Page 78 of Everything But Mine

Amanda drops into the chair beside me and tightly laces our fingers together. Her pull on our hands makes me sit down next to her. Our joined fingers land on her crossed legs. Her stare is pure defiance, chin tipped up at the whole table. Pride surges through me, tangled with a possessive heat that makes me want to drag her closer. All I do, though, is squeeze her hand back.

“Well.” Martina claps once. “That was… a lot.”

A few tired chuckles ripple out.

Diego swoops before silence coats the table for too long. He’s been cooling and redirecting tempers all his life. “The adults rented the usual spot in September. It’s going to get crowded if everyone’s bringing their partners.”

Martine rubs her hands together and looks around the table. “I, for one, don’t want to leave whatever this was festering till September and have it explode in front of our parents. Hard pass.” Martina fakes a shiver, curls shaking violently. “Let’s do something low stakes. Barbecue in July? Before cabin time?”

Nods circle the table. Someone hums in agreement. Relief more than excitement. That’s how it always is with this almost family we’ve got. You show up even when it’s messy.

“I’ll be back in Boston,” Matteo says.

My shoulders lock without permission. Amanda’s thumb brushes over my knuckles. She feels it. No one else does.

“The Bennetts will organize it. Loop everyone in,” Carmen adds. “They’ll send out one of their spreadsheets or a form or whatever.”

A couple of laughs break loose, softer this time. I stiffen, and Amanda’s thumb brushes over my knuckles.

Martina looks between us. “You two in?”

Amanda and I glance at each other. A silent understanding passes between us, then we look back at everyone at the table.

“We’re in,” she says.

And just like that, something steadies inside me. Amanda isn’t going away. She isn’t leaving. I just have to fight for her. That, I can do.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

AMANDA

Iget off the bus at Kedzie and take my cardigan off. This June humidity is oppressive, even in the late afternoon. I shove it into my bag, then head east on Chicago Avenue toward the park.

At home, Eric is walking on eggshells. Every time our eyes meet, in passing or over dinner, there’s so much fear behind his gaze that I can’t just look at it from the outside looking in. After we hashed everything out, I’d felt like I understood what happened and why… Then, I woke up overwhelmed by fear and hurt. Because with Eric, I can never separate the behavioral theories I know are at play from… me.

The whole key thing doesn’t help either of us. Every time I try, key in hand and door in front of me. My breath hitches until I hyperventilate, give up, and just knock. His brow wrinkles in frustration every time. Eric doesn’t dare ask, so he talks about buying a bed and checking out apartments. He’s desperate for breadcrumbs of where my head is at.

The truth is that I don’t know where my head is at. Part of me wants to look into larger apartments with him—our place. Part of me just doesn’t want to be anywhere he’d take his shirt off again.

Turning left on Sacramento, lavender blooms in the community garden. There is a young kid, maybe six years old, crying on his mother’s lap over a wounded knee. She settles him with a kiss and a bandage. My own wound feels ripped open, no kiss or Band-Aid in sight. The glaze of pleasure and guilt in his expression. When I close my eyes, I see him like it was yesterday and not almost three years ago. Eric spirals and loses himself, I remind myself. He leaves wreckage, and I was the wreckage last time.

Except Eric also wrecked himself. At least now, with Diego telling me how it all went down when I left, I know that macho display at brunch was just a toned-down echo of weekend fights for months after I left.

Fifteen minutes later, I am buzzing into Eric’s therapist’s office. Val’s name is on the wall, next to two other LCSWs. She’s the only “Dr.” in the practice, but they’re all great. It’s good that Val recommended people she trusts for Eric, I tell myself while my thumbs draw patterns on the condensation of the carbonated water I just bought.

I settle on the yellow couch that faces the window. Beside me, a bookcase looks down on me with Val-approved titles: high-stakes therapy research, thick-bound clinical manuals, and the occasional self-help book with a title like The Body Keeps the Score. You don’t just have to be a good therapist. Your bookshelf has to prove it.

I’m skimming through The Silent Guides when the door opens. Eric’s presence overtakes the room. He’s wearing a dark blue button-up that downplays his tan. Thick chocolate waves brush his shoulders. On top, it’s so long that it keeps falling over his eyes. He’s been too distracted to get a haircut—with my showing up at his apartment just over two months ago.

It doesn’t feel like two months. I feel more at home now than I have in many other apartments I’ve lived in.

Eric’s face lights up in a bright, sincere smile when he sees me, and then the awkwardness sinks in when he takes a seat next to me on the couch. I just want us to be normal. But what’s normal between us? The folding laundry Fridays and hiking Saturdays? Circling around each other’s feelings like landmines sounds more like us.

Eric exhales. “Thank you for being here.”

It hasn’t been working, though. Not since we decided to raise the baby together. I should pull back, reset boundaries. That would be the healthy thing to do.

“Do you want me to intervene in the session or just be an observer?”