Page 47 of Everything But Mine

“About three years ago, my daughter changed.” Sandro’s after that makes my stomach knot. Everyone wants to talk about the worst mistake of my life, except the one person who can help me move past it. “She was gearing up for study abroad. Always planned to do it. Italy, the language, the heritage, the whole thing. She’d talked about it since she was a teenager. But it wasn’t supposed to be like that. Not moving up her start date. Not visiting us back home a single time. Not shutting down every conversation about the people here.” The wind tugs at the trees, and he inhales deeply before adding. “Didn’t take much to figure out you had something to do with that.”

“I made a mistake,” I say without hesitation. I’ve been owning it since the moment I saw her eyes that night. “I hurt her.”

He turns to me and wraps his fingers around my shoulders, squeezing with purpose but without malice. The pressure and weight of him helps ground me and keeps me focused for what I’m sure is coming.

“You’ve always been a good kid, Eric.” He tightens his grip. “I remember throwing a football with you right here in this yard. You were yay-high.” His hand drops to the height of his hips for a second. “Spent half your childhood at our place while Ellie worked evenings. You’d try to carry all the groceries at once—drop half of them on the way in. Then, when your mom started struggling, you didn’t want to play ball anymore. You wanted to learn how to cook. Pasta, risotto, things that didn’t cost much.”

His voice softens.

“You’ve always carried more than your share, son. And I’m sure that’s left marks.” Another squeeze. “Some things can’t be fixed by knowing how to stretch a budget.” His gaze drops to the grass before lifting again. “This kid’s going to need steady hands. The kind that don’t shake when the weight gets heavy.” He breathes out slowly. “As someone who cares about you almost as much as I care about my daughter, I need to say this. There are many things you can’t unburden yourself from. But this one… This doesn’t have to be yours to carry.”

It takes a second for me to register what his green eyes are implying. Fuck that.

I step back. His hand falls from my shoulder. Both of us square up, and only now do I realize that I’m taller than him. He’s not a father figure right now. And I’m not some overwhelmed kid.

“Amanda and this baby are not a burden,” I say, steady. “They’re mine. And they’re a privilege. My privilege. Every part of them.”

His eyes widen—a flicker I’ve seen in Amanda’s face too many times to count. Then he chuckles. He shoves his hands into his pockets. “Somehow, I saw it happen right in front of me, and still missed it.” He exhales. “You’re not a kid anymore. And neither is she. I don’t get to pretend you are.” He licks his lips. “You think you’ve got that in you, then? Steady hands?”

“Yes, Sandro. The steadiest.”

He watches me for a long moment, then nods—once, firm. “Good.” He claps my shoulder again, warm and heavy. “Right, then, son. You’re going to make a fine partner.”

He pulls his arms around my shoulder and brings me close to him as we head toward the house. I don’t correct him, don’t deny the word. Partner. I want it too much.

“Now, let’s get back in there before they start thinking I’m yelling at you.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

ERIC

There’s a quiet rhythm to living with Amanda, and as much as I’m loving it, I’d love it more if she used the damn key. Since she won’t, though, I make up errands, excuses, or “forget” things just to meet her on campus so we can commute back together. I can’t stand that she’d rather wait for me elsewhere than let herself in at home.

Because my place is her home now. The whole apartment smells of her, vanilla clinging to every surface. Her books are always in disarray, and condensation rings from hot tea mugs she never quite picks up are everywhere. There are also purple strands of hair on the bathroom counter and on my jackets, no matter how much she cleans after herself. It should irritate me. It almost does. Except I love every quiet, persistent sign that she’s here, stubborn and real, settling into a life with me. Even if she’s resisting how natural this all feels.

Right now, I’m dusting her bookshelf. I despise dusting, but Amanda hates it more. And I detest folding even more than that. So I dust, she folds. Division of labor, according to the most hated house chore.

The routines I’m building with Amanda speak to needs I didn’t even know I have, filling my cup before I realized it was half-full. It’s like Val said when she heard us meal planning—“so fucking domestic”—right before she fake-gagged and reminded us what a bad idea this is. For someone like me, who struggled to find continuity in childhood… It’s healing.

I don’t need Amanda folding my clothes, doing household stuff for me. I could fold and just don’t. When she noticed that I pull shirts from a canvas bag like an undergrad in a frat house, she confiscated the bag. Now the sight of her sitting cross-legged on the carpet, folding our clothes, warms my chest. Seeing my hamper next to hers. Her underwear. Everywhere. Lace, floral prints, stretchy Lycra. I imagine how fucking good it looks on her. My breath quickens. My hands stop moving.

“Eric.” She breaks the spell. “You’re dusting over the clean clothes. Can you not?”

As Amanda scolds me, she pulls a pair of boxers out of my bag. Her fingers trace the waistband, and her touch echoes on my skin. I swallow, but I still move fast and snatch them out of her hands.

She grins, eyes narrowed. “Don’t be embarrassed. I’ve folded weirder things for roommates. Val’s into⁠—”

“No fucking way. Just leave those in the hamper, and I’ll dump them in the drawer later.” I try to resume dusting, but neither my mind nor heart is in it.

“Would you feel better if you also folded mine?”

I whip my head around at her. She’s twirling a black lace thong through her fingers, smirking. Amanda thinks she’s teasing me. Instead, I’m about to have a heart attack, because my damn brain can’t help but hope there’s at least a hint of an insinuation.

“You want your hands on mine and my hands on yours, Amanda?” My voice comes out lower and raspy. She freezes for half a second, and my hope crashes and burns furiously until her smile grows wider.

Then she flings the thong at my face and, with terrifying precision, lands it right on my head. We both stare at each other just until she makes a strangling noise—laughter she can’t contain. Now we’re both laughing, loud and hysterical.

I take the underwear off my head, bunch it up, and fling it right back at her. She makes a quick motion to dodge it, but my aim’s garbage, and it just catches on the corner lamp. She breaks into louder laughter and rolls onto her back, legs kicking in the air. I sit down cross-legged beside her, my laughter subsiding, just to watch her laugh. I want to savor, memorize, and bottle the taste of her happiness.