24. Eric
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
ERIC
Iwake to light filtering through the blinds, thin and gold, against my eyelids, and to the gentle pressure of fingers along my jaw.
They’re warm, careful, threading into my hair and guiding my face to the side before I’m fully conscious.
When I open my eyes, Amanda is close enough that the tip of my nose brushes hers.
Her brows aren’t relaxed, although she’s not frowning either.
Her hair spills forward around us, wafting vanilla and rightness at me.
She brushes the stubble on my jaw back and forth—an absent gesture that sends a lazy pang of want down my neck and into my chest. Her breath ghosts across my mouth, hot and damp.
If I lean forward, I could kiss her.
She tightens her grip on my hair when I slide my palm over her hip, feeling the familiar line of bone beneath my fingers, then the softer curve of her stomach, warm through her shirt.
Amanda hikes her thigh, sliding it over mine, then around my waist until she’s straddling me.
Her hair falls around us, creating a cocoon as our foreheads touch.
My heart trips over itself, thinking this might be it.
After everything yesterday, I finally got something right for once, and she’s going to kiss me.
I’d return the hell out of that kiss, and we’d finally be together, patching up every fucking mistake I never should have made.
Amanda’s breath turns uneven against my lips. Her eyes flick down to my mouth, then back up. I mirror her without thinking, already leaning into our last first kiss.
Then, her lower lip trembles, her ribs shaking against me, and my every ounce of hope dissolves.
It fades, unreachable, with the way her tears press against my chest, seeping through the shirt until my skin feels wet.
Fuck. I wrap my arms around her and let her cry on top of me, warm and soft.
Every sob runs through her ribs into my palms, into my forearms, into my chest, her grief having nowhere to go except through me.
Her hands fist the fabric at my sides, twisting it until it rides up. Her breasts flatten against me when she breathes in too sharply, her whole body hitching with each broken sound.
These years without talking about how I held our history in my hands and ripped it to pieces have been like slapping a Band-Aid of silence on a bullet wound, and then tearing it off just to see if we’d healed.
We haven’t. I haven’t. My self-hatred is wild this morning, gnawing at me with claws and incisors instead of nails and teeth.
I hold it together, though, for her. All I’ve done is let myself crumble, but I don’t think she ever allowed herself to cry over me.
For a few minutes, we exist in this quiet, broken version of peace.
She pulls back, rising above me and then away, on her knees at the end of the bed, as if she’s come to her senses.
No lingering fingers or whispered apologies.
Her absence clings and lingers on the wetness of her tears, my skin rising into goose bumps as they dry.
Amanda wipes her face with the heel of her hand, and when her eyes lock on mine, she’s scrubbed the vulnerability off her skin.
“We should get ready,” she says. Her voice is hoarse and clipped.
I push myself up on one elbow. “Amanda—”
“We’re already late for brunch.” She swings her legs off the bed, tangled hair and red-rimmed eyes. She grabs her phone and locks herself behind the bathroom door.
She’s rebuilt every wall. Silly me, I thought I had climbed them. I drag a hand over my face and sit up. Run through my options, deciding it’s a great day for a swim. This time, I’m not letting her retreat away from me. Fuck that.
The hotel terrace smells of chlorine and late spring blooming lilacs, the sharp scent drifting up from the pool below. White umbrellas cast wide patches of shade over wrought-iron tables, their fabric snapping every time the breeze cuts across the water.
The poolside brunch before checking out is a tradition we inherited. My mom’s group of friends never got much time together at big family things, so the morning-after meal turned into their sacred hangover ritual. We kept it alive. Apparently, the adults did too.
They’re three tables down, indoors at the corner table.
Robert’s bald spot catches as he claps the twin’s dad’s shoulder.
All parents can look him in the face because I’m still his dirty little secret.
My dad meets my eyes with pinched eyebrows over the rim of his coffee cup.
Amanda’s parents wave at us with both hands—they’re the only ones who know.
Mom, obviously, isn’t invited to this one.
Amanda darts forward and drops at the edge of the last group of open chairs before Val can claim it, her sundress fluttering around her knees. It forces Diego to sit beside her date and me to take the chair next to Diego.
Fine.
The metal is already warm under my palms. Diego’s broad shoulder bumps mine when he settles.
Matteo shows up a few minutes later, hair still damp from a shower, linen shirt half-buttoned.
