Page 8 of Everything But Mine

“You are going to be okay, Amanda. You’ll figure it out. This is a good thing for you, too.”

He opens the door for me, and I clumsily but successfully step outside. I face him, cradling my life in bags.

“There’s one thing that I need you to know you got wrong.” A few, really, but only one that I need to get off my chest. My eyes are scorching, and he’s uncomfortable but curious. “I don’t deserve someone who tries.” His breath catches, as if he’s about to advocate how I deserve good things. He’s not wrong. “I deserve someone who succeeds.”

So does my child, for that matter. So fuck him.

There are ninety-nine decisions to make. I am very aware, but as I leave this building where I have led a blissfully unaware existence, I also know that none of them need to happen tonight. I am about to lose it, and once I do, it will be awful. I need refuge. I need him. So, I sit on the stairs and wait for my Uber patiently. The driver is nice enough to help me as soon as he notices how much I have.

Before too long, I’m lugging my things out of the car and into Eric’s building. I hyperfocus on the tiny crack in the window next to the main door, the graffiti tag on the balustrade, the rugged texture of the key against my hand, the three clicks of the lock until the door finally opens.

I try to keep myself from thinking that I did this to myself again.

He said I was too decisive. Too independent. Too rational. I’m a therapist. I have tools under my belt to prevent me from embracing his narrative. I’m none of that. And even if I didn’t let Daray see that part of me, it’s no excuse.

Climbing up the stairs to the second floor, I list every decision to make come morning, and I wonder how to keep myself from getting hurt.

But I’ve failed before I’ve started. Because when I finally reach Eric’s door and knock, he’s not here. I trace the teeth of the key to his apartment with my thumb and imagine what it’d be to feel safe enough to dare not just letting myself into his building but also into his apartment. Shaking my head, I drop it back into my purse, and I let my bags drop with a solid thud. I sink next to them, curling myself into a tight ball, holding myself together out of sheer will.

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out why he’s not home this late on a Tuesday night. It tugs at me, threatening to be the one thing that crushes me. He’s that refuge that could keep me safe or destroy me like nothing else.

The spare key he gave me—“For emergencies, Amanda, please use it”—is burning a hole in my bag. Still, I won’t use it.

I’ve learned my lesson.

CHAPTER THREE

ERIC

“Amanda?” The question is obvious and unhelpful. Still, I leave space for her to take the lead.

She rises to her full height, bracing a hand against the wall for support. Her knees crack, and my stomach churns at the realization of how long she must have waited.

“Hey.” She sniffles, wiping her tear-streaked face. “I’m sorry to intrude like this.”

There’s heat creeping up her cheeks. Amanda is not as sorry as she is embarrassed.

“I—” She swallows audibly. “I need a place to… crash for the night.”

“How long have you been waiting for me?” I grab one of the bags and sling it over my shoulder. When I turn back to her, I look down to meet her gaze, since the top of her head comes just above my shoulders. “Why didn’t you use your key?”

“That’s not something I do.” She’s pressed her lips into a thin line before I’ve even finished the sentence, and it adds to the barely hidden defiance of her tone. You know exactly why sits at the tip of her tongue. My regret and shame echo her resignation and anger. “I’ll just go somewhere else. I⁠—”

“Come on, Amanda.” If she’s unsure if she belongs here—always belongs here—that’s on me, too.

As soon as I unlock my apartment, I press my hand against the small of her back. Amanda makes a move to grab the other bags. With a tad more pressure, she relents, stepping fully into my apartment. I grab everything she’s left behind and, wishing it were this easy to carry her burdens, follow her.

Amanda walks past the entryway, looking briefly at the small kitchen on her right, until she stands in front of the living space. Seeing her in my apartment—which she avoids like the plague, no matter how many times I move—fills the space and my chest with a sense of homeliness I’m too aware is missing.

As I set her bags down to the side, my jacket sleeve brushes past my face. An obtrusive and foreign perfume assaults me, floral and damning. My stomach drops. Amanda will smell it. She’ll know. And this distance between us will solidify even more.

I step around the L-shaped kitchen counter and drop my keys and wallet onto a dish, pulling off my jacket like it’s burning me.

With her back to me, studying the open-concept room, she zigzags between the barstools by the counter, around the dining table, and finally stands between the low coffee table and the large couch. She doesn’t turn to face me, but rather examines the indigo cushions and armrest. Can she tell that nothing came with me from the apartment I had when my place was a second home to her?

This fucked-up synergy we share gets her to switch on the side lamp just as I turn down the hallway lights. The softer yellow glow casts ‌her silhouette against the balcony doors. Her arms and legs look long and distorted on the full glass doors to the balcony. My breath catches at the intimacy of the sight.

Before she chose him, I used to imagine the life that could have been ours. Shaking my head, I let go of it. Daydreaming helps nobody, and she needs my help.