19. Eric
CHAPTER NINETEEN
ERIC
It’s just me and Val at the table now. The Bennetts, Martina, and Andrzej are now at the other table mingling with the other half of our group.
It’d be best for me to go too, but I can’t tear my eyes off Amanda and Diego.
They’re dancing with no air between them, bodies moving as if music and rhythm could fix anything.
There’s nothing flirtatious in it, and still, the ease between them makes the muscles in my back tighten with tension.
“Did he just smack her ass?” Val’s voice cuts through.
I chuckle. “He sure did.”
“Is this… a thing for them?” she asks, her gaze zeroed in on like she’s seeing a side of their friendship she didn’t realize existed.
“You should see them do karaoke sometime,” I snicker. “We’re barely scratching the surface.”
She leans over the table closer to me, eyes going wide as if she can picture this new form of torture I’ve invented. For a second, the image tugs at my chest. The four of us are a tight-knit group. Val’s my grumpy ally, so I get to sing and dance less.
“Does it bother you?” she asks, nodding toward Amanda and Diego.
I shrug. She’s in shrink mode. All Val is missing is the velvet armchair.
“Does it bother you?” I volley back, but she doesn’t answer. Just does the thing where she waits.
I exhale and push the wine glass away—two is my self-imposed max.
“Not in the way you’d think,” I admit. “It’s not jealousy.
Not really. I’m… She used to feel at ease like that with me.
Now, every time we touch, I’m on pins and needles, bracing for her to scoot away.
” I tap my index finger on the tablecloth. “But it’s my own fault.”
She presses her lips into a thin line and tilts her head. “We’ll get into that at my office,” Val adds. Then, she shifts her chair closer, lowers her voice, and, gazing into the white tablecloth, continues. “I know what you mean though.”
Ever since I started taking her up on the therapy stuff, sitting on her mustard couch and telling her about my sad, pathetic childhood, the hostility between us has softened.
There’s even a certain respect in the way she looks at me now that wasn’t there before.
Almost as if she takes me for someone who’s genuinely trying to work on himself.
Her eyes are on Diego and Amanda again, zoned on his hand on her back. “All that touchiness is… alienating to me.” She glances back at me. “It makes me wonder why he asked me here.”
We sit in the vulnerability we’ve shared. It’s weird and comforting. When we’re in her office, it’s all about me and my failures, but out of it… Val and I are almost friends.
A hand lands heavily on my shoulder, then the chair next to me scrapes the floor as it’s pulled out. I don’t have to look his way. Daray.
His bulkiness is always striking to me, as if his arms and chest are trying to make up for some deficit in character.
He’s also showing it off. His button-down is too tight across the shoulders.
His shirt is yellow, and it clashes with his sandy hair, buzzed short on the sides and gelled back just enough to pretend he didn’t spend thirty minutes on it.
I’ve wished my hair stayed in place like his more than once.
When he flashes a grin, I sit straighter, refusing to give him an inch. And when his arm slings over my shoulder, I want to push him off, because his touch makes me feel complicit in his lies. His head tilts to where Amanda and Diego dance, his lips curling out. To him, it’s provocative, insulting.
“I see you can’t get her to stop doing that stupid shit, either.”
I shrug. “She’s having fun. With my friend, at that.”
He smiles. “What makes you think she isn’t fucking him the way she was fucking you?”
I clench my hands into fists under the table. “Daray, don’t talk to me like I’m one of those idiots who clapped at your toast.” I square my shoulders. His arm drops. “I’m man enough that I’m not threatened by some twerking.” I arch my brow. “Are you?”
He rolls his neck and cracks his knuckles.
I follow his eyes back to the dance floor.
Diego whispers something into Amanda’s ear, and when she laughs and tips her head back, her stomach pushes forward.
And it’s there, the subtle but present outline of the swell in her lower stomach.
I flick my gaze to Daray. His eyes are a little wider, his grin malicious.
With his stare locked on Amanda’s stomach. “Well, well, well.” He claps my shoulder again and gestures toward her belly. “So, did I beat you to something else there, bro? Or were you fucking her when she was mine? What is it, Eric? Have fun with my ex tonight, Eric.”
The hand on the center of my back is different, lighter. Val moves closer, her voice a whisper. “Take a breath.”
I do.
“He’s compensating. You see that, right?” She doesn’t wait for me to nod, but I do look at her. “All of this”—he gestures toward his bulk, his bright shirt, the sheen of effort in his hair where he’s retreated next to my brother—“it’s just noise.”
I glance over, and Daray laughs at something no one said.
Val’s voice drops even lower. “And Eric, listen to me. You know I don’t hand this shit out for free. He could have a dozen of those with her. He’s still got nothing on you.”
