Page 50 of Everything But Mine

Amanda gives me a look, suspicious without malice. “A hike?” There’s amusement in her expression now. “Sounds more like you just want an excuse to climb things while I read nearby. You know I’m horrible at it.”

“I can’t lie to you. I fully intend to show off.”

She rolls her eyes. “Fine. But it’s not a date.”

“Of course not.” I smile, hoping she can’t read me like a book. “It’s just time together, Amanda. I-I’m liking seeing this much of you.”

She doesn’t answer right away, just looking at me for a long second that stretches out and thrums between us.

“Actually, Eric… I am too.”

Her voice comes through breathy, as if she’s figuring out the right amount of almost for herself, and her words might tip something over. For once, maybe she’s trying to move with me, instead of around me. And I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with hope this sharp.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

AMANDA

The third dress is, in theory, perfect. Loose where it should be, and clinging just enough everywhere else. It’s plum, so dark without being tragic. It’s also dressy enough for a wedding without being so luxurious I can’t justify buying it. Under the harsh dressing room lights, with quiet jazz leaking through the thin walls, I squint at my reflection. The chiffon hits just at my knees, flutters when I shift, and pulls across my chest when I breathe too deeply. There’s a belt I could tie at my waist, but that would draw attention to exactly what I’m trying to hide. I’m stuck in that awful in-between where it could be one of two stories: the girl still spiraling over her cheating boyfriend and his pregnant mistress, or the girl who’s pregnant herself. I hate that anyone might assume I’m pining over Daray, but I’m not ready for the world to know my business.

“Do I look pregnant in this?” I call out, even though I already know the answer.

Val’s voice cuts through the curtain. “You are pregnant.”

“I know,” I say, sharper. “But do I look it?”

There’s a pause, long enough to tell me she’s deciding whether to indulge me. “Come out,” she finally says.

The curtain clings to my arms as I push through. Val’s sitting on the little round ottoman, one leg crossed precisely over the other, glasses low on her nose, reading over Psychotherapy Networker. She’s dressed for clinical appointments later in the afternoon, not a fancy shopping outing—navy blazer, ankle boots, hair pinned in some architecturally impossible knot. Her eyes scan me with all the warmth of an MRI machine.

“I said you should find something loose, not shapeless,” she says.

I tug the belt, resisting the urge to suck in, trying to get it as close to my boobs as possible. Maybe people won’t look at my belly if it’s eclipsed by my giant chest. “It’s strategic.”

She tilts her head. “That’s as strategic as mutually assured destruction. You look like a chubby prune.”

I sigh. “Don’t you need to find a dress yourself?”

She shakes her head. “I already have a dress. I just need to go to the store and make sure they took it in at the right places. So all my attention can be on you, my friend.”

“That’s just wonderful.” I grunt. “This fabric is forgiving!”

She tilts her head. “Forgiving to whom? Your belly or your feelings?”

I shoot her a look that would make someone less trained flinch. “Val…”

Val shrugs, not unkindly. “It’s a valid clinical question.”

I lean back against the mirror, arms crossed. I don’t look at myself. “Okay, then. What’s the diagnosis, doctor?”

“You’re trying to disappear and impress at the same time,” she says, almost gently. “A classic case.”

I roll my eyes. “I’m not trying to impress Daray.”

Val doesn’t even blink. “Agreed.”

My ears go hot. I grip the curtain, deciding if I should strangle her or retreat into it forever. “You’re exhausting,” I mutter.

She smiles, smug and fond. “You’re the one who invited me.”