8. Amanda
CHAPTER EIGHT
AMANDA
Instead of working out of my office on the nineteenth floor of University Hall, I’m typing away in a back booth at the café downstairs.
The hum of espresso machines and the faint bitterness of roasted beans wrap around me as I try to focus on grading and evaluating data sets.
My gaze drifts to the honey locusts across the quad, their new leaves in early spring green, shifting in the wind.
Light threads through them, and it does wonders for my avoidant mood today.
Priority one: not dwell on today. The warmth, sharp and unreserved, that rose in me when Eric overheard me making this pregnancy confirmation appointment and said he was coming.
No hesitation, just a matter-of-fact. “I’ll be there fifteen minutes early,” and a growly, “Don’t even, Amanda,” when I tried to argue.
His eyebrows furrowed together when I asked to stay a few more days.
I figured he was annoyed, except he had me veto ingredients before he even cooked dinner, storing them away if my nose so much as twitched.
Priority two: hide from Valeria Ross. The second she sees me, her extraordinary spidey sense as a therapist will just give me away. Then, she’ll latch on to my going to Eric and nobody else. I have no words to explain us, especially to someone who wasn’t around before.
The clipped cadence of heels, confident and impatient, slices through the quiet, one clack louder than the other one. Only one person walks like that. I’m out of time. My spine stiffens, and I try to hide behind my computer screen.
The steps come to a halt right next to me. “Hiding behind a laptop? Bold strategy, Amanda. Truly the work of an academic mind.” Valeria’s voice is amused.
I lower the screen just enough to see her face—sharp brows, chestnut-brown eyes already scanning me.
She’s wearing one of her signature blazers, and her black hair is swept into an ornate high bun, a braid coiled neatly at its base, not a single strand daring to escape.
That’s Val for you; immaculate precision any time of the day.
Knowing her, she’s just finished tearing down some poor student’s research paper without looking up from her research notes.
Now, she’s about to dissect my life choices without breaking stride. Just a regular Thursday for Val.
“I wasn’t hiding,” I say too quickly. “Just, you know, conducting deep academic research. Like a real scholar.”
“Mmm.” She crosses her arms, her gaze unwavering. “And I suppose that’s why you’ve been dodging my calls? All this”—she waves her hand at the papers that cover my table—“research?”
“I’ve been busy,” I offer, which is technically true. Not that I’m going to mention I’ve been rearranging Eric’s office closet or reorganizing his spice cabinet and pretending I don’t know he alphabetized it.
Valeria raises a brow. “Busy. Right. By the way, I saw Diego last night. He said some things… after a few beers.”
I curse Diego’s loose lips. There’s no way Eric hasn’t told him the soap opera that’s become my life in the last couple of days. Wait a minute… “What are you and Diego—”
“Cute, Mandy. You’re not steering this conversation away that easily, friend.” She reaches over and snaps my laptop shut. “Grab your shit. We’re going to The Good Bread for lunch.”
“I don’t have time. I’m going to miss a deadline to peer-review this paper, and—”
“You’re making time.” She takes an unrelenting grip of my arm, pulling me up.
I don’t resist, knowing there’s no point.
We head out of University Hall and over to BSB—the behavioral sciences building—where the restaurant is.
The entire way, the idea of talking through everything with Val makes my stomach turn…
especially after how she left things the last time we talked about Eric.
The way you hold on to each other… It isn’t a ‘just friends’ thing, no matter how close.
She orders a salad at the counter. I get soup and a breadstick I know I won’t finish.
While we wait at the counter, she talks nonstop about the conference she’s organizing, all keynote speakers and budgets and workshops.
Will I present? She hasn’t received my abstract yet.
I nod like I’m considering it, grabbing my bowl once it’s ready.
My half-written abstract is somewhere in my inbox, probably gathering digital dust next to the dozen other tasks I’ve been ignoring.
I know I won’t apply, but it’s easier to play along.
We find a table outside and sit down while she complains about the salad price. Her own version of Can I afford a baby? is Should I pay the three extra dollars for avocado?
“Soooo.” She drags out the syllable while she pulls out the fork from the cutlery package. “Why are you shacking up with Eric now?”
I cough violently, half my sip of water going down the wrong pipe.
“Just for a few days,” I clarify. “It’s not a big deal. Also, Diego needs to stay in his lane.”
Her eyes narrow, like she’s calculating just how much bullshit I’m feeding her.
