Page 94 of Everything But Mine

We ended up getting a mahogany dresser. Antique, heavy with varnished wood and intergenerational baggage. We argued because it’s going to be a bitch to move wherever we end up. But when Amanda told me babies need stability and history, I could tell she didn’t mean the furniture. And I’d move a thousand mahogany pieces to show her I got her point.

A gelato sign glows bright and pink at the end of the street. She wraps an arm around my waist, fingertips slipping beneath my shirt where my hip meets my stomach. Her chin tips up, brushing my arm, and the movement catches the purple highlights in her hair. I thread my fingers between them, and she leans forward, our faces so close… when a malicious smirk overtakes her expression.

Going on her tiptoes, her breath skirts over my chin. “First one in the store cleans the bathroom today.”

It’s a silly dare. I’ve been cleaning everything that needs kneeling since long before we found out we’re having a boy. I chase her anyway, briskly walking rather than jogging, until she makes it inside the store with a grin, pathetically out of breath and holding her stomach. Amanda is many lovely things. A runner, she is not.

She groans dramatically. “My ankles hate me.”

“You were all for walking.”

“Yeah, yeah.” She waves her hand. “So…” She claps her hands together. “You pick mine, I pick yours?” Her eyebrows wiggle playfully at me.

For so long, since I fucked up, since she moved back, anything other than pain and history with her felt not just out of reach, but delusional. Now, I could extend my arm and grab it, if I find the right moment.

“Let’s do it.”

I take a seat on the patio by the parlor, claiming a shady corner. Amanda slides in next to me, rather than across me, until our thighs are flush against together. I hand her the cup I chose for her, and she passes me mine. I picked her favorite for her, and she picked… her second favorite for me. She’s grinning, dragging the spoon around the soft cream.

After a few bites, her expression hardens, lips pressing into a thin line. “Honesty, right?”

I nod, my stomach churning. “Honesty.”

She draws in a long breath. “I’m going to talk to Daray soon. I needed time to wrap my head around”—she circles her hand around her belly bump—“this situation. It’s time to woman up, though. Decisions need to be made.” She flicks her gaze to my hand, stiffly curling around the ice cream cup. “I want him out of the picture.”

My grip on the paper cup relaxes. “You do?”

“But I don’t get to force him.”

I swallow and force myself to push the words past my dry throat. “No, you don’t.”

She nods, eyes glassy with a hint of sadness. As a kid who was abandoned and avoided, I get it. No matter how badly I want to rewrite the rules and pretend this kid is mine in every way. Her chest swells as she breathes in and cups my jaw.

“The reason I want to talk to him…” She darts her eyes to the tree behind me, then looks at me straight. “I’ve been think—do you want the baby to have your last name?”

My breath stumbles. Amanda takes it the wrong way because she starts to ramble.

“I’m not trying to trap you or anything,” she says quickly. “I just—shit, Eric. You know how my mom’s delivery went, right?”

The question knocks the air out of my lungs. I don’t know the specifics, but I’ve heard enough whispers around Mom’s friends over the years. Sandro was so terrified he’d lose either Amanda or Aunt Kate that they never tried for children again.

Amanda brushes her thumb on my jaw, bringing my gaze back to her, and swallows. “If your name’s on my will, as designated guardian, and I secure some kind of arrangement with Daray… I can protect your parenting rights.”

What. The. Fuck. Amanda’s thinking about protecting me? Like I’d care about anything else if she—except I would. I’d care about our baby, and him ending up with Daray because biology is louder than love. I’ve had my head up my ass worried she’d want her Italian ex-lover more than me while she’s been thinking about the legal ramifications of the situation we’re in.

Underneath it all, in the way she swallows thickly, and how she plays with the scruff against my jaw, it’s clear as day to me. Amanda’s terrified of labor.

“Slow down for a second.” I cover her hand with mine. “What happened with your mom⁠—”

“Could happen to me.” She drops her gaze to her stomach. “Late onset preeclampsia. Severe hemorrhaging during the C-section. Surgical intervention.”

I place my hand on her neck, her pulse thumping against my thumb.

She lifts her gaze to mine, green eyes shining with unshed tears of fear. “She barely made it, Eric. And it could happen to me.”

“Doctors are monitoring everything they can. They’ll catch it as early as they can, and you’ll be okay.”

I say this like my words can speak it into existence.