5. Amanda
CHAPTER FIVE
AMANDA
When I open my eyes, morning light filters into an unfamiliar room.
My heart pounds wildly in my chest at the sight of Eric in front of me.
He’s laid back in his office chair, tilted back at an awkward angle, his neck slumped to the side.
He’ll be sore later. His soft snore fills the room while one of my hands is firmly held between both of his, resting on his thigh.
The light softens the sharp cut of his jaw, the slope of his nose, the faint crease between his brows.
His lashes rest against his cheekbones, dark and thin.
His lips, usually so firm with whatever he won’t say, are slightly parted now.
With each exhale, his breath stirs the strands of his too-long hair, just enough to brush against his forehead before settling again.
He’s so beautiful. The thought intrudes, impossible to ignore. An unwarranted surge of possessiveness stirs in me. It’s not a common sight: unguarded Eric, clinging to me like I am something precious to him.
I’d smelled the alcohol on him the second he came up to me.
Everyone knows what Eric does, but smelling lilies on his clothes when I hugged him…
made it real in a way it hadn’t mattered for years.
I’ve never had any right to him. Not even when I thought maybe I might.
And yet, in my stupid way, I have this distorted sense of ownership over him.
That I’m somehow special to him—it’s unhealthy and has to stop.
The possessiveness lurks—always there, lingering, threatening to rise.
I glance at our hands, mine engulfed in his, feeling the calloused fingertips brush against my skin.
My thumb twitches, I skim it across his knuckles, and his hand tightens in reflex.
The sight doesn’t help curb this feeling that makes Eric feel mine.
After sitting up, I drape the blanket over him, watching as he stirs and tightens his hold on my hand but doesn’t wake, mumbling something incoherent before finally letting go of me.
Stepping into the kitchen, I’m greeted by the mess of the late-night dinner. After showering and getting dressed, I find Eric already up. He’s preparing breakfast and cleaning my mess, pausing every few minutes to rub his neck.
The toaster lever jumps, and Eric turns to grab the bread just as he pulls a pan off the stove.
He’s still in sweats and an undershirt, his dark brown hair falling in loose, untamed waves.
It curls around his ears, the back brushing the collar of his T-shirt.
I spot a few knots and tangles that my fingers itch to smooth.
He sets a plate with cheesy scrambled eggs in front of me. “I wasn’t sure it’d be—” His gaze flicks to my stomach, hesitation crossing his face. “An issue?”
My childhood favorite. He hates scrambled eggs, though. Awkwardness settles between us, thick and uncomfortable. He feels out of place in his own home. I shouldn’t have come here. Or at least, I shouldn’t have let our unmentionable history slip in. This isn’t fair to him.
I nod. “Thank you.”
He slides his plate onto the same seat I took last night and sits. “Coffee or tea?”
The words are casual, but the underlying question is clear. Are you drinking caffeine while you’re pregnant?
I don’t know, I want to say. I don’t fucking know.
Instead, I say, “Coffee, first thing in the morning.”
He nods. A cup appears in front of me. Hazelnut. My favorite. Then comes the creamer. Then Stevia is placed next to it.
There was a time when these moments with Eric were all I could think about. I swallow thickly through the tightening in my chest. Eric’s attention to detail will make someone so happy one day. I press my hand between my breasts so the ache doesn’t overwhelm me.
I sit. He sits. And we eat in silence. Pretending it isn’t tragic. I can smell the chestnuttiness of the chicory in his coffee. It used to remind me of comfort. Now, it just reminds me of him.
“Do you need a ride to work? I can be ready quickly.”
I shake my head. I like taking transit. It helps me think. It helps me not think.
“About tonight—” I say hesitantly.
He turns to face me. “Just let yourself in.”
Of course he says it like it’s nothing. Like it’s easy.
“You know I won’t do that.”
“Come on, Amanda—”
“Don’t do that,” I cut in, sharper than I meant to.
His lips come together until they whiten, and he juts out his jaw. “Fine.” He exhales, a quiet, frustrated sound, then harrumphs like an annoyed child. “Then let me pick you up when I’m done. I was going to see Diego—”
“I don’t want to get in the way of your plans. Just let me know when you’re on your way, and I’ll meet you here.”
“I have no plans other than to come home. To you.”
I want to say I don’t believe him, but why put both of us through that?
Especially when he knows I don’t. Instead, I eat and drink my coffee.
We eat in silence for a minute. Then he stands up to load the dishwasher.
His food is half-eaten, mine in no better shape.
His head tips over his shoulder occasionally.
He clears his throat. “Fine. Meet me here at seven. I’ll bring dinner. No Thai tonight.”
I nod. “I’ll text you when I’m twenty minutes out.”
“You don’t need to.”
I stand and head to where my things are to check my work bag is ready to go.
“I will anyway, and you know it.”
“I know, but I wish you wouldn’t.”
Sharp regret stabs me when I realize I’m being unfair.
He’s opened up his home to me, and I’m snapping at him.
I walk back to his side of the counter, my messenger bag already on, and face him.
His eyebrows lift in question. I trail up his arm until I reach behind his neck.
His skin breaks into goose bumps under my touch.
I bring him down to me as I lift onto my toes so my face rests in the crook of his neck.
He wraps his arms around me until I’m fully enveloped in Eric’s warmth. It settles in my bones, seeping through his large palms holding my hips in place. He smells of chicory from his coffee. Oddly enough, he doesn’t feel tense. His whole body softens as if giving in, just for a moment.
“Thank you.” I tighten my arms around his neck, pressing his body into mine once more before stepping away.
He presses his hands firmer against my back, an unconscious, instinctual hold, betraying his unwillingness to let go. I grip the strap of my bag tightly, heading to the door.
“See you around seven,” I say, right before I close the door behind me.
The train ride grounds me, the city landscape diluting in front of me as I drown my thoughts in innocuous work tasks—grading, emails, peer reviews.
Before too long, I am stepping out of the car into the cold, sharp wind, making the temperature feel even lower than it is.
As I absentmindedly turn one of the station’s columns, I bump straight into a stranger, their freezing water, ice and all, splashes me in the face, dripping down my neck, drenching my puffer jacket.
The frigid liquid seeps through my clothing. The chill lingers. Not just on my skin.