Page 31 of Everything But Mine

That kid is mine. My privilege.

For the first time in years, the noise in my head goes quiet. And I believe that maybe I am more than my failures. Maybe that’s what it means to be enough. Maybe I can deserve her.

Amanda is halfway through her moussaka, and I’ve cut my lamb into little pieces, but have eaten two bites. I still haven’t said a damn word that matters. It’s my fault.

Her gaze flicks to my plate, and she steals a piece of my lamb before I can stop her. The fork clinks against my plate. It’s bizarre. She isn’t heartbroken. She doesn’t seem particularly sad that Daray blew up their life together. She’s in work mode.

“Did you know,” she says, chewing, “there’s a new study claiming that early maternal separation doesn’t significantly affect emotional development unless it lasts longer than three weeks?”

I raise a brow. “Three weeks?”

She nods, swallowing. “For a newborn.” She goes for another bite—my plate again—and doesn’t look up this time. “That’s what they’re calling ‘prolonged separation.’ Three weeks.”

I can hear the strain disguised under an academic register, tight around the edges.

“Sounds… grim,” I say, eating some of my own food just to give myself something to do.

She huffs a small laugh. “It’s bullshit. You can’t quantify attachment like that. But they’ll publish it anyway. Academics still love numbers. They make pain tidy.”

She’s looking at her glass now, the candlelight catching the curve of her jaw. For a second, the noise of the restaurant fades, and it’s just the soft clatter of her fork, the tension winding tighter down her throat and onto her shoulders.

“You okay?” I ask quietly.

She blinks slowly and offers a practiced half-smile. “I’m fine. It’s just work.”

She takes another piece of food—her plate this time. Comfort over unraveling.

I watch Amanda chew, her eyes darting anywhere but me. She’s doing that thing again—analyzing instead of feeling. I don’t interrupt her. Abandonment is a trigger for me. It’s one for her now, too, I suppose. She steals another bite, so I push my plate closer to her.

Sharing a horror story out of my latest meeting with my clueless undergrad student of the month, I manage to make her laugh twice. It buys me enough courage to square my shoulders and shift the conversation. Otherwise, she’s running out of food, and while we both work with high-pressure deadlines, this one feels like the one that’ll break me.

I clear my throat. “So… have you managed to tell him?” His name sticks in my throat. Say it, Eric. He’s not Sauron.

She stiffens. Swallows. Shakes her head. “I told Val.”

“What did she say?”

She shrugs. “Not much about the baby, surprisingly.” She takes the glass to her lips and swallows. “Val had more of an issue with me running to stay with you.”

I keep my face blank, even as something raw opens behind my ribs. Val hates my guts. To her, it’s nothing personal, just concern over my dynamic with Amanda.

“Her issue with me is the same as always?”

Amanda’s mouth is full, so she lifts both hands and tips them back and forth like scales weighing a decision.

“A bit worse now that I’m hijacking your futon.” She takes another sip. “She isn’t wrong, you know. This thing we have”—she waves her hand between us, both dismissing and emphasizing it at the same time—“is weird.” She won’t meet my eyes.

“She doesn’t trust me with you.”

She snaps her gaze up, bracing for the memory that haunts us to rear up and bite.

“Val thinks you have unsolved issues,” Amanda says, diplomatic as hell. No venom. Just facts.

“Unresolved issues is the understatement of the century,” I say, making light of the wound widening in my chest. “I’m fucked in the head.”

Amanda doesn’t smile as she tilts her head. “I’m not mediating between you two.” She points at me angrily. “Or entertaining your pity party.”

“Did she tell you to talk to Daray?”