Page 83 of Everything But Mine

The late afternoon light hits differently once we step outside—warmer, thicker, caught in the glass and steel of campus buildings and bouncing back in soft gold. The air carries that early-shift promise of spring, still edged with cold but loosening its grip. The building’s door swings shut behind us with a muted click.

And then⁠—

“Is that you?”

The voice is light. Carefree and casual in a way that couldn’t be further from who I am. I step beside Eric and flick my gaze to the woman in front of him. She’s already smiling at him, short, dark hair, tenderness on the curve of her lips, pleased about this coincidence, and not bothered at all. She’s pretty, but it’s the swallow tattoo on her left clavicle that pulls my focus—dark ink against skin, wings spread mid-flight.

Eric turns stiff and pale, lines around his mouth and eyes hard.

“Oh my god,” she says, stepping closer. “It is!”

He doesn’t acknowledge her.

“Is this the girl you kept talking about?” She glances between us, dismissing any alternative other than what she’s decided we are. “I’m really glad,” she continues with a touch of fondness that grates me, “that you two managed to figure it out.” A small, knowing tilt of her head. “You kept talking about how much you wanted her.”

And I know Eric’s expression. I spot exactly when the corner of his eyes shift from narrow to wide—confusion to recognition. When I saw Eric’s reaction to Max’s photo, I thought she might have been the woman from three years ago. Even if she isn’t, I can tell she’s someone who knows parts of Eric I’ve fantasized about but never had.

She doesn’t wait for a response. Just smiles again—at him, not me—and steps back. “See you around.”

And then she’s gone, swallowed into the building we just came out of as if she was just passing foot traffic, into the ordinary flow of the street like she didn’t just split something open. Eric’s sickly pale, sheen of sweat over his forehead, as if he’s what got split open.

And inevitably, we’re both there. It’s three years ago, sharp and sudden. For a second in the memory of his mouth on mine, and for a whole silent minute in the memory of him fucking someone else hours later.

It’s the image I never asked for—but now I carry with me anyway—of him choosing something easier than what I could give him. Someone easier.

I fold my arms across my stomach, more instinct than intention.

“Amanda—”

“Many times?”

He shakes his head. “Barely once. I don’t remember half of it. I hadn’t—” He swallows. “I hadn’t done that in a long time, Amanda. Years. I stopped, and then⁠—”

“And then what, Eric?” I ask in a whisper.

He meets my eyes, his swirling in amber shades of guilt and self-disgust. “Then you told me you were pregnant. And any hope of us crashed.”

He shuts his eyes forcefully, wrinkles around the corners.

“If her and Max stick… It’ll stir shit for me. But you did nothing wrong that night, Eric.”

“It doesn’t fucking feel that way.”

“If anything, you took me in.” I swallow. “And you gave me way more than I thought you’d be willing to.”

A strained chuckle comes out from him. “You have to know I’m willing to give even more.”

I nod. “I like this. I think we’re finally letting ourselves and each other speak the truth.”

“So, honesty?”

I step into him and take his hand. No intertwining of fingers, no romantic tension. Just two people with pain between them, trying to find a path forward. “Honesty.” Then, I add, with a steadier voice than how I feel, “Lunch?”

He drops his forehead to mine and rolls it side to side. “Let’s do it.”

And this time, it doesn’t feel like he’s savoring the question, but like he’s jumped straight in. And I don’t feel like I’m savoring it, either, but rather, like I’m drowning in fear.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN