Love, Eventually

Chapter 7: Unseen Wounds

On his scheduled day off, Finnigan rose early and set out for a brisk jog, his feet pounding against the pavement in quiet rhythm. Lately, taking care of his health had become less of a choice and more of a necessity—especially after the recent diagnosis of high blood pressure.

Still, he wasn’t convinced it was just the food or the occasional drink. He couldn’t help but wonder if the stress of his crumbling marriage had taken a toll on his body too. He wanted to talk to someone—Michael, maybe—but even that felt impossible. What would he say? That he felt like a stranger in his own home? That he wasn’t sure his wife had ever loved him?

He didn’t want the pity. So, he said nothing.

When he got home, damp with sweat and thoughts he couldn’t outrun, he found Brielle getting ready for work.

“Emergency case?” he asked, noting her rushed movements.

“Yeah. I won’t be home tonight. My shift got extended—there aren’t enough doctors,” she said, brushing past him.

He nodded. “Take care.”

“You too. Don’t forget your meds. I made breakfast—so eat.”

He blinked, stunned. She made breakfast? In three years of marriage, this was a first.

“Wow. Okay. I will. Thank you,” he replied, managing a small smile.

She paused at the door, then glanced back. “Fin? I said I’m leaving.”

“Right. See you tomorrow,” he said quietly, watching her walk out.

As the door clicked shut, he let out a bitter breath. “Don’t fool yourself, Finnigan. She doesn’t love you.”

In the kitchen, a simple breakfast waited. Next to it, a note: Eat and don’t forget your meds. Take care.

He smiled faintly, reading it over again. Was she warming up to him? Or was it just guilt?

“Don’t get your hopes up, Fin. You’re not the love of her life,” he reminded himself as he sat down to eat.

Later that afternoon, he found himself back in the kitchen, cooking lunch. He couldn’t shake the thought that she might be too busy to eat. Maybe, just maybe, this would mean something. He packed the food, grabbed his keys, and drove to the hospital, holding on to a fragile thread of hope.

When he arrived, he headed straight to her office. He planned to leave the lunch with a note if she wasn’t there. But when he reached the door, he froze.

Through the small pane of glass, he saw her—with another man. Their closeness wasn’t professional. The soft way she looked at him. The subtle brush of their hands. It all screamed of something more.

The lunchbox trembled in his grasp. I was wrong, he thought, backing away. I read too much into a smile and a plate of eggs.

“Finnigan! Hey!”

He turned quickly, plastering on a smile as the doctor who had treated him approached.

“Hey, Doc. I’m good. Much better,” he said, though his voice was tight, brittle.

“What brings you in?”

“Oh, just brought some lunch for Brielle. Thought she might not get a break,” he said with a forced chuckle. “But she’s not in her office. Maybe she’s with a patient or something.”

The doctor nodded, none the wiser. “I thought maybe you were feeling unwell again.”

“No, no. All good,” Finnigan replied. “Thanks for checking in.”

He was just about to leave when he heard her voice call his name.

Brielle appeared in the hallway, alone now.

“What are you doing here? Are you okay? Is it your blood pressure again?” she asked, concern lacing her tone.

“I’m fine,” he said, quickly composing himself. “I just made lunch. Thought you might be too busy to eat, so… I brought it.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” she replied. “I can always eat at the cafeteria. But… thank you.”

She took the container from his hands gently, and for a moment, he just stared at her.

Was she being kind out of courtesy? Or trying to ease the inevitable?

“You’re welcome,” he said softly. Then, without thinking, he reached up and touched her cheek. She didn’t pull away.

“I love you,” he whispered.

It slipped out before he could stop it, and without waiting for her response, he turned and walked away.

Brielle stood frozen, the container in her hands feeling heavier than it should. He hadn’t said those words in over a year—not since that night she screamed at him, told him to stop pretending. He had never said them again. Until now.

Outside, Finnigan climbed into his car and let the silence engulf him. Tears slid down his face, unrestrained, as he gripped the steering wheel. It felt like everything inside him was breaking.

He drove home on autopilot, the world a blur. A deep sense of despair crept over him, heavier than anything he’d ever known.

Just days ago, he’d found a photo—Brielle smiling beside the same man. He’d wanted to believe it was nothing. A colleague. A friend. But today proved otherwise.

And now, the question haunted him: Had everyone known but him? Had they all chosen to spare him the truth?

Or had he just been too blind—too hopeful—to see what was right in front of him all along?