3. Eric #2
“Yeah… That plan’s no good now,” she murmurs.
I stay silent, waiting.
She runs her fingers through her hair, pushing strands back, streaks of purple, even in the low light, catching and glimmering. My fingers twitch, itching with the need to thread through them, to feel the texture between my fingers, against my palm, under my lips. I bite my tongue instead.
Her hands keep moving, sliding up to cover her face until she’s leaning forward, pressing her forehead against her knees. With the movements, her hair billows around her head, cascading until it brushes against my toes. A slow wave of heat burns low in my spine, thickly crawling upward.
I draw a tight breath when I lean in, my face burying in the scent of her hibiscus shampoo. I inhale deeply. I can’t stop myself. She’s used it for so long that I remember breathing it in without all these cautionary signs between us.
She lifts her head, pulling away so no skin touches. Amanda’s words leave her mouth, making the same sound a landmine does as it explodes.
“He’s been cheating.”
It takes a second for the words to really sink in. When they do, their weight causes ripples in my blood, making me nauseous. I sit back, and just this inch of distance makes the space colder.
“I’m sorry—” I force saliva past my throat. “Did you say he’s been cheating?”
She nods, then repeats, “He’s been cheating.”
Disbelief. Anger. Guilt. Joy. She’s going to dump his ass so fucking hard. Guilt. I should’ve known. I should’ve seen it.
Her face is right there, close enough that I smell the salt in the tears clumping her damp lashes.
This is my failure. Even more so because I can’t stand the way my heartbeat spikes up with delight.
She’s waiting for me to say something. I shift, and our knees touch.
She looks tired, defeated. I fist the cotton of my sweats to keep my hands away from her.
“For how long?” I ask, before I tell her she’s better off without him.
She scoffs, the sound a challenge. “What difference does it fucking make, Eric?”
I have to bite my tongue until it hurts so I don’t make this about me.
“And she’s pregnant,” she adds.
What the fuck? Her face shifts before me, subtle but unmistakable—the proud lines of her profile softening, her mouth tugging downward with the urge to shrink.
“Gorgeous fucking Cassandra.”
I shake my head and allow us to give in to the distraction so I can think, hyperaware of the way her eyes dip and shutter, and how her face bends into something fragile, almost apologetic. It guts me.
“She isn’t gorgeous. She is just a blonde with big tits.” She arches her eyebrows, as if to say, isn’t that exactly what that means? “Don’t do that. You’re gorgeous. Hair, tits, ass, and all. But you’re also smart, curious. There’s no comparison.”
There’s that laugh again. How I hate it.
“Well, there is for Daray.” She swallows thickly, her eyes casting down. “He wants to be with her. Not me.”
Disbelief and outrage flash sharp and fast in my chest. Through the fabric of my pants, my nails dig into my thigh. All I want is to lift her chin and make her see what I do: that she’s impossible not to want.
“What an idiot. No one would—”
“Don’t.” Her breath hitches, a telltale warning before the tears come. “The reality is I’m no one’s choice. Not even yours.”
My jaw clenches. She never brings it up.
We don’t talk about the mistakes or regrets between us.
I reach out to her, but she flinches away from my touch.
Nausea stirs in my stomach, and bile tickles my throat.
When it comes down to it, it’s my pattern: I spiral and then retreat, collapsing into my own hurt.
Still, my throat tightens, and every nerve in my body tenses and coils.
This conversation is entangled with his choices.
I take a deep breath. Amanda’s hair curtains her face from me while brushing against my forearms. I hold onto the feeling of it against my skin—something tangible, so I can push back the frustration, the disgust, the rage building inside me.
She lifts her head, and there’s fire in her eyes. “You can’t even deny it, can you?” Her voice is sharper now, eyes shining in their darkest shade, with pride and fury.
I didn’t expect her to push this.
“Do you want to get into this today?” I speak the question like a challenge dipped in honey, thick and heavy, sweet and suffocating.
Her nostrils flare.
“Of all days?” I add, allowing my words to become charged with pain.
It hurts that he’s the one who triggered her to bring it all up when I’ve been asking for years. But at the end of the day, it’s her call. There’s no other way between us.
She stands, the stool scraping against the floor. Her back is to me now, a couple of feet away, but the distance is more than physical and widening by the second.
“I am angry at him,” she says, “But I’ll never be devastated by Daray.”
I shut my eyes, savoring her revelation that there are parts of her that belong to me.
When I don’t respond, she turns back to me. Something in her gaze has transformed. It’s colder now, sealed off. Her protective moat is fully impenetrable.
“I’m sleeping on the couch tonight,” she says, her voice controlled.
Her tone is flat and calm. She’s made her decision.
We won’t be hashing anything out now. Another day without talking, the space between us already carved out.
For once, I wonder if maybe I should push it.
I open my mouth to say something—anything—but she lifts a hand before I can.
The movement is sharp, slicing through the air as if it were my flesh.
No room for argument. My opportunity to carve out space for it is gone.
“I’m fine. Just… go to your bedroom. Please.”
She’s not looking at me anymore. Her gaze is fixed past me, tuning me out.
I lean back against the stool, the weight of her words pressing against my ribs. I can’t reach her right now. I don’t even know how to.
“Alright.” My voice is softer than I thought possible. “I’ll grab a blanket.”
I don’t wait for her to reply. I just move, because all I can do is drown, trying to get to this person I know so well and yet feel so impossibly distant from.