Page 77 of Everything But Mine

Laura Bennett can’t resist whatever gossip she’s spinning. “That’s an interesting tat, you’ve got, Eric,” she asks. “Must have hurt.” She’s trying to keep it appropriate. We all have our roles in this group.

I shrug. “Most things worth having hurt,” I answer.

“I don’t remember seeing it before. Is it new?” Lorena adds to the inquisition, trying to figure out the timeline.

“No—”

“Can I touch it?” Laura asks, her smile tugging at the right side of her mouth.

“No.”

She pouts. “Come on. I just want to check if you can feel the ink.”

“Laura,” Amanda cuts in. “He said no.”

“So.” Martina cuts the tension. “When did you get it?”

“A bit over two and a half years ago.” I’m answering Martina, but I’m talking to Amanda.

“It’s beautiful.” Laura’s blue gaze trails from my shoulders down to my hip, following the ink.

I shift in the chair. “I agree.”

“And you have an A because of—” Her eyes flick to Amanda.

“And Amanda,” Max interrupts, dragging the vowels in her name. “You’re having Eric’s baby now?”

There’s a beat of silence before Amanda’s hand slides into mine. Her fingers thread mine with purpose, thumb curling over my larger palm and brushing my skin. Her eyes stay locked on Max’s, but she holds on to me both tightly and with tenderness.

“Eric and I are raising him or her together.” Her voice isn’t defiant, though there’s a strength to it, discouraging any argument.

It’s a careful choice of phrasing. She’s not saying the baby is mine, but the implication is that I’m the father. A line in the sand drawn with our intertwined hands. Shut the fuck up, Max.

He doesn’t, of course. “So, you two are what? A couple now? Weren’t you with Daray like five minutes ago?”

“Yes, Max. Thanks for bringing that up. I was with Daray.” Amanda doesn’t raise her voice. She just does that Val thing where she drops her tone in volume and temperature. “Now he’s with someone else.”

Max leans over the table, too far into our space, the sour-sweet smell of champagne rolling off him. His shoulders slump inward, and he scratches the inner side of his forearm.

“Shit, I didn’t—” He rubs his mouth with the back of his hand. “What are we supposed to think, though?” He gestures sloppily around the table, arm knocking a fork out of place, like this is a group discussion and not Amanda’s life. “Yesterday, Daray said—and now you and Eric—” He points at our hands. “Well… you know.”

I roll my neck, bones cracking.

“You’re not supposed to think anything,” Amanda answers. “You’re supposed to keep your mouth shut and mind your own fucking business.”

“Whoa, whoa.” He leans back, holding up both palms, then takes an exaggerated gulp of his mimosa. Whatever flicker of guilt he felt dissolves fast. His mouth twists, mean and loose. “Easy.” He squints at me, head tilting, looking me over in a slow, sloppy once-over. “Sorry, man,” he says, voice dropping. “Guess you’re not doing something right with her, clearly Daray knew how to fuck the bitchiness right out of her.”

The red hits me so fast I don’t even register my chair scraping back until I’m halfway to standing. “You’ve got some fucking nerve—” I start saying, but before I can so much as poke Max, Amanda’s hand lands on my chest—flat, firm, right over the knot tattooed there. Skin on skin.

And I freeze.

Her fingers don’t push or move. They stay, claiming the center of the intertwined loops, the seams of us inked into my skin. Her palm skims slightly, almost a tremor, at the center of the eight-shaped figure. There’s tension rolling off her palm, restraint in the touch of her fingertips brushing against my skin in front of everybody. Goose bumps break out down my ribs like wildfire.

“Sit,” she says, low and sharp.

“That’s enough,” Andrzej cuts in, stepping up behind Max with zero hesitation. “Time to call it, man. Your decision-making’s sleeping it off, as should you. Let’s go.”

Max opens his mouth again, though before he says a thing, Amanda fixes him with a censoring stare. He mutters something under his breath and lets Andrzej herd him out with a slap on the back that doesn’t look like a joke.