2. Amanda
CHAPTER TWO
AMANDA
For the first time since I held that test in my hands, I can breathe. I’m almost excited. Everything will be okay. I can—mostly—afford this. With that peace of mind, it’s less like I’m trapping my boyfriend and more like having my shit together. I’m twenty-eight years old. I can have a baby.
On the way home, I pick up dinner because he’ll for sure freak out. But Thai food is his security blanket, and my plan will be the cherry on top.
Before I even set the food on the coffee table, I know something’s off. The apartment is silent. Not TV, no music. And yet…
I cannot believe this, I tell myself, heading toward our bedroom. It all makes sense now. Why it has never felt like mine. Why my stuff always meant to be tucked away in drawers or closets. Why there has never been space for me.
The bedroom door isn’t fully closed. But it’s open enough for me to see the shadows on the wall. And more than that, I hear them. The squeaking mattress. The headboard knocking. The groaning and moaning.
“Yes, honey, faster. Deeper.”
Yeah, I don’t know about deep.
“Fuck yeah, just like that. You feel so good, baby.”
Yep. Baby her. Baby me. Because why bother keeping the people you’re fucking straight?
“So tight and wet around my cock, baby.”
Well, that’s quite enough for me. As livid as I am, I know what not to do. I don’t open the door. I don’t look. Been there. Done that. Fuck that shit. Instead, I lift my knuckles and knock loudly.
“Daray,” I call. The moaning stops. A loud thump follows. “Tell her to get dressed. I’m going to have to come in there for a few things.” I pause and swallow. “You and I need to talk.”
Turning back toward the living room, I look at the coffee table and the couch, covered in the plaid throw he hates.
Have they fucked on it? To the side, there’s a small kitchen table, where I’ve lit candles he brought.
Were they for her? The large living space feels suffocating with unwanted flashes of the last time I went through this.
Fuck it. I head for the closet by the front door and pull out something—anything—to pack away as much as I can. My large gym bag, my old hiking backpack, and a smaller duffel bag that doesn’t fully zip will have to do.
By the time he emerges, gray sweats, raggedy T-shirt, freshly fucked hair, I’ve already thrown my bathroom essentials into the backpack.
His brown eyes don’t dare meet mine, and even his broad, muscular shoulders curl inward because he knows.
He knows what he’s done to me. My arms are crossed tightly over my chest. Maybe he knows, but he doesn’t get to fucking see me come apart.
Last time, I was a wreck. I stood there, frozen, watching until I ran. Halfway across the world. Now? I guess practice makes perfect. I’m all out of flight. The only thing on my mind is to act, to fight.
“Is she on her way out of the room?” I ask, calm.
He scratches his elbow, and the gesture pulls his too tight shirt over his chest and stomach. The way he gazes down, dark blonde strands hiding his eyes from me… He’s nervous. Not caught-in-the-act nervous. More like shit’s-about-to-hit-the-fan nervous. There’s more to know.
Well. Fucking lucky me.
“Yes.” He nods. “She’s just getting dressed. She’ll give us some space.”
“Oh, joy,” I say sarcastically. The fucker smiles. He never got my humor after all.
I wait silently while he nervously taps his fingertips on his thighs. He opens his mouth to speak, but I stop him with a raised hand. I refuse to get into this until we’re alone.
Finally, there are footsteps. She emerges. A foot taller than me, coming right up to his ears, blonde curls perfectly styled around her waist, no matter that she just took a tumble in my sheets. Eyes so blue she may have photoshopped the ocean onto her irises.
Gorgeous freaking Cassandra.
The don’t-worry-about-it-we’re-just-friends Cassandra.
The I-don’t-even-look-at-her-like-that-she’s-one-of-the-guys Cassandra.
The we’ve-never-even-kissed Cassandra.
The maybe-you’re-just-projecting-your-own-shit-onto-my-friend Cassandra.
Well, isn’t this a lesson in trusting my gut if I ever saw one? Her lips mouth “Hi,” while she stares down at her flats. At least she has the decency to avoid my gaze.
He reaches out to her, pulling her to his side, whispering softly into her ear as he escorts her to the door.
I want to know what he says, but I’m taken aback by the softness in his gaze.
The protectiveness in his arm around her waist. The way he positions himself between her and me, as if to shield her.
As if I’m some horrible, out-of-control person who could tear her away from him at any moment.
As if she’s something precious, something to treasure.
No as if about it, there’s a gentle, promising kiss on her lips before he closes the door behind her.
He assures her he’ll call, that he’ll meet her, that everything will be okay. That he fucking loves her.
