11. Amanda
CHAPTER ELEVEN
AMANDA
Now, I just want to get my stuff and go.
Daray opens the door before I knock. He doesn’t wave or smile. He just leans against the frame like he’s been waiting. Barefoot, sweatpants, T-shirt.
“Hey,” he says. He doesn’t move aside. He scans the three of us—me, then Eric, then Diego—and lands back on me with that half-smirk he uses when he’s trying to seem casual. Trying not to look pissed.
“You brought backup,” he says, his eyes glinting with annoyance. “I cleared my afternoon to help.”
Diego is the first to respond. “Yeah, man. You know we wouldn’t let her do this alone.” He steps forward, lifting his fist in greeting.
Daray stares him down, bottom to top. “You don’t need to pretend to like me.”
Diego shafts back, eyes flicking my way. Eric, on the other hand, doesn’t blink, countering, “Well, now you get your afternoon back to yourself.”
Daray hums, and dusts off his shoulder. His gaze sweeps past Diego and focuses on Eric. A storm of annoyance brews in his brown eyes.
“Didn’t realize you two were still BFFs.”
“Daray.” Exhaustion turns my voice too forgiving, eager to diffuse. “We’ll be quick.”
Eric has a different plan, though. “I’ve been in her life for a long time. Not planning on changing that.” His tone is thick with brusqueness, not rude. Just… done.
Daray turns back to me, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. His eyes land on my chest. “You look like you’re drowning in Ben I lived here, but it was never home.
I find myself staring at the same box, at the blocked writing, but now I’m standing in my cramped studio with a cracked window and a mattress on the floor.
I was dismantling my life. A beginning. A necessary next step.
Eric was sitting cross-legged on my favorite throw pillow—a giant sushi roll, more stuffed animal than furniture.
He was bubble-wrapping the signed editions I owned, treating my books as precious hints into my mind, frowning.
Maybe he thought if he studied them hard enough, he’d finally piece me—and him—together.
He found a book we read together back in the day. He was flipping through the pages of the most worn-out copy, tracing my handwriting in the margins. I hadn’t touched that book since. The story had become too close—missed chances, and almosts. Let Eric be sentimental.
“You’re really doing this.” It’s not a question.
“It’s what makes sense.” I don’t look away from packing the last of my clothing.
He made a noise somewhere between a sigh and a scoff. “Do you really want him?”
“Eric, we’re… copathetic. Don’t do this.”
Eric squared his shoulders, and his face reddened while the veins in his neck strained. He curled at his sides. “Fucking copathetic, Amanda? That’s what you think we are?”
A flicker of satisfaction ran up my spine, quickly extinguished yet undeniable. “What would you say we are, Eric?”
“I would say we are both broken and miserable and lying to ourselves and each other.”
I froze. It was—is—our rule that we don’t talk about the could-have-beens. I made sure of it. I never let us.
“No.”
“You’ve never let me, Amanda. You’ve never—”
I cut him off sharply. “I want to never have to think about it. Ever.”
We faced each other. His gaze calculating the right amount to push before I shut down.
“You know his history. You know my history. You think Daray’ll do better for you?”
I flinched at the name he always avoided.
I shook my head. “It’s not about better.” And it really wasn’t. It is about a safe distance from you.
Eric’s jaw ticked. “Look, if you’d just let me—”
“No, Eric. No. You can stay and help me, or you can get the fuck out so I can finish.” My hard line was always where Eric stopped. Because he fucked up once, and I knew I decided what the boundaries were.
He exhaled sharply, really looking up at me, and for a second, I thought he might ask me not to move in with Daray. To choose him.
He pushed the book closed and caressed every letter with his fingertips, such gentleness in his calloused hands that it woke up the ghost of his touch.
My spine broke into goose bumps as he handed the book to me.
“This one is important to me. I don’t want it lost or damaged.”
I let my eyes linger on him, but he was already taping up the box, already grabbing the Sharpie to scrawl in big, blocked letters. Amanda—Books.
I didn’t tell Eric that Daray had already said there wouldn’t be space for my books.
Diego’s hip bumps against me, and I refocus my eyes on him. His belt digs against the upper part of my hip.
“Your phone’s lighting up, Amanda,” he says.
That finally seems to snap Eric out of it, who is now staring at the boxes, equally confused.
I stare at my phone. Sure enough, there’s a text.
Diego
He’s going to buy and build you at least two bookcases.
“Alright.” Eric breaks the silence. “Let’s pack everything up so we can get out of here before the fucker comes back.”