14. Eric
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
ERIC
Val’s office is exactly what I expect—walls painted in unapologetically bright colors and two overflowing bookcases crammed with self-help titles, and look at all the psychology shit I’ve read, I’m your therapist for a reason.
We haven’t even sat down yet. We’re standing there staring at each other, my hands shoved into my pockets while her fingers clamp around a clipboard like it’s an extension of her body.
She’s taller than Amanda. Though I still tower over her, that doesn’t faze her at all.
Her black hair is braided into a severe high bun, secured with unnerving precision.
When she meets my eyes just above the line of her cat-eye glasses, there’s a challenge there—and maybe disapproval, held steady and unblinking.
“Take a seat.” She gestures to a bright mustard couch opposite the window before choosing an indigo armchair for herself that looks intentionally uncomfortable.
When she crosses her legs, her ankles show, casual and deliberate.
“I honestly thought you’d fumble around on your own for a bit longer before reaching out. ”
I press my lips together. “Let’s get this straight. You don’t like me because my dynamic with Amanda is, admittedly, unique.”
Her mouth curls—just a tiny twitch at the corner. “Don’t go all professor on me, Eric. This is a safe space.”
It isn’t. Not with her gaze tracking every movement, every word, weighing them all for weakness. “I’m not here to gain your approval, but—”
“Good because I’m not blessing that mess.”
I swallow so I don’t clench my teeth.
“I’m self-aware enough to know I have some… difficulties. And you’re the best therapist in the Midwest, so—”
She arches a brow and flicks the clipboard down against her knee. “Why do you care that I’m the best?”
I clench my teeth together when the answer lodges somewhere behind my ribs, and I have to crack my neck before I’m able to force it out. “Because Amanda deserves the best.” I shrug, minimizing it, even though the words cost me more than I want her to see.
She leans forward and places the clipboard on the low table between us. “Well,” she says evenly, “I think we’d both agree that, as it stands right now, that isn’t you.”
The words make me flinch, my gaze dropping to the carpet. The last time someone told me I didn’t deserve Amanda… No. I shake my head to vanquish the memory. “Is this how you help your patients?”
“The truth is the truth,” she replies. “You can’t rise above your circumstances if you refuse to confront them.”
I open my mouth, but she lifts a hand, palm out, stopping me mid-breath.
“Let me clarify the nature of this.” She flicks her index finger between us.
“You cannot be my patient. We’re too involved in each other’s social circles, and it would be ethically dubious.
” She studies me for a beat. “This won’t be therapy, but if you choose to keep coming, I’ll use my training to help you identify your behavioral patterns and give you tools to interrupt them. ”
“So you’ll tell Amanda,” I ask, “what we’re doing here?”
Her head tilts slightly. “Do you not want me to? Is your attempt to be better a secret?”
“For now.” I scrub a hand over the back of my neck, heat creeping up my spine. “She can’t know I’m spiraling over not being good enough for the baby.”
“And for her.”
My throat tightens. I nod once, contained and sharp. “And for her.”
“I can accept the fine line this puts me in,” Val says, “if you’re actually committed to doing the work.”
“I don’t want to half-ass this.”
Her expression doesn’t soften. “The way you did almost three years ago?”
I stiffen. “You know about that?”
“You two think you’re subtle.” She clicks her tongue in disapproval. “Amanda didn’t need to tell me anything. The way you circle around each other screams the whole story if you know how to read the cues.”
Shame crawls up my neck and settles there, heavy and familiar, and she lets it sit before speaking again.
“Tell me about your father.”
Of course. That’s where it always starts.
I could keep it shallow, reduce him to a single act of abandonment and leave it there, or I could do this properly and expose the fractures that run through everything I am.
I can’t do right by Amanda or her baby if I keep skirting how profound my inadequacy is.
“My father’s a piece of shit,” I say, choosing. “He didn’t just abandon my mother and me. He’s the embodiment of moral corruption, and there’s only one thing worse than knowing you carry his blood and wondering if you’ll become him.”
“And what’s worse than that?” she asks quietly.
“Knowing I’m so worthless,” I say, my voice rough, “that this asshole didn’t even want me.”
“I see.” She lets the silence stretch, deliberate and unkind in its patience.
“That’s why I want to parent with Amanda,” I continue.
“There’s no way her child is growing up wondering if it’s his fault, if there’s something so fundamentally wrong with him that his own trash father couldn’t find it in himself to care.
