. Do your parents know?”

“Not yet,” I answer. “I’m waiting until I’m out of the woods.”

He frowns. “Then you’ll be waiting a long time.”

My lips part in confusion because that’s the last thing I expected him to say. I’ll be waiting a long time until I’m out of the woods? What? Why? How? I thought…I thought the first trimester’s a doozy, but after that, everything would be…smooth sailing. Am I wrong? And if I am, what else?—

“What do you mean?” Griffin interjects.

“Well,” Dr. Reed unlocks the iPad in his arms and begins scrolling through what I assume is my chart. “I’ve looked over the file the ER doctor sent, and even though things looked good at that point, because of your epilepsy, your pregnancy is considered high-risk.”

My brows crease. “I’m sorry, high…risk? What does that mean?”

“It means because of your medication, you have a slightly increased risk of miscarriage, but?—”

“Can I stop taking the medication, then?” I ask.

He shakes his head and folds his arms, pressing the iPad to his chest. “I don’t recommend it, no.”

“For my safety or the baby’s?” I challenge.

“Both,” he answers simply. “But don’t stress, Finley. I’ve dealt with plenty of patients who have gone on to have full-term, healthy babies, including your mother. Rarely is there an issue. Honestly, I’m not very worried about you or the baby, but you know me. I’m upfront, and I don’t beat around the bush. You’re young. This is your first pregnancy. And you have epilepsy. The combination makes for a high-risk pregnancy, but the label doesn’t doom you to failure. Have you found your obstetrician yet?”

I shake my head. “It’s been on my to-do list, but I figured I could wait until twelve weeks or…whatever.”

“Not a problem, but I do suggest you find one sooner rather than later. Would you like me to recommend someone?”

I nod, feeling like a deer caught in headlights. “Obviously.”

With a warm smile, he replies, “I can do that for you. ”

“What precautions can we take?” Griffin asks. “Is there anything we can do to mitigate any potential challenges to make sure they’re both safe and…healthy?”

“Excellent question.” Dr. Reed rocks back on his heels. “Take it easy. Don’t overexert yourself. Listen to your body. Continue taking your medication. Don’t forget your prenatals. And I want to make sure you’re checking in with me or your obstetrician on a regular basis. No missing appointments,” he warns, eyeing me over the thick rims of his glasses.

I look at Griff and hook my thumb toward Dr. Reed, overwhelmed and close to hyperventilating as I paste on a fake smile. “Would you look at this guy? It’s like he doesn’t even trust me.”

“I know you,” Dr. Reed interrupts. “I know you far too well.”

“Mm-hmm,” I hum, praying he can’t see the way my body shakes or the sheen I can feel hitting my eyes.

High-risk.

My pregnancy is high-risk.

Take it easy. No exertion. So, what? Am I just supposed to sit still and do nothing? Can I even go to classes? What about work? Do I quit? I mean, I can if I need to. I…oof. This just became a lot more…real, and I feel a lot more…alone.

A warm hand encompasses mine, and I look down, finding Griffin’s fingers tangling with my own in my lap. My attention trails up his strong forearm and lands on his kind, reassuring gaze. “We got this,” he murmurs.

I gulp, unable to convince my vocal cords to work no matter how much I want them to. He looks so confident. So…solid. Like a rock. A handsome, optimistic, and dangerously positive rock .

Okay, not literally. He’s still Griff. The boy next door. My boy next door.

“We got this,” he repeats. “Promise.”

“Now, enough of the gray cloud conversation,” Dr. Reed suggests. “Let’s talk about the fun stuff.”