6. Amanda #3
His breath warmed my ear, and mine fanned against his too. As if we were lovers sharing parts of us only meant for each other.
“I wasn’t.” He shivered, but he wasn’t shaking as violently now.
“I couldn’t before. I’m here now, though.”
He pushed his leg between mine, rubbing his inner thigh against me. He was still cold to the touch but not like before. “Until you leave again.”
I didn’t argue. I had been planning to return to Italy. A featherlight touch traced the sides of my torso, his palms sliding around me, pulling me firmly against him. The weight of him pressed into me, raw and unspoken, a trembling ache that grew in my own chest.
“I hurt you.” He pulled back to look at me, but I arched myself into him so our chests stayed close. He groaned.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, resisting the urge to hold him tighter. I couldn’t handle the weight of his emotional burden, nor could I send him deeper into whatever tonight had been.
“I can’t forgive you.” My voice trembled.
He nodded, a thick swallow reverberating in his throat. “I know.” His voice cracked with the weight of it. “I lost you. Completely.”
“I couldn’t stay, Eric.”
He buried his face against my chest, between my breasts. His breath stirred against me, sending a shiver down my spine. These touches, this tension, there was more to it—it was spiritual, mystical. “I’m fucked up.”
“I can’t give you absolution or excuses. I’ve run you through every therapist trick, Eric. It comes down to the fact that you knew what you were doing, and you did it anyway.”
“That’s true.” His knee nudged between my legs, and I bit my lip, feeling the heat of his touch despite the cold lingering on his skin.
He laid his head next to mine, nose to nose, tequila and whiskey mixed in his breath.
“I feel better. You should go. Our parents’ll read too much if they see you leave my room. ”
I scoffed. “I’m pretty sure my parents already think we’ve fucked.”
“You think?” His voice dipped an undeniable hint of amusement.
It was so us, it pained me; serious one second, playful the next.
“Oh, yeah,” I whispered.
His hand slid over the waistband of my panties, pressing my hips into his. I felt the heat and the length of him, soft but unmistakable, pressing against my stomach.
“But we never have,” I added.
I move my fingers along his side, his skin breaking into shivers.
I didn’t think it was the cold that time.
Slowly, I let my hand drift lower, tracing the tattoo on his chest, occasionally brushing over his nipple.
The feel of his skin and the intimacy we shared coated the moment with the threat of more hurt.
“Were you serious tonight?”
His eyes darted away from mine. “I was and I wasn’t.”
I traced the A and E on his pec.
“You know I can’t leave Mom.” Eric exhaled shakily.
I abandoned his tattoo and let my palm slide over the ridges between his ribs.
“You’re withering away. Do you even eat?”
“I eat,” he whispered, barely audible. “I drink more.”
“Do you have a problem?”
His self-deprecating chuckle followed. “Just one more to add to the list.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I. There are things you don’t want to go into. I respect that. But I can’t tell without discussing those.” He blinked, eyes glossy without pretense.
“Look at us, Eric.”
His gaze fell on everywhere our bodies touched with heat, then he met my eyes.
“You called. Truly called. I came. You—” My throat tightened. “I came back for you, and you wished you weren’t here.”
Eric’s arms wrapped tightly around me, “But you weren’t with me. And it’s my doing. Like you said, I gotta lie in the bed I made.”
“You’re scaring the shit out of me with all of this, you know.”
“I know.” It was more a broken breath than words, and the hoarseness in his voice made my chest cave.
Counting ribs on his chest, a reluctant tear escaped and rolled from my cheek onto his tattoo.
Skin against skin, his hipbone digging into my inner thigh becomes a reckoning.
Our bodies fit in each other’s as halves of something that once was whole.
And together, we cry. For him, for me, for this “us” that could have been.
“I will be okay. It’s not on you to fix me. I know that. Do you?”
I nodded against his chest, though I wasn’t sure. I’d had his back for as long as I could remember. In our messy embrace of tangled limbs, long after his breathing had steadied with sleep, I forced myself to put my hurt aside. I made a decision. To move back.
I blink, grounding myself in the stranger’s voice. I’m not at the river. I’m not in the cabin. Just here. Now. Soaked in water. Someone’s trying to clean me up.
I swallow hard and nod. “It’s fine.” I try to smile, but their expression tells me I failed.
It’s never really fine. Three months after that night, he helped me unpack in a studio apartment back here. His presence reminded me of everything I tried to forget while I was away.
And now, with someone else’s baby in my womb, I don’t know how to do this without Eric. But I know I can’t do it with him.