Page 101 of Everything But Mine

Today I learned something clear as day. Yes, I deserve to want, and I am more than my failures, but I’m not ready for anything. I fucked up on top of fucking up. I did what I’d rehearsed with Val, used every single strategy. Repetition, movement, sensory grounding. Still, I lost track of time, spiraled too deep, and left Amanda pregnant, alone, and worried sick.

The adrenaline is wearing thin now, leaving behind shaking muscles and a brutal heaviness in my chest that I can’t climb hard enough to escape anymore. My body feels wrecked, hands throbbing, shoulders tight, lungs raw from cold air, but self-hatred drums in my chest, fanning the fire that tells me I don’t deserve her. Back home, the silence thrums with warning, but I’m not giving up. I’m going to give her what I should have had hours ago. Honesty.

I take off my shirt and decide to shower before we talk. Amanda pushes the door to my bedroom open, walks in, and I turn on the lamp. She’s a sight with flared nostrils, cheeks flushed in anger, and hair a tangled mess.

“I’m owed an explanation, Eric.” When she crosses her arms and cocks her hip, her belly juts out, seeming larger.

“Just let me shower, yeah?”

“No.”

“No?”

“No,” she says again. “You’ve had hours, Eric. It goes both ways, you know. We have to talk to one another.”

A bitter laugh slips out. “That’s rich coming from you, Amanda.”

It’s the wrong thing to say, but my panic is worse now that exhaustion is catching up. My muscles shake when I flex my fingers, and shame settles in slowly and heavily where adrenaline used to live.

Amanda uncrosses her arms and exhales. “I don’t want to keep doing the same thing.” She takes a step toward me. “We kissed.” She points her hands between us. “So, are we moving forward”—she takes another step, closing the distance between us—“or are we backing off again?”

“I don’t want to back off,” I say without flourish.

“Then honesty, Eric.”

Amanda is right. Of course she’s right. Hearing the disappointment in her voice doesn’t make it any easier to look at her.

“I know,” I murmur, dragging a hand over the back of my neck. A sick heaviness takes root in my chest. “I just—I couldn’t stop it, you know? My mind just kept going.”

“You keep thinking I can’t handle your worst, Eric.”

“No.” The word comes out sharp. I pace two steps away before turning back to her, blood bright against my tongue where Diego split my lip. “I keep thinking you deserve better than my worst, and that’s all you keep getting.”

“Do you really think I get your worst?”

“What would you call this?” I gesture wildly between us before scrubbing both hands over my face. “I keep breaking us.”

“You broke nothing today, Eric.” Her voice softens, but she doesn’t back down. “Sure, I’m upset you didn’t lean on me. Nothing has to break between us, though.”

“You don’t kno⁠—”

“Then tell me.” She steps closer before I can retreat again, one hand curling around my wrist. “Because from where I’m standing, you’ve made your house my home. You’ve thrown yourself into being better for this child.” Her voice catches slightly. “I think I see now that you didn’t give up on us. Not the way I did. That’s far from your worst.”

My chest tightens painfully. “And what was my fucking someone that night, Amanda?” I ask hoarsely. “That was⁠—”

“Yes,” she says quietly. “But you didn’t today.”

My eyes snap to hers. “You thought I would?”

The question tears out of me. Pain flashes hot beneath my ribs, shame following close behind it. Of course she did. I disappeared for hours after spiraling in front of her. Diego picked up the pieces of another one of my failures.

“It’s complicated. Seeing you that night… sits in my body, even if I don’t believe you’d do it again.”

‘Sits in my body.’ My hand shoots to my left pec, and I squeeze the muscle, the grasp on her wrist makes her hand follow mine. Maybe both our bodies carry the weight of my choices.

“Stop pulling away.” Her grip on my wrist tightens instead of loosening. “I don’t want your best. I want everything.”

Her desire for me, open and raw, slices between my ribs. It shouldn’t feel this impossible to believe she wants me, that we’re both navigating the wreckage. Unspoken, missing pieces I’ve never said out loud hang between us.