14. Eric #2
The conversation shifts the moment Mom notices.
“Amanda, sweetheart,” she says, her fork paused halfway to her mouth. “You’re not touching your eggs. You love scrambled eggs.”
The table stills just slightly. Amanda glances at me, her eyes screaming for help, but they also say don’t lie.
“Oh—” She squeezes my thigh, urging me to come up with an excuse.
Our parents, of course, wouldn’t know that even the smell of it has been making her gag lately. I smile when I realize that she’s favoring the white pudding. A staple in my household, not Amanda’s, and for sure not fucking Daray’s. Maybe the baby is as on board with me as I am with them.
Amanda smiles tightly, but I don’t get an opportunity to answer before Aunt Kate presses.
“Honey,” she says, her tone is tentative. “We’ve heard through the grapevine that you’re both living together?”
She’s trying to make it a question, but there is no doubt that they already know the answer. Still, there is a lack of… disapproval that surprises me. Amanda clears her throat, and I let her take the lead on what to share or keep away from our parents.
“Yes,” she says. There’s a certain strength to her voice. “Daray and I are no longer together. I’m living with Eric.”
Uncle Sandro sets his fork down with precision. “Do you need help securing a place of your own?” His tone carries an edge that tells me he’s still trying to get information. Because he knows, just as I do, that if she did not want to live with me, she wouldn’t be.
“No,” Amanda says. She lifts her hand from under the table, and I am bereft at the loss of her touch. But then her fingers find mine against the tablecloth, and she laces them deliberately. It’s not a question anymore. It’s a declaration. “I will be staying with Eric for the foreseeable future.”
Charged silence takes over the table, or it would, if my heart weren’t beating so loudly in my ears.
Then Mom claps once, loudly, and lets out an actual squeal.
Aunt Kate mirrors it a second later. What the hell?
Even Uncle Sandro is smiling. Not just with his mouth.
His whole face softens as he looks at our joined hands, and something unknots in my chest.
Before I can process it, we’re all standing and in a tangle of arms. The feel of the three pairs of arms around me grounds me as if I am part of something larger than myself and not held at arm’s length.
“This calls for a toast,” Kate says, pulling back with her eyes sparkling. “Sandro, will you please bring something special?”
“Ah!” He perks up, already stepping toward the kitchen. “I have just the thing.” His native Italian accent is sharpened by emotion.
Amanda doesn’t let go of my hand, even as everyone around us breaks the hug.
Uncle Sandro returns with bottles tucked under his arms, already lining up flutes with practiced ease.
Rosé for Amanda—it stands out immediately.
Her fingers tighten around mine as she takes the glass with her free hand.
She’s a week shy of twelve weeks. She wanted to wait.
There’s a question in her eyes. I nod. Whatever she wants.
While our parents argue over the wording of the toast, I down my champagne and switch flutes with her. I hate champagne, but I love this; our quiet conspiracy, the way she’s still holding me. And just as the glasses rise, Aunt Kate pauses mid-air.
“Wait,” she says, frowning slightly as she angles the bottle toward Amanda’s empty glass. “How come you didn’t get any?” All eyes fall on her and then flicker to me. The detail doesn’t escape them. “Eric, why do you have Amanda’s Rosé flute?”
It takes a second for the words to land. They also haven’t missed the way Amanda and I shared a look of understanding. Then, all at once, everyone’s eyes swing to her. To Amanda. She gives my hand one last squeeze. Let’s do this.
She takes a deep breath. “I’m not drinking,” she says calmly, “because I’m pregnant.”
The words land like a stone dropped in water—quiet at first, then rippling outward. Mom gasps, hands flying to her mouth. Aunt Kate’s eyes go wide. Uncle Sandro freezes, mouth half-open. Amanda keeps her voice steady through it all.
“We were going to wait to tell you. You know, twelve-week rule and all.”
Kate blinks, doing the math in her head. “Wait, how long ago did you and Daray break up?”
Her posture stiffens a little. “A little over a month ago.”
Kate stares. “And you’re eleven weeks?”
That’s when I squeeze Amanda’s hand and take over, because I won’t let that question twist its way into her. And because it’s a done deal—nurture versus nature and all that jazz.
“That doesn’t matter,” I say, straightening my spine. “This is our baby. Amanda’s and mine.”
Amanda glances at me, first startled, then grateful. There’s a warm smile that’s just for me before she adds, “Daray was seeing someone else. She’s also pregnant.”
Gasps again—this time sharper. Her mom covers her chest. Her dad’s finger twitches against the flute. Mom mouths “Bastard” under her breath—too close to what my dad did.
“I don’t know what I’m doing with Daray, I’d—we’d appreciate discretion until I know,” Amanda continues. “But Eric is going to be this kid’s father.”
There’s a pause. Then, Uncle Sandro, who’s been quiet since the news dropped, lowers himself down on a chair, leaning forward slightly.
“Well,” he says, voice even but edged, “I bet that’s a hell of a lot more than Daray ever promised.”
It’s not loud. But it’s the kind of line that cuts the air clean.
“Amanda,” Mom interjects. Her voice is soft, the kind of softness she’s always had, even when delivering hard truths. “This is a lot. Are you sure this isn’t just… trying to do what feels easiest right now?”
Amanda tightens her grip on my hand. Her spine straightens. I don’t need to speak for her this time.
“No. This is far from easy. This is right.”
Her words echo another time, another night, another shift between us that felt right.
Kate’s voice pulls me out before I can dwell on my failures. “How about you, Eric?” she asks gently. “Are you sure? This is… It’s an enormous commitment. I mean, it’s cliché, but a baby is forever.”
Amanda’s form has pressed more and more into my side. The warmth of her fingers hasn’t left me for a second, and it gives me the strength to voice my resolve to the people who raised us. “I know. But I want to be this kid’s dad. With Amanda.”
Amanda traces circles on the back of my palm with her hand before adding, “I trust Eric.” Even with so much still unresolved between us, standing here with her feels like the biggest win of my life.
Kate’s eyes soften. She breathes out through her nose.
“I have to be honest… I was worried when we heard about—” She does that same gesture Amanda does so often, where she waves her hand, both drawing attention and dismissing something.
“But hearing this, watching you… You both look so certain. Happy, even.”
Amanda frowns a little. “Why are you guys so okay with this?”
Kate snorts. “Honey, Daray… We played nice for your sake. But I’ve been rooting for both of you to find the right timing for a long time. It looks like this might be it.”
There’s such sweetness in her tone. I’m awestruck that her mom thinks highly enough of me to even have a shot with Amanda. A hum of hope blossoms in my chest.
And then Amanda does the thing she always does—lays down her boundary. Hard. For everyone to know and for me to agonize over.
She’s tensed up, but that doesn’t stop her. “It’s platonic,” she adds ruthlessly. “We’re not—this isn’t romantic.”
The slap is invisible. No one flinches but me, and I do so only on the inside. Outside, I nod to reaffirm, even when I don’t let her hand leave mine.