Pain blooms in my chest, threatening to spill and overpower this anger I’m using as fuel. But I can’t let it go now. Because I should be used to it, this hopelessness of never being chosen, loved.
He turns back to face me, not attempting to get any closer. His back is against the main door.
“Please don’t block my exit.”
He winces but nods, then moves toward the open-concept kitchen, stepping behind the island—almost as far away from me as he can get. Coward.
“I didn’t want you finding out this way, you know.”
I do. I didn’t overshare about myself, but I know him. Mostly, I guess.
“It’s just—” He exhales, running a hand through his hair. “It’s complicated, and I don’t want to hurt you anymore.”
“Funny way of showing it.” I shrug. “We’re going to do this either way. You’re going to tell me in detail, or you’re going to answer my questions. Maybe both.”
He laughs, self-deprecating.
“Don’t you see it, Mandy?” He lifts his arm and swings it in my direction, as if unveiling something obvious and glaring.
“I’m not for you. You’re not for me. You get your shit done, all resolve and pragmatics.
You don’t need anyone.” He presses a hand to his chest. “I’m not built like that. It makes me panic.”
That’s funny to me, because only my advisor and mentees would describe me that way. No friend or lover ever has.
“You couldn’t have had this realization before I gave up my apartment and moved in?
” His mouth turns down into a sour, hurt expression.
It pains him to explain; I’m hurting him, but not figuring out the answer on my own.
It’s fucking hilarious. Not needing him makes me unlovable, but needing him to explain is just too much.
“See? Even now, our relationship’s falling apart, and you’re worried about rent.”
It bothers him that I won’t crumble and cry.
“It’s all budgets and bills with you.” He’s shouting now. “What do I bring to you? I’m this useless doll to you. I am not needed at all. And it hurts. I want to matter.”
How cliché. He is punishing me because I don’t need rescuing. Because I can solve problems. Be my own person. “And you just had this epiphany about yourself?”
“Not all of us are as well-adjusted as you!” he yells.
“I haven’t changed, Daray. This whole year together, I haven’t needed you any more or any less.”
“That’s part of it. I’ve tried, Mandy. I bought expensive meat to grill for you, and you’d still go on about money.” He shakes his head. “Still, it didn’t matter. You can’t rush how you feel.” He softens, touches his heart, and adds a noble tone to his voice. “For what it’s worth, I did love you.”
Well, that past tense is not nearly as painful as it should be.
“How long?”
“The sex? Not long after you moved in.” He draws a breath like it’s part of some confessional rite, and absolving him is a given.
“Our love—” He signals between us. “That had been fading for a while.” Then the words hit, that’s months, that’s almost half a year.
“Cassie and I… That’s been building for even longer. ”
Do I remind him of all the things he told me Cassie wasn’t? Should I become this hysterical woman he craves, even if just for once? Do I tell him that this epic love they have should make room for her to raise someone else’s child?
I don’t want to. Not tonight. Today, he needs his win. The validation that he’s made the right choice. And I need answers and survival. Perhaps, not in that order, but that’s what I’m going for.
“I see.”
“I didn’t want this. The closer it got to your move-in date, the worse I felt. Anxiety attacks, chest pain. Cassie had to take me to the ER. You know how I get.”
He waits for me to nod. I don’t. But I do know how he gets; he becomes a man-child who can’t get himself out of water.
“She was relieved it was just stress. She cried. Wouldn’t say why. Until she kissed me.”
“Sounds beautiful.” I’m surprised there’s no sarcasm in my voice.
“It was,” he says, smiling, his expression tender. “Still, I kept my distance and planned to stay with you. I thought it was just jitters, you know? People get those.”
“But it just didn’t feel right.”
He nods. “It didn’t feel right.”
As much as I hate this, he’s right. Moving in. It never felt quite right. Even bringing him around, out in the open for everyone to see.
“So, the night before your move—” He clears his throat. “She came over. Things got heated, and—”
“It just kept happening,” I add for him since he can’t.
Daray becomes emboldened by what he thinks is acceptance. “It just kept happening.” He pauses. “I was going to stop it, and choose you, or at least really try to choose you.”
“Because you owe me?” I spit out the words, insulted.
“There it is again. Your I’m-too-good-for-this resolve.”
I’m back to seething.
“You’re strong and proud. And it’s sexy. God, is it sexy. Remember how we were at the beginning?” He smiles, soft, like a trip down memory lane is going to help me. “But it’s not what I want. Not long-term.”
He lets that sink in for me, thinking I need time to process, but that’s not me. I can process, alright.