“Not a big deal? Amanda, you moved in with your ex. An ex who, last I checked, wasn’t exactly known for emotional distance.
Freud would’ve had a field day. Defense mechanisms?
Sure. Unresolved attachment? Obviously. And we can’t forget a sprinkle of ‘daddy issues,’ courtesy of Eric, just to round it out. ”
God, she’s exhausting. And infuriating. Mostly because she’s not wrong.
“He’s not—” I shake my head. “One, we’ve never dated. And, two, we’re not going to now.”
Eric’s office-turned-guest room is just a room. A temporary solution in the form of a bed. There really isn’t more to it. There can’t be.
“We’re going to come back to that.” Val takes a bite of food, her mouth open as she chews. I shake my head at her. “Why do you even need a place to stay? Aren’t things just peachy with Dara-boy?”
There’s an edge to the way she says his name.
Val has never liked him. She has her own case study on possible childhood causes of why Daray resorts to a “performed self” when he’s in social groups.
I thought it was real when it was just us, but I guess I was wrong. So much for my ability to read people.
“Yeah.” I dip my breadstick into the soup, dragging it out slowly before swirling it back in, letting the thick liquid coat it. “Dara-boy dipped his breadstick in Cassie-bitch.”
I lift it, watching the soup cling and drip. Locking eyes with her, I sink my teeth into a chunk, making a deliberate, slow show of tearing it in half. Immature, maybe, but it beats crying.
There’s a long pause, Val’s eyes flaring, her mouth popping open. “Are you fucking kidding me?!” It’s loud enough to draw attention from the people around us.
“I wish. It would be funny if it weren’t so pathetic. I should’ve seen it coming, but I didn’t. Now, I’m just stuck.”
Stuck… like I’m trapped in some sitcom plotline.
“You’re not stuck.” She waves her hand around.
The thought is absurd to her. “You’re freer now than with Dara-boy.
He’s a controlling asshole. He’s a narcissist, as we’ve discussed.
Won’t do anything for you unless you validate him.
Seriously, the man’s got more self-importance than a Nobel Prize winner.
” She pauses, eyes locked on mine, making sure the point lands.
“It gets better,” I say instead. “You already know I’m pregnant.” I don’t look away from her, refusing to keep hiding. “But so is she. Cassie’s having his baby.”
The air shifts as her eyes widen. “Let’s talk about that for a minute,” she says, wiping her mouth with a napkin. “You told me you were pregnant in a text. Who does that, Amanda?”
I shrug. “It was stupid. I thought I had my next steps figured out. Babies are good news. I thought a happy text was… Never mind.”
Her expression softens, at odds with her impossibly high, clinically detached bun.
Val sets her hand gently on my wrists, cold to the touch. “And it’s his? Daray’s?”
My face scrunches. “Who else’s would it be?”
“I don’t know about Cassie-bitch. You and Eric, though, have always had this vibe. Nothing ever happened there?” Her grip tightens just enough that I don’t look away.
“Nothing’s ever happened with Eric.” My tone is clipped.
“Well, something did happen. At least once.” She presses with her words, retreating her hand.
“What happened between Eric and me wouldn’t have left me pregnant.
Besides, that was years ago.” I swallow thickly.
My appetite’s shot. I won’t talk about what happened.
He fucks random people. I sweep my feelings under the rug, lock them away, never to revisit. Healthy acceptable coping mechanisms.
“Right.” Val pauses. She isn’t moving, but something in her chestnut irises, a glint, tells me she’s filing this away. “Still, why go to Eric? I have a perfectly good guest room. One that doesn’t come with unresolved history and questionable decision-making.”
I exhale, my hands wrapping tightly around the spoon before putting it down and pushing the bowl away, done with this meal. “It’s complicated, Val.”
Her lips twitch. “With you? Never.”
She waits, the air thick with expectation. I’m not sure how much I’m ready to admit, or how much I even understand it myself. Honestly, all I can tell her is that, after leaving Daray’s apartment, Eric was the only person I wanted to be next to.
“Look, things with Eric are… hard to explain. He’s…” I give myself some time, taking a sip of water as I think. “It’s our thing. We have each other’s backs.”
It’s more than that. Val knows it too. Even if she’s not one of my childhood friends and only has the few details I’ve told her.
“No.” She slams her palm against the table lightly. Then, she points her thumb at herself. “I have your back.” She waggles it dismissively. “Diego’s got Eric’s back.” She stretches her index finger, pointing it directly at me. “You enable the fuck out of Eric.”