Page 63 of Everything But Mine

I shake my head. “It won’t change anything.”

“No,” Diego says, almost smiling now. “Of course it won’t. But maybe it opens a way forward. And Amanda? He deserves a way forward.”

In my bones, I know he’s right. In my soul, I know Eric deserves more than I’ve given him. In my heart, I know this. I just know I will break like never before when he finally moves forward without me. When he finally brings someone else into the fold.

I shiver in Diego’s arms.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

I nod and step away from the familiarity of his fingertips on my shoulders. I take a glance at our table. Eric and Val are still chatting.

“I’ll be right back. I’ll meet you at the table.”

Diego’s brow arches. “Where are you going?”

I hit him on the shoulder. “To the restroom, if you must know, you idiot.”

Once I am washing my hands, cold water slicking over my skin as the soap foams between my palms, I let myself think. It would be easy to fixate on Daray’s words and let the anger take hold, to argue with the version of us he tried to rewrite, as if I failed to love him properly. The truth is messier. He didn’t love me right, and maybe I didn’t love him right either. What lingers is how his toast turned the wedding into a battleground, and how I didn’t think about Eric when I brought him here. I should have done better by Eric.

Showing up at his apartment, holding him, telling everyone we came together… It put a target on him. I drag in a shaky breath and brace my damp hands against the counter. I should have known that night at the lake had a darker undercurrent. Well, within three months, I was back from Italy. Not for my parents or myself, but for Eric. Maybe I did know.

I’m here with him, not with the Eric I once imagined as a lover, but a version of Eric I’m getting closer to by the day. A version of him that’s choosing to be a father, not by blood, but in every way that matters to the life I carry. I cradle the lower curve of my stomach, my palm fitting the small bump beneath the dress.

The stall door opens behind me. When I look up, my reflection collides with the second-to-last person I want to see. The yellow of her dress does her no favors, chosen, no doubt, out of stubbornness rather than sense. Her hair blends into the fabric, draining what warmth her rounded belly should lend her. Her posture stiffens when she notices my hand on my stomach. Her blue eyes narrow as she steps closer, once, then again, until she stops at the sink beside mine.

“Hey, Cassie,” I say, giving my hands one more rinse so I can cut this short.

She’s still focused on my midsection, the corners of her eyes smooth now, as if she’s trying to decide if she imagines it. Her hand goes to the top of her belly, and her dress sticks to her stomach as she drags her hand down, then crosses her arms, using her stomach as a place for her crossed arms to rest. My belly is nowhere near that, but I suppose soon enough.

“Are you pregnant?” Her voice cracks the silence as if it is a whip, sharp and eager with a clear intention.

She thinks she has a right to know. As if it were me who intruded in her relationship with her boyfriend. Narcissists. I grab a paper towel and take my time to dry my hands.

“Are you with Eric now?” she adds, when it’s clear I won’t dignify a response. There’s accusation in her tone, and it pisses me off.

“What difference does it make to you? How far along are you? You’re clearly further along than me.” I wave my hand at her stomach. “What does it matter to you what I do or don’t do after you fucked my live-in boyfriend for months?”

She goes pale. And I don’t understand why. Cassie knew she was fucking my boyfriend. She swallows thickly. “It isn’t Eric’s,” she mumbles quietly. “Your baby is Daray’s. How far along are you?” She’s almost see-through by now, all the color drained from her face. A small bead of sweat trickles down the side of her cheek. “Amanda, please.” Her tone’s pleading now. “How far along are you?” Then, more clipped when I’m still not responding.

That’s when it hits me. The depth of Daray’s web of lies. I decide to tell her so she can release herself. So she sees who she’s with now. “I’m seventeen weeks, Cassie. How far along are you?” She needs to say it. We both need to hear the dates back-to-back.

She releases a choked sob. “I’m twenty-five weeks along.”

I nod softly, even with a tempered smile. It’s the therapist in me kicking in. A better person would comfort her. Val certainly would be able to detach herself and go into psychotherapy mode. I don’t have it in me, though. Cassie held no consideration for sisterhood, so I don’t owe her.

When her eyes meet mine, tears gather, and the cool tone they’ve taken makes it look even prettier, even now that she looks so thoroughly destroyed.

“He said you weren’t together like that anymore. He said he was done with you like that, and you just needed some time to find a different place since you’d just let go of your studio.”

I shake my head. “No, Cassie. We were like that.” I cross my arms. She won’t see how humiliated I feel, but she needs to see the depth of this shit show. “He may have told you one thing, but you were in that apartment. You saw that bedroom. You were in my bed. You lied to yourself as much as he did.”

That’s when the floodgates open, tears falling openly but prettily. She’s mourning the lie she let herself believe, and this person she thought she’d found. Because that version of Daray doesn’t really exist. Now, she needs to confront both truths. This person she loves lied to her, just like he lied to me. You can justify the lies someone you love tells another person, but when they’re lying to you… The taste is bitter.

“You can’t tell him.” The words rush out of her mouth. “I can’t do this alone, Amanda. You have all these other people in your corner. I have no one.”

She grabs my shoulders, fingers digging into my flesh, and her eyes widen. She doesn’t look pretty anymore. There’s fear and shame in the way her irises gleam. I can’t feel for her when she’s asking me to keep my child away from their biological father for her benefit. Just like she fucked him and believed his lies for her benefit. And when I don’t respond, when I don’t comfort her or give her the reaction she’s looking for, her grip tightens. Her nails jab into the space between my clavicle and my humerus.

“You’re really not going to say anything?” she hisses. “You’re just going to look at me like that? Like you’re so much better?”