” I meet her eyes and hold them. “I’ll care.
I’ll care in ways no one ever did for me. ”
“But someone did care for you,” Val says, softer now. “Amanda did. You just never believed you deserved it. You still don’t, so how will you avoid falling into the same trap you did back then?”
“I won’t,” I say immediately. “I’ll never do that again.”
She shrugs. “Maybe. Maybe not. But we need to go into that night and figure out what triggered you.”
“I can’t today.” My chest tightens. “It’s too soon.”
“That’s fair,” she says. “But time is ticking, and until we unpack why you don’t think you deserve her love, you’re one bad day away from repeating your mistakes.”
I nod slowly, resignation settling in. “Alright. When do I come back?”
Her expression shifts just enough to register, the sharpest edges dulling into something careful. “Soon,” she says. “Very soon.”
Diego just can’t keep his fucking mouth shut.
He dropped in a phone chat with his sister that Amanda and I are now living together.
The sister told her mama, who told their papi, who told Aunt Kate and Uncle Sandro, who, in turn, told my mother.
And now we are here, having brunch at Amanda’s parents’ with Mom.
When we walk in, Amanda goes straight toward her dad and wraps her arms around his neck. Uncle Sandro kisses her head and then indulges in the family ritual.
“Ciao, bella” Hello, beautiful, he says. “Come stai?” How are you?
“Domanda inutile!” Amanda responds.
Useless question. The translation echoes in my head at the same time as her voice echoes the melody of the song she’s referencing.
I have seen them exchange this greeting thousands of times.
Amanda and her parents share a family bond forged in love and vulnerability.
It makes my chest hurt to think about it, so I focus on the spread in front of us.
Uncle Sandro’s unrivaled ciambella cake is the centerpiece of the table, but there’s also scrambled eggs, bacon, Irish bread, and white pudding.
The last two are for sure courtesy of my mom.
It’s an absolute melting pot of culinary traditions, and I wonder if this is what our Sunday breakfast table may look like a few years down the road as we try to honor our families’ heritages.
Amanda’s a hugger, so she’s engulfed first in a three-way hug with Mom and Aunt Kate, while Uncle Sandro pats my shoulder. Sandro and Uncle Tony, Diego’s dad, have been more role models to me than my own father ever has been. What they think about my raising Amanda’s child matters to me.
Our child. Amanda doesn’t want to tell them yet, and I’ve had to face myself in the mirror and repeat that her need for privacy isn’t a reflection of whether her parents would want me in her child’s life like this.
It’s not like I know a lot about being a dad.
I have the perfect example of what not to do in my own father.
But there are people I can turn to, and one of them is staring me straight in the eyes, his lips moving.
“Son.” His palm puts pressure around my shoulder. “Was the drive okay?”
“Yeah, the drive was fine. Amanda drove most of the way.” Turns out it’s the only way that her morning sickness can handle a moving vehicle.
But apparently, that’s the wrong thing to say, because Uncle Sandro’s eyes flick to Amanda.
He doesn’t say anything, but his brow furrows in confusion, and then his eyes meet Aunt Kate’s.
After Sandro urges us to eat, Mom stops fussing over Amanda and hugs me. She’s leaned on me more than a parent should, but every time she hugs me, I bury my nose in her hair and feel that maybe everything will be okay.
Amanda and I sit next to each other, and when she takes her seat, Mom squeezes my wrist to grab my attention.
“Mo stoirín,” My little treasure, Mom whispers in the Gaelic she never taught me. Her eyes hold the same sadness they always do when she stares into my eyes, amber like my father’s, rather than her bright blue. “How are you?”
“I’m good, Mom.” I turn my hand up so I can give hers a squeeze.
When I tear my eyes away from my mother, my gaze meets Amanda’s. None of our parents will miss the way her hand travels down my arm and rests on my thigh under the table.
As usual, our parents ramble and tease with different stories from when we were younger.
Today, Aunt Kate brings up that summer when Amanda was between boyfriends.
They spent the entire week coming up with excuses not to leave us alone in the shared cabin.
They think it’s a hilarious parental overreaction.
All I hear is the punchline, though. We thought you’d jump at the opportunity to make a move on Amanda, but the joke’s on us.
And I’m the joke. Because they were right to worry; I wanted to make a move.
I never took it further than staying up well past everyone else to talk to her by the bonfire, allowing every chance to slip through my fingers.