Page 38 of Everything But Mine

Eric simply says, “I’ll cover it for now. We’ll talk numbers at home.”

I nod, overwhelmed, because this is what a partnership looks like. Nothing about this feels transactional. This could be raising a child together. Loving someone together. And maybe in loving someone together, there could be healing for us both.

As we take turns putting things in the back of his car, I’m hit by a quiet grief. An ache for all the times I mistook control for care. Val would do her poking and prodding thing, and I can see now she was pointing it out to me. I didn’t know it could feel like this. I didn’t know what it meant to be supported in the quiet, steady rhythm of someone just… showing up.

Eric has asked me to give him credit for the growth he’s made over these years. And for the first time, I wonder if I’ve been missing it—the ways Eric has changed. The way he notices, adapts, pays attention.

How single-minded he becomes when something is truly important to him.

And suddenly, it is like a reckoning. He’ll notice things about the baby, too—their patterns, their cries, the way they like to be held. He’ll research the best stroller and obsess over bottle brands. He’ll be patient, kneeling to eye-level. He’ll try like his life is at stake.

The thought blooms inside me, startling and warm. He’s going to be such a good dad.

And for the first time since that ultrasound, there isn’t just excitement and anxiety. There’s a quiet, giddy hope. Because Eric is going to raise my baby.

I reach for his elbow. He shifts to face me immediately, like he’s been waiting for the signal. His warm amber eyes search mine, all concern and calm and something unspoken I don’t want to name.

“Okay,” I say, voice steady this time, full of something that feels dangerously close to trust.

“Okay?” he echoes, confused until it lands. His eyes widen just slightly, realizing this isn’t about the groceries.

“Okay,” I say again. And then I’m in his arms—warm, familiar, safe. I rest my cheek against his chest and close my eyes.

Eric is not choosing me, though. He’s choosing the baby. And I know that should sting less than it does. That’s enough for now, maybe. Because for once, I’m not alone. And Eric will be everything. Everything but mine.

CHAPTER TWELVE

AMANDA

“This is going to be a shit show,” Eric says. “Medusa is going to skin me alive.”

“Don’t be dramatic.” I’m putting the leftover vegetables and sauce in containers. Eric is drying and tidying up everything else. There’s lasagna in the oven. We made it together, using my nonna’s recipe and the ground pork. I keep waiting for him to sit down and scroll on his phone while I do all things housework. It doesn’t happen.

Since Eric spoke to Diego, and I spoke to Val, we need them in on it, keeping a tight lid on the timeline. The plan is that saying “We are having a baby” doesn’t have to mean “We are both biologically related to it.” So we’ll be playing that up. For it to work, though, Val and Diego need to let us handle the information flow. I am not worried about Val, but Diego—well, his mouth is the size of Texas.

“This is easy for you to say. You’re not the target of her clinical third degree.”

I scoff. “Not true.” I giggle. “That’s one of Val’s love languages.”

He harrumphs. “Maybe to express her love to you. She’d be happy if I turned to stone.”

“Is that why you call her Medusa sometimes?” I ask.

“Diego started, actually,” Eric says, putting the saucepan away. “Honestly, she’s kind of terrifying to me. I get the sense she sees right through me, so it took off for me.”

“Well,” I add in a mocking tone, “She is one of the best psychodynamic therapists in the Midwest. So it is very likely.”

Eric gives me an exasperated look, and I laugh, washing my hands.

“You just—” A solid knock on the door interrupts me. Before I’m done drying my hands, the solid knock turns into a succession of rapid tabs.

“Let me get it.” Eric puts the dish towel over his shoulder and steps to the entryway. It isn’t long before I hear Diego’s loud, unmistakable voice.

“Get out of the way,” he says. “I wanna see my friend.”

“I am your friend,” Eric responds.

“You’re a boring grouch.” Diego’s hair is tied in a high bun, and the strip of beard he leaves at his jawline looks freshly trimmed. He’s wearing a button-up shirt and smiling brightly at me. It’s impossible not to grin widely back at him.