2. Amanda #2
He chuckles. “You know what’s funny? Back when this all started, in the ER, it felt like my heart was breaking, and all I wanted was for you to show up.
I know you couldn’t—you would have, but I didn’t call—” Daray’s Adam’s apple bobs.
“Thing is, I would have tried because you do deserve someone who tries. But then—”
He inhales sharply. It’s about to get bad. Bad like nothing else he’s said till just now.
“But then I got her pregnant.” Daray must see some reaction from me because he starts rambling. “I’m sorry. I swear, I did not intentionally put you at risk. She hasn’t been with anyone else. We used condoms. She missed a pill. Nothing worked.” He actually chuckles. “Once is all it takes.”
If only you knew.
“Thank you for elaborating. That’s it for me tonight,” I say, putting a lid on it before I lose it, scream my lungs out, and scratch his face.
I hang on to my manners like they’re a shield from violence I’m ready to let out.
Wouldn’t he love that, losing him being the one thing that cracked my composure?
“Well, congrats, Daray. Now, I finally need one thing from you. I need a few minutes. I just need a few things. I’ll make a plan for the rest.”
This is smart. It gives me a casual, easy-to-explain reason to set up a meeting later, after I have decided what to do with my little situation. Because now, it definitely feels like mine and only mine.
“Of course. Whatever you need. I can leav—”
“No.” I cut him off before he offers to leave me alone. I will wreck the fucking place and get arrested. “You can call her. Have her come back, for all I care. Give me thirty minutes before she does.”
Once again, it’s go mode. Work clothes, casual clothes, who-gives-a-fuck clothes—clearly the most important ones.
Work shoes, casual shoes, who-gives-a-fuck shoes.
If anything, I am consistent. Irreplaceable mementos.
Workbooks, survival books, gives-life-meaning books.
Those are essential now. Laptop. iPad. Notebooks.
You wouldn’t be able to tell that someone’s moving out just by looking; nothing is out of place, nothing seems empty.
Everything here was hidden under the cover of lies and deceit.
I gather everything. Daray is poking at the takeout on the coffee table.
“That’s mine.” I am dying on this petty hill.
He startles and steps away, then stares at me somberly, clearly feeling conflicted by my visible need to get the fuck away quickly.
“Do you need help? I can bring stuff down.”
I glanced at his feet. No shoes. If Daray meant it, he would have put something on.
“Absolutely fucking not.” I grab the takeout and head toward the door. I am so close, and I am doing it on my own. No tears. I’m almost out, but Daray needs to be a fucking dick.
“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.