He pauses beside the empty seat near me, eyes moving from Amanda to the two chairs separating us, then to my face.
He lowers himself slowly into the iron chair. “Everything okay?” he asks under his breath.
I hitch one shoulder. “Is it ever?”
Andrzej draws attention to himself, already flushed, making a show of topping off everyone’s mimosa before pouring for himself. Max sits slouched, cheeks pink. They’re still drunk and trying to stay that way.
“Hey, Max,” Lorena Bennett says, flicking her braid over her shoulder. “Do you have any pictures of your girl?”
Max grins, wide and dopey. He’s not someone who stands out, other than for sucking up to Keith—average height, soft around the middle, sunburn peeling across his nose.
He digs out his phone and scrolls with clumsy thumbs, smiling to himself the whole time.
No way he’s faking—whoever this girl is, he’s gone for her.
The phone makes its rounds. People lean in, shoulders touching, cooing and teasing.
When it gets to Matteo, he tilts the screen toward me so we can both see.
I’m not interested, but I glance down anyway.
Staring at Amanda all morning is only going to get me roasted, and she doesn’t need that on her, too.
Then I actually look. I take the phone and zoom in. A brunette girl, maybe on the lighter side. Big brown eyes, nose ring catching the sun. She’s winking at the camera, both arms looped around Max’s shoulders, pressed into him. Guess the feeling is mutual.
My thumb and index finger drag over her neck, amplifying the image even more. Above her cleavage, below her left collarbone, rests the tattoo of a bird mid-flight.
I squint at the screen, brightness flaring against my eyes.
Silverware clinking and too loud laughs around me heighten the thumping behind my temples.
Sticky floors. Bass rattling my ribs. Everything in my memory comes in fragments.
A taxi door slamming, vanilla perfume sharp and sweet as I push a woman’s back onto the floor.
Flashes of skin and heat. Resignation and regret blooming in equal measure.
I blink back to the phone. The bird has two wings and a forked tail.
It’s a swallow. Swallows represent homecoming.
Except I certainly wasn’t home the night I saw this tattoo.
Fuck. I drag a hand down my hair while Matteo takes the phone and passes it around.
I don’t want anyone I’ve touched to be someone Amanda has to deal with. I’ve hated every guy she’s ever dated.
When I swallow, my throat is dry. I could explain I hadn’t touched anyone for years. Since before that kiss we shared in a nasty closet before she made things official with Daray.
Amanda meets my gaze, pressed lips, before her eyes flick to the phone. The dots are connecting some kind of line, I’m sure. I plant my feet flat against the terrace and force air into my lungs. I’m done self-sabotaging. I’ll tell her every ugly piece of the truth, and I’ll fight for her.
“Here you go,” Amanda says, handing the phone back to Max. “You seem like a lucky guy.”
He cracks a sex joke about his girlfriend—he’s that smooth. Amanda’s eyes flick to mine. Acid creeps up my throat. The smell of champagne makes me nauseated. He notices she isn’t laughing.
“You’ll think my next joke’s funnier with some booze.”
He grabs the pitcher of mimosas and stands up, bumping the table, to pour over her glass. She covers the rim, palm down, and tells him she’s not drinking. It doesn’t deter him, and he still goes for her glass. His hand slips. Mimosa sloshes everywhere, soaking her fingers and dripping down.
The chair screeches across the cement when I stand. Napkin in hand, I dab at her hands and dress. Orange and champagne streak the front of the fabric. She takes the cloth from me and dries herself, eyes down, refusing to meet mine.
Fear uncoils in my chest, sharp and wild, unleashing the thought that two reminders back to back are too much and she’s just done. What if she decides I’m too messy? Too late?
I step into Max’s space and shove him back into his chair with my chest. “Can’t you take a fucking hint?” I seethe. “She said no, dude. She can’t drink. She’s pregnant.”
There’s a beat of silence. A few heads whip around, and others freeze in place. Someone lets out a low, “Oh, shit.” Most of them know. Or at least, they figured it out after last night. But hearing it out loud makes it real.
Amanda pats my arm and tugs me back. “Hey,” she says softly. “I’m okay. He didn’t know. It’s just juice and booze.”
Her voice is calm, but she lingers on my biceps, sliding down my forearm before letting go, slow enough I feel every inch of it.