Page 51 of Riptide

Chapter twenty-two

Finn

I’mgroggyashelltoday, unlike my niece, who’s kicking her little legs on her play mat like she’s trying to take flight, fists clenched, eyes wild, cheeks flushed with effort. She’s got that focused look in her eyes. She looks just like Daph right now. My sister gets the same look when she’s going for something she wants. And Rosie’s about to throw down with that smug stuffed penguin she always side-eyes.

“I’m not a fan either, baby girl. That penguin looks shifty.”

She grunts, high-pitched and determined, wriggling her tiny body with so much drama. Her neck strains, feet plant, hips twist like she’s channeling all her baby strength into this one, singular mission. She’s tiny, but so freaking strong.

“Don’t you dare,” I warn, dropping to my knees beside her. “You’re not allowed to roll for the first time when your mom and dad aren’t here. That’s betrayal, Ro.”

She turns her head toward me, eyes big and sparkling like she knows. Like she’s about to roll and then gaslight me into thinking it didn’t happen.

“I mean it,” I say, hands hovering like I’m ready to intervene in case she pulls some Matrix-level baby move. “You wait until your mom and dad get home. I swear, if you flip over before they walk through that door, I’m never going to recover.”

Another grunt. Another determined little kick. Her arm flails wildly and lands on the penguin, knocking it over like she’s asserting dominance.

“That’s right,” I mutter. “Take your rage out on him, not me.”

Then her torso tilts, hips roll, and for a terrifying second, she rocks halfway to her side, enough that her weight shifts and gravity starts doing the rest.

“Shit, no, no, no—” I lunge, my palm brushing the edge of the mat as shealmost—almost—makes it all the way over. But she doesn’t. Thank fuck.

Instead, she collapses dramatically onto her back, arms flopping to her sides, lips puckering in frustration. I sit back on my heels, exhaling hard, heart actually pounding. “Jesus, Ro. You’re gonna give me a heart attack before you hit six months.”

She gurgles sweetly, content to bat at the plastic giraffe dangling above her like nothing just happened.

I collapse onto the floor beside her, sprawled on my back, my breath caught somewhere between excitement and fear and exhaustion.

“You chill,” I murmur. “No rolling. Not today. Not on my watch.”

She coos and makes some noises as I try to muster the courage to sit up again, but all the fight has left me. Talking to Foxx the other night has brought some of the nightmares back. I haven’t had many since moving back here, but last night, I was under the water, searching for what felt like hours, only to never find Jared. It’s the same as always; the moment I dive under the water plays like a loop, but I’m only ever met with the ocean staring back at me, waves above my head. I rub my eyes, tryingto erase the memory that feels so vivid still when the front door opens.

“Hey, it’s just me,” Hudson calls out, keys clinking into the bowl. His voice echoes through the entryway.

“In here,” I manage, still flat on the floor.

His steps thunk as he rounds the corner, brown paper bag in one hand, his hoodie in the other.

“You look dead,” he says, grinning. “Ro finally win the cage match?”

“She’s more savage than she looks,” I reply as I sit up on my elbows. I don’t mention the near-roll, because I’m 99% Hudson would cry if he knew he missed it. Daphne too, but Hudson for sure would blub.

Rosie squeals when she sees him, all gummy smiles and flailing limbs.

“Hey, little monster,” he coos, kneeling beside her. “You giving your uncle hell?”

He ruffles her light curls and drops a kiss to her cheek, then flops onto the floor beside me, digging into the paper bag.

“I got that turkey sandwich you like. And an extra cookie, because I’m an excellent provider.”

I chuckle. “Thanks.” He hands me the sandwich, and I take it but don’t unwrap it. Just hold it, fingers working at the edge of the foil like I’m thinking about opening it. Iamthinking about it. But mostly I’m just...here. Stuck in the weight of last night. Of dreams I thought I’d outgrown.

Hudson opens his own sandwich, takes a huge bite, chews for maybe two seconds, and then side-eyes me.

“You’re not eating,” he says, mouth half full.

“I will,” I say with a tired yawn.

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