I take a deeper breath. I shut my eyes and force a chuckle when I open them. “Please, Val. I can’t handle a dozen children.”
She laughs. The sound is strange coming from her. “You’re the better man.”
I think it’s a fact. Val and I are friends.
We’re drawn toward the noise at the other table.
The tension from Daray’s words still clings to me, but when Val and I join the ten people sitting at a table for six, it dissipates.
It’s loud, messy, and familiar chaos. We could be at the after-dinner craziness of every summer trip, where we grew up, half-feral and half-free in each other’s cabins.
A hand clamps onto my shoulder. I jerk, half-expecting Daray. It’s Matteo.
He doesn’t move his grip. Matteo has always been one of the quiet anchors in this group.
He never took shit from Keith or Max. His deep tawny skin is flushed from laughing, black curls gelled away from his temples.
Unlike Diego, he avoids speaking Spanish.
The accent Keith used to torment him for has softened after years in Boston, smoothed into something almost local.
A trace slips through when he says, “That didn’t look nice,” and deep brown eyes flick toward Daray, who’s now talking to the groom’s father. My father. The yellow shirt makes him impossible to miss.
“It wasn’t.”
I look for Amanda on the dance floor, but only find Diego. Our gazes meet across the ballroom. His dark brown eyes find mine before darting down at the table. I tense as he clicks around to queue up more songs.
Amanda’s nowhere in sight. I had Daray covered, but I can think of at least two other people who’d give her a hard time.
“Have you met Val?” I ask Matteo, trying to hold myself steady until I find Amanda. “She’s here with Diego.”
Matteo chuckles. “Like with Diego? As in together?”
Before I can answer, Val cuts in. “As together as oil and water.”
Matteo laughs and studies her with interest. She doesn’t flinch, but her hand pulls back, and her spine straightens.
“They met in Italy,” I add. “She used to be Amanda’s roommate.”
Matteo nods slowly, amused as he studies the woman in front of him. As if on cue, Diego slips in beside us, sweat still clinging to his forehead.
“She’s also my date,” Diego says to Matteo.
Val scoffs, but doesn’t deny it. Diego and Matteo fist-bump, the gesture more polite than earnest. Then, Diego taps my shoulder, so I lean down.
“You gonna let me be the only guy to dance with your date, or are you gonna step up?”
I catch myself before I flinch. I smile and fake laugh, my shoulders shaking as if I’m in on the joke, and there isn’t fear twisting under my ribs. Now, I can’t shake the feeling like I’ve shown up late to this audition for Amanda’s partner that I’m trying to land.
I spot Amanda. She’s offering a warm hug to some older woman I don’t know.
Her hair is cascading over her shoulder, plum tendrils mixing in between her natural auburn.
The angle makes her dress shift lower, and the swell of her breasts shows more than she’d probably planned.
My breath stops. She’s my date today, and if she wants to dance, we dance, I think to myself as I walk over to her before I can second-guess myself.
She meets me halfway, and I exhale in relief when she places her hand in my stretched-out palm.
“Cat’s out of the bag,” I say. “Daray paid a visit to our table. He saw you while you were dancing.” I look at her lower belly. “It showed just enough.”
Amanda stiffens, but she gives me a sardonic smile. “I had a run-in in the bathroom. Cassie knows too.”
She doesn’t dare to ask me what I think we should do. But I know where we should start.
“Dance with me.” I tip my head to the floor, clocking Diego back at the DJ station, flanked by his sisters.
Amanda arches her eyebrow at me. I’m not known for dancing, I suppose. I fear she’ll say yes out of awkwardness or expectations or worse than anything… pity. Her smile widens, though, no trace of anything but joy as she nods.
Diego throws me a reassuring nod as I pull Amanda into me.
Her hands slide behind my neck, smooth and warm, fingers grazing the ends of my hair just above my collar.
I have been afraid of everyone seeing that I am not right for her, that she will finally draw the line and push me back into the friend zone for good.
Instead, she steps so close our bodies press together, biting her bottom lip like she’s uncertain I’ll want her back.
I settle my hands on her hips and breathe in the familiar scent of her hair as she rests her cheek against my chest. I pray my heart slows so I won’t give away how much I want her.
We both tighten our hold on each other, her fingers buried in my hair, and I grip her just shy above the curve of her bottom. Her belly presses into me. It’s noticeable by touch in a way it isn’t by sight, and the instinctive flare of pride shakes me.
Her breath fans my throat while we sway to the slow tune. This isn’t dancing as much gravity between us—the pull of a tether only we can feel. It’s steadiness. I know holding her isn’t enough to prove anything but right now, and I hope it doesn’t taste of wasted energy.