23. Amanda
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
AMANDA
“Jesus, Eric.” Grief lodges in my throat making it hard to breathe until I can’t hold onto the anger anymore. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.”
“You wouldn’t let me.”
“Before!” I raise my voice, squeezing his hand. “The second you left the office.”
I bring our joined hands to my face, and brush my nose against his knuckles.
He tightens his hold on mine in response.
“I never meant it like that, Eric. That ‘be with me.’ I would have loved to share Italy with you, but I knew the timeline. I was prepared to start with an ocean between us, visit more often and save so you could come visit. I don’t know how it would have worked.
Still, I was all in. We weren’t starting from scratch.
We had years and years to build out of.”
“And I fucked it up.”
I don’t want to nod because I know Eric. I should have known he’d spiral. “I get that it was scary for you. I shouldn’t have left like that in the morning.”
“This is not on you, Amanda.”
“I know what you did isn’t.” My head knows it, but my chest still aches with what could have been.
Eric pinches his brows together and presses his lips into that thin, self-deprecating line I know so well—with creases so deep around the corners of his mouth, it gives him a subtle chin dimple.
I hate how often he looks at himself through a cruel lens.
I smooth my fingers over his eyebrows, concentrating right above the nose, coaxing the tension away.
When he closes his eyes and his mouth relaxes, I’m overwhelmed with the need to touch him until every strain is gone, and we figure out how to share each other’s burdens.
“You really thought I’d forget about you?”
Of course he did. It makes me fucking livid. That night before Italy, Eric poured promises, tenderness, and care into every inch of skin he touched. I never understood why it didn’t hold.
This is what happened. His father got in his head, and now every one of Eric’s doubts has taken root with Roberts’s voice, and he can’t get him out.
I knew Eric’s dad had said something as soon as Eric stiffened in the ballroom, but hearing it all…
It’s just fucking awful your own blood not only sparks your negative sense of worth but fans it.
And a flicker of understanding soothes that deep wound that it’s not as much that Eric didn’t choose me then, but he couldn’t believe he was my choice.
“Be with me,” I’d said, thinking I was offering something full of hope. I had no idea I was also offering him the chance to destroy himself and us. Understanding did fuck all to make it hurt less, especially when the swirl of emotions stirred that day brought me back right there.
Carrying fried chicken and trying to pull Eric’s keys out of my pockets so I could let myself in, the smell of butter and paprika wafted my senses as I finally grabbed the right set of keys from my purse.
I balanced the bag and the drinks with one hand, the keys jingling uselessly until I lined them up and pushed into the lock.
I kicked the door open and stepped inside.
We had kissed the night before. Starting long distance would suck.
There were things we still needed to fine-tune, conversations we had not finished yet, but that kiss had been a decision.
We were both all in. I’d been giddy all day, eager to see him, feel him, kiss him.
I’d been aching longer than I’d ever admit to for Eric Strachan to be mine to kiss whenever I wanted. Maybe more than kiss.
I took three steps into his apartment, rambling about how good the freaking chicken smelled. But as soon as I cleared the entryway, his front room slid into view, and there, on the same couch we had kissed so feverishly the night before, I also saw him.
Eric stood there with his shirt open, his chest shiny with sweat. His pants were halfway down, bunched around his knees. His belt buckle clinked softly. His gray boxers were pushed aside, revealing just a glimpse of brown hair. I was almost thankful for that. Almost.
Covering the rest of him was a fully naked woman.
She was bent over the couch, her face buried in the pillows.
Her body rocked with every thrust, tits twice my size bouncing back and forth.
Eric’s hands were in her hair. Those calloused hands from rock climbing, the same ones that had slipped under my shirt, twisted and gripped at her as he moved.
My mind held on to the memory of those fingers cradling the nape of my neck, threading through my hair with care so gentle it had once made my chest ache with joy. Now the thought tightened, like something wrapping around my heart and squeezing until it couldn’t beat right.
The sound pulled me back. Skin slapping against skin, faster now. The rhythm was deliberate but frantic. The air felt thick, clogged with sweat, perfume, latex. Breathing seemed optional—or impossible. My cheeks burned, but I did not move. I did not look away.
Veins stood out along his arms and neck. He muttered curses and moans against the smack sweat and flesh. The rim of a condom with raised dots—for her pleasure—peeked at me between his hips and hers. The pace quickened. Her moans grew louder, and he groaned, panting.
Every instinct screamed for flight. If I ran then, I could miss the ending. I could pretend I had not seen it. But my body would not listen. I stayed frozen, locked in place.
Then his eyes opened.
Those warm amber eyes, that lighter honey shade I knew so well, found mine without hesitation.
The connection landed with the same pull it always had, familiar and devastating.
We stared at each other while he groaned, his rhythm faltering.
His hands gripped her harder, half-moons imprinting into her skin as he steadied himself.
His eyes never closed. Pleasure clouded them as he came.
I held his gaze through all of it. Even when tears slipped onto my lips and I tasted salt. Even when something in his expression shifted, when realization broke through and guilt bloomed too late. Even as her final moans faded and his hips slowed to a stop.
His voice snapped me back. “Fuck. Amanda.”
