Love, Eventually

Chapter 6: Almost Home

Finnigan had been stuck in the hospital for days now. Not once had Brielle come to see him. Still, he said nothing to their parents. Instead, he lied—told them she came by when she had a free moment, always too quick to stay long. The truth was something he carried alone: she didn’t care. And it hurt more than he was willing to admit.

But even in the ache, there was clarity. She had never promised him love. They had been forced into this. He couldn’t blame her for being honest about it.

Three years, and he still felt like a stranger in his own marriage.

The door clicked open. His doctor, a friend of Brielle’s, walked in with a clipboard in hand and a kind smile. “Morning, Finn. How are we feeling today?”

“Better,” Finnigan said, forcing a smile. “Any chance I can finally get out of here?”

“Actually, yes,” the doctor said, brightening. “You’re being discharged this evening.”

Relief surged through him. The scent of antiseptics, the bland food, the echoing silence—it had all been too much. “Thank God.”

“But,” the doctor warned, “take it easy. Your blood pressure was dangerously high. No stress, no overworking yourself. I’ve already told Brielle to look after you. Don’t give her a hard time.”

The irony wasn’t lost on him, but he chuckled anyway. “I won’t. I’m sure she’ll take great care of me.”

The doctor grinned, oblivious. “Good. Just—don’t make the hospital a second home. Get those check-ups regularly.”

“I’ll try,” Finnigan said.

Not long after the doctor left, his parents arrived, both visibly relieved.

“Sweetheart,” his mother said, taking his hand. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m okay. I’m being discharged this evening.”

“Thank goodness,” she breathed. “Do you want us to come get you?”

Finnigan shook his head gently. “It’s alright. Brielle will take me home.”

She paused, searching his eyes for something, then nodded. “If you’re sure.”

His father added, “Everyone at the precinct misses you. They send their love.”

“I miss them too. Tell them I’ll be back soon.”

His mother reached out and gently smacked his hand. “Stop thinking about work. You’re just getting better.”

Finnigan laughed softly. “I’ll rest. I promise.”

Later that evening, Finnigan changed into his own clothes, signed the discharge papers, and walked out into the fading light. He didn’t go home right away. Instead, he asked the cab driver to drop him at the park.

He needed to breathe again.

The cool air brushed against his skin as he walked past laughing children and parents enjoying the twilight. He watched them with quiet longing, imagining a life he may never have. A life where he was a father. A husband loved.

But with Brielle, that future seemed impossible. Three years, and she still couldn’t bring herself to accept him.

And maybe that wasn’t her fault.

Maybe it was time to stop hoping.

Back at the hospital, Brielle’s heels clicked sharply across the floor. She’d rushed over after speaking with Finnigan’s mother—who had assumed Brielle would be there to bring him home. But when she reached his room, it was empty.

No Finnigan. No bag. No message.

She tried calling him again—voicemail.

Her chest tightened with anxiety, though she told herself it wasn’t about him. It was about what she would say if his mother called. What if he’d collapsed? What if something had happened?

She drove home, hands gripping the wheel too tightly. As soon as she stepped through the door, she rushed to his room. Empty.

Panic twisted in her gut. “Where the hell are you, Finnigan?” she whispered.

She sank onto the couch, mind spinning. She thought of Michael—one of the few people he trusted—but she didn’t have his number. The minutes ticked by. Evening settled in. Her heart thudded louder with every passing moment.

Finnigan walked home beneath the amber streetlights, shoulders heavy, his phone long since dead. He hadn’t thought to charge it before heading out. Typical.

When he finally stepped inside, he barely had time to set his bag down before Brielle appeared in the hallway, tense and furious.

“Where have you been?” she demanded.

He blinked. “The park.”

“You were supposed to be home hours ago. Your mom told me you were being discharged. I went to the hospital.”

“My phone died.”

“You could’ve told me.”

“You didn’t visit me once,” he said calmly. “I didn’t think it mattered to you.”

Brielle faltered. “I—I was just worried. About your mom calling me, asking questions I couldn’t answer.”

He looked at her, wounded but quiet. “So you weren’t worried about me. Just the story you’d have to come up with.”

“That’s not fair—”

“No,” he cut in softly. “It’s fair.”

The silence stretched between them. He stepped past her.

“I’m tired,” he said. “I’m going to rest.”

He shut the door behind him.

Inside his room, Finnigan sat on the edge of the bed and stared into the dim space around him. Her words clung to him like smoke.

I don’t care about you.

Maybe she never would.

He thought about letting go—of the marriage, of the dream. Maybe it was time. But then he remembered the vows. The promise he made to her, to himself. And the weight of it kept him rooted, even when everything else told him to walk away.