Page 87 of Everything But Mine

I’m just staring at her now, into the green of her eyes, wide and mesmerizing. We stay this way, with her hand on my cheek, mine over her belly, and both of us holding on.

Finally, I clear my throat. “Now,” I say, managing a small smile, “let’s go get some food for both of you.”

Amanda lets out a soft laugh. “Okay,” she says, brushing the corner of her eye. “But I’m—actually, you should pick the place.”

“Deal.” I lace our fingers together as we stand. “I’m calling the shots.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

AMANDA

I’m in the middle of conference chaos, holding a stack of lanyards and straining to hear what Val is saying. Printers whirring and microphones buzzing swallow her rapid-fire instructions. She’s in full command mode, with her hair twisted into a claw clip and a sharp navy blazer. Another adjunct in our department is trying to merge two panels due to last-minute cancellations. A speaker is panicking over a corrupted PowerPoint, and the undergrad volunteers have questions about swag for participants.

The hunt for three-bedroom apartments to rent continues as Eric and I argue over neighborhoods. We’ve shifted from temporary to at least “for the time being.” Eric’s always sweet about the baby. He even bought this soft blue onesie the other day that says Therapist in Training. Since the last ultrasound, I don’t just see the possibility of Eric being more than a co-parent… I savor it. The taste is as addictive as it’s terrifying.

It’s all very loving in its domesticity—he won’t suggest an apartment without a coffee shop within a block. And I’m hyper aware of the drive to his climbing gym—never considering neighborhoods out of the way. Sometimes, hurt still twists inside me, but this whole new dimension of what we’re becoming makes my lower stomach swirl with cautious excitement.

What happened three years ago… that’s the hurt. What he did thirteen weeks ago… that’s why I’m guarded. I told him I was pregnant thirteen weeks ago… His way to cope was to get wasted and fuck someone else. I’m jealous of her… And yet, it’s not the jealousy that makes me pause. Is Eric an incident away from self-sabotaging and hurting my baby and me in the process?

“Okay,” Val says, the clap of her hands yanking me from my thoughts. “You’re on registration. If Simone shows up early, just point him to Ballroom B. Tech’s still tweaking the sound feed.”

I flinch at Simone’s name, bunching up the lanyards in my hands. I’d forgotten about Simo. Val pauses everything for half a breath and studies me.

“You good?” she asks in a soft tone at odds with her personality.

I nod, then shake my head. “I forgot about Simo.”

Val arches her brow. “And?”

I bite my lip, release my tight hold on the lanyards, and start arranging them. “It’s just that⁠—”

She gives me a look that’s both knowing and time-crunched. “Welcome to running a conference and nursing unresolved feelings at the same time. You’re a good multitasker. You’ll figure it out.”

Then she’s gone, off to herd mics and panelists. While I’m left here, surrounded by glossy programs and alphabetized badges, trying not to think about how Eric should have known about Simo before today.

Soon enough, however, there’s enough of a line of presenters and attendees that my thoughts of Eric get buried. Handing out name cards, directing presents. There are refreshments right across from us. It all kind of fades in my professional persona until I hear a deep, musical voice.

“Ciao, bellissima, come stai?” Hello, beautiful, how are you? Before I can respond, a loud kiss on my cheek follows the familiar weight of his arm on the small of my back.

“Simo.” I gasp.

He’s come from the back, straight to me rather than wait in line for his turn to pick up his presenter’s badge. He’s always been a cocky bastard.

His smile widens when I turn, deepening his one-sided dimple. His glasses dangle at the tip of his nose, and his gray-blue gaze focuses on me, swelling with sincere care. I forgot how much tenderness there was between us. I was a huge mess the first few months in Milan, and Simo, I feel more than simply remember, was more than a guy. He was a friend who held me more than once and cracked so many jokes when my expression went grim. Muscle memory kicks in, I twirl one of his stubborn gelled curls around my index finger and let it bounce back.

I could pick his laugh in a crowd, and when his torso vibrates against my side, the intimacy of it claws at me. He has his arms around me, and my ear pressed against his pounding heart. Too much like back then, when we strolled through Parco Sempione between magnolia and lime trees.

My stomach is different, though. It doesn’t mold against his the same way. He’s the first one to step away, his hands on my hips, while his gaze flickers down and focuses on the widest part pressed against him.

“Sei in cinta?” You’re pregnant? He’s flabbergasted.

He shoots out his hand, as if about to touch my stomach, and when I shift away, he nestles his fingers into mine, holding my hand tightly. It’s just a clasp of fingers, and still, his touch is not right. He studies my wider hips and larger chest, and I fight the urge to close my blazer.

“Pregnancy looks good on you, bellissima.” His English carries his Italian roots, the cadence of his voice going up and down musically.

“Grazie.” Thank you. I turn back to look for his badge and registration folder.

Taking the paperwork from me, he asks, “Will you attend my panel?”