He scrambled to his feet. In the chaos I caught another glimpse of him, the condom still on, streaked and used with his cum pooling at the tip. He shoved her away and pulled himself together so quickly she stumbled, and he nearly tripped over her.
That was all it took.
I let everything fall. The container of chicken hit the floor with a dull, heavy thud. Soda spilled instantly, soaking through my sneakers. I didn’t wait to see what he would say or do next.
I turned and ran.
I ran out of his apartment, out into the street, straight into a cab.
And then I ran even farther, all the way to Italy and into other men’s arms. Anything to forget the look of complete bliss on his face as he came inside someone else.
Right at the moment I believed we had finally chosen each other.
Because the truth tasted so bitter on my tongue.
Eric might be everything but he’d never be mine.
I don’t realize I’m shaking until Eric cups my cheeks. The touch is devastating in its gentleness. His eyes bear into mine as if the thought of me reliving that night makes him physically ill. He is pale and sweaty, so maybe it does.
“I don’t know how to get us to move past what I did,” he whispers.
“I don’t know either,” I answer. Eric’s betrayal tore my heart into pieces. “But Eric, as my friend, you have to hear this. People do bad things. Doesn’t mean you’re a bad person.”
“Don’t give me a fucking cookie-cutter quote to make me feel better.” His words come out scraped. “I cheated on you. I broke us.”
I shake my head. “No, Eric.” This is my mantra when I want to yell at him and ask him how he could.
This is what I tell myself when even being around him makes me feel ravenous for everything I’ll never have.
“We kissed, but I was leaving. We weren’t together, I’m younger than you and…
I felt that kiss too deeply. Read too much into it. ”
“That’s bullshit, and you know it, Amanda.” Silent tears run down his cheeks. “I’m not even three years older than you. We both knew what the kiss meant.”
Anger prickles up my spine and it coats my words. “So you cheated on me within twenty-four hours?”
His nostrils flare, and he grumbles. “What I did is what I did.”
He’s never argued about doing wrong. Still, his admission and regret don’t make it palatable, but his words do help the tension ebb and dissipate in the silence that follows.
“There are still things I’d like you to know about what that night did to me,” Eric whispers, leaning in so his breath falls on my nose.
I nod and wait.
Pink rises on his cheeks. “Not now. It’s embarrassing. I want you to come with me to this… professional. I want more.” His throat works thickly. “And I’ve been working on interrupting self-destructive thought patterns so I can have that.”
I drag my bottom lip between my teeth. It’s becoming hard to hide that maybe I want more too. Eric has a therapist. He’s self-conscious about it, but that’s… huge.
“This professional of yours sounds like Val.”
He chuckles.
“I’m really proud of you for seeking help.”
He avoids my eyes and scratches the back of his neck. “You are?”
“Yes.”
He snakes behind my neck and massages my scalp. “Amanda.” His gaze flutters to my midsection. “Does this change anything between us?”
His fingers on his other hand twitch. Diego’s revelation, his father’s words leading to Eric’s unraveling… Is this baby adding more pressure than he’s ready for? Since he said he wanted to be a father to my kid, he hasn’t backtracked—not once. When it comes to us, though…
“You hurt me.”
“I know.” He lowers his eyebrows, though he keeps them from creasing, as he shifts and buries his fingers behind my neck. “Nothing excuses what I did. I want to show you who I can be now.”
I close my eyes and savor the movement of Eric’s fingers through my hair, and the wake of goose bumps they leave as far as my thighs.
Now that I’ve imagined raising this baby with Eric, I can’t imagine doing it without him.
In the seconds I’ve taken to respond, he’s inched his hand closer to my middle.
“I still want this.” I grab his hand and place it at the thickest part of my stomach. “Unless it changes things for you.” I hold my breath.
“Amanda, you need to understand that, unless you ask, nothing can make me step away from the two of you.”
I smile, and bask in the warmth of his declaration as if it’s a blanket. I shift closer to him, our fingers now intertwined over the child growing in my belly. His callouses brushing over my knuckles help soothe the wounds and fears our conversation tonight has opened.
“Do you want to go back to the reception?” he asks. “You barely got cake.”
“I want ice cream.” I pout. “Let’s order sweets. We’ll see everyone at breakfast.”
He snickers. “Ice cream?” He sits up and undoes my shoes.
I groan the second the sandals hit the floor. “I don’t think they’ll have flan.”
Eric arches a brow, his thumb working my ankle. When I prop myself up, he’s trying to smooth the strap lines. “I’ll drive around until I find flan.”
I grab his forearm and shake my head. “I’d rather you stay.”
He looks down at where my hand rests on his skin. Then, he stands up, unbuttoning his shirt. I get up to change and use the restroom.
“We’re not done talking about this, are we?”
“Tonight we are.” I give my back to him and pull my hair to the side. “Unzip me?”
Eric traces the zipper, all the way down to the small of my back and then back up, before pulling it down. As the zipper lowers, his fingertips brush my skin, and his breathing fans the back of my neck.
“I’m not going to make the same mistakes again, Amanda.” His palm presses flat against the center of my back, and his lips land on the base of my neck. The second his hands leave my skin, I’m overwhelmed by the cold, as if I have only been feeling his warmth and not my own.