16. Amanda #4
He murmurs something unintelligible, half a breath of a sound, without waking.
I do it again, slower this time. A tender, teasing rub.
I’ve done this before with Eric, mostly as older teens.
And suddenly, it’s not funny. It’s not innocent.
I realize that if I leaned forward an inch, we’d be kissing.
If I stayed like this long enough, I’d want to.
My chest tightens, breath snagging in my throat. Every time I’ve felt his touch plays on my mind, echoes on my skin. His mouth on mine, his hands in my hair, the weight of his body still curled around me.
Fuck.
The want punches through me, quiet and sharp and terrifying. We’ve only given each other three kisses. And two of them were a joke. Even my first ever kiss was made a joke. We’ve only ever had one real kiss. A kiss of true want, a taste of hopeful beginnings before it collapsed into nothing.
Now, I’m on a different couch. Still Eric’s, but we’re side by side. It’s still his arms around me. But we’re younger, his nose against mine. His fingers dig into my waist, holding me to him almost until I’m sitting on his lap.
The movie had rolled into credits. We’d both been uncharacteristically quiet.
I was thinking about my flight to Milan the following week.
My focus wasn’t so much on the year of clinical hours and research hours and language immersion.
Or the life waiting for me on the other side of an ocean. But the lack of Eric.
Over the summer leading up to my program, we saw each other most days.
Movies, walks, dinners. We would sit next to each other every time, even around others.
So when Eric didn’t show up at my apartment with dinner that night, like he had every night for two weeks, I went to him.
I let myself in. I’ve always had a key. And his smile lit up my heart.
Then, his arm that had been stretched behind me landed on my shoulder, and I shifted closer, or perhaps he pulled me toward him, his hand on my cheek threading into my hair.
Mine on his neck. This wasn’t friendly—it was desperate.
His breath and mine becoming one while our noses brushed against each other.
“God, I’m going to miss you so much,” he murmured in passion, in fear. In supplication.
“Don’t miss me. Be with me.”
I knew he couldn’t come with me to Italy, but it was Eric, and it was me.
And being together went beyond proximity.
I stroked his cheek with my nose until, breath by breath, our lips met.
Slow and tender gave way to insanity and hunger in the dance of our tongues.
Urgency born out of delayed acceptance that I’d always been his lover, and he’d always been mine.
That was the truth in our kiss. No doubt or ambiguity about it.
Eric loved me, and I loved him, and we’d be together no matter where he was or where I was. It was that strong and certain for me.
I straddled him, and he lifted his hips to meet mine.
Tenderness morphed and twisted with want and need, then back into sweet chaste touches.
My hands under his shirt tracing every inch of skin.
His weight was on me, pushing me down on the couch, hips grinding.
We kissed and touched and explored all night, both of us fully clothed.
And when the morning came, we drank coffee, our legs still tangled in each other. And there was loud laughter as he kissed me gently and whispered that we’d see each other that same night. His words were an unnecessary vow.
But they were a lie. Because when the night came, there was just pain and a goodbye that I refused to honor.
I blink, and the room comes back into focus. The glow of the TV screen. The hum of the fridge. Eric’s breath, slow and steady against my lips, like he’d never let go if it were up to him.
But he did.
For a second, I’m not sure if I’m twenty-eight or still a twenty-five-year-old idiot. If I’ve already lost him, or if I’m about to. Or if maybe I haven’t lost him at all, and I’m the only thing getting in the way.
I shift just slightly, and he pulls me closer in his sleep. His hand shifts so it stretches over my growing stomach. My heart stutters, about to hammer out of my chest.
This isn’t the same night, but it’s the same body. The same man. The same gravity that’s always pulled me toward him. Only now, his promise doesn’t involve just me, but also this baby he unconsciously cradles with his calloused fingers.
Just the softness of his nose against mine. The warmth of his chest against my breasts. The ache in my throat from wanting to believe this could mean something again. Because last time, it felt like love, but this feels like devotion.
Maybe Val’s right; we grow. We right our wrongs. Because this doesn’t feel to me like we’re just co-parenting or like I’m hijacking his apartment. This feels like I’m home.
And it terrifies me. Because even if I can figure out how to move past my own hurt, can he ground himself so we don’t lose each other again?