Page 72 of Everything But Mine

“So yeah…” I say, finishing the story about my father’s role that day.

Amanda’s green eyes shine with unshed tears, mourning the kid I was—the kid I regressed to when left to face my one monster alone. But deeper than that, she’s aching for what I broke, trying too hard to hold on to us.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

AMANDA

“Jesus, Eric.” Grief lodges in my throat making it hard to breathe until I can’t hold onto the anger anymore. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.”

“You wouldn’t let me.”

“Before!” I raise my voice, squeezing his hand. “The second you left the office.”

I bring our joined hands to my face, and brush my nose against his knuckles. He tightens his hold on mine in response. “I never meant it like that, Eric. That ‘be with me.’ I would have loved to share Italy with you, but I knew the timeline. I was prepared to start with an ocean between us, visit more often and save so you could come visit. I don’t know how it would have worked. Still, I was all in. We weren’t starting from scratch. We had years and years to build out of.”

“And I fucked it up.”

I don’t want to nod because I know Eric. I should have known he’d spiral. “I get that it was scary for you. I shouldn’t have left like that in the morning.”

“This is not on you, Amanda.”

“I know what you did isn’t.” My head knows it, but my chest still aches with what could have been.

Eric pinches his brows together and presses his lips into that thin, self-deprecating line I know so well—with creases so deep around the corners of his mouth, it gives him a subtle chin dimple. I hate how often he looks at himself through a cruel lens. I smooth my fingers over his eyebrows, concentrating right above the nose, coaxing the tension away. When he closes his eyes and his mouth relaxes, I’m overwhelmed with the need to touch him until every strain is gone, and we figure out how to share each other’s burdens.

“You really thought I’d forget about you?”

Of course he did. It makes me fucking livid. That night before Italy, Eric poured promises, tenderness, and care into every inch of skin he touched. I never understood why it didn’t hold.

This is what happened. His father got in his head, and now every one of Eric’s doubts has taken root with Roberts’s voice, and he can’t get him out. I knew Eric’s dad had said something as soon as Eric stiffened in the ballroom, but hearing it all… It’s just fucking awful your own blood not only sparks your negative sense of worth but fans it. And a flicker of understanding soothes that deep wound that it’s not as much that Eric didn’t choose me then, but he couldn’t believe he was my choice.

“Be with me,” I’d said, thinking I was offering something full of hope. I had no idea I was also offering him the chance to destroy himself and us. Understanding did fuck all to make it hurt less, especially when the swirl of emotions stirred that day brought me back right there.

Carrying fried chicken and trying to pull Eric’s keys out of my pockets so I could let myself in, the smell of butter and paprika wafted my senses as I finally grabbed the right set of keys from my purse. I balanced the bag and the drinks with one hand, the keys jingling uselessly until I lined them up and pushed into the lock. I kicked the door open and stepped inside.

We had kissed the night before. Starting long distance would suck. There were things we still needed to fine-tune, conversations we had not finished yet, but that kiss had been a decision. We were both all in. I’d been giddy all day, eager to see him, feel him, kiss him. I’d been aching longer than I’d ever admit to for Eric Strachan to be mine to kiss whenever I wanted. Maybe more than kiss.

I took three steps into his apartment, rambling about how good the freaking chicken smelled. But as soon as I cleared the entryway, his front room slid into view, and there, on the same couch we had kissed so feverishly the night before, I also saw him.

Eric stood there with his shirt open, his chest shiny with sweat. His pants were halfway down, bunched around his knees. His belt buckle clinked softly. His gray boxers were pushed aside, revealing just a glimpse of brown hair. I was almost thankful for that. Almost.

Covering the rest of him was a fully naked woman. She was bent over the couch, her face buried in the pillows. Her body rocked with every thrust, tits twice my size bouncing back and forth. Eric’s hands were in her hair. Those calloused hands from rock climbing, the same ones that had slipped under my shirt, twisted and gripped at her as he moved.

My mind held on to the memory of those fingers cradling the nape of my neck, threading through my hair with care so gentle it had once made my chest ache with joy. Now the thought tightened, like something wrapping around my heart and squeezing until it couldn’t beat right.

The sound pulled me back. Skin slapping against skin, faster now. The rhythm was deliberate but frantic. The air felt thick, clogged with sweat, perfume, latex. Breathing seemed optional—or impossible. My cheeks burned, but I did not move. I did not look away.

Veins stood out along his arms and neck. He muttered curses and moans against the smack sweat and flesh. The rim of a condom with raised dots—for her pleasure—peeked at me between his hips and hers. The pace quickened. Her moans grew louder, and he groaned, panting.

Every instinct screamed for flight. If I ran then, I could miss the ending. I could pretend I had not seen it. But my body would not listen. I stayed frozen, locked in place.

Then his eyes opened.

Those warm amber eyes, that lighter honey shade I knew so well, found mine without hesitation. The connection landed with the same pull it always had, familiar and devastating. We stared at each other while he groaned, his rhythm faltering. His hands gripped her harder, half-moons imprinting into her skin as he steadied himself. His eyes never closed. Pleasure clouded them as he came.

I held his gaze through all of it. Even when tears slipped onto my lips and I tasted salt. Even when something in his expression shifted, when realization broke through and guilt bloomed too late. Even as her final moans faded and his hips slowed to a stop.

His voice snapped me back. “Fuck. Amanda.”