24. Eric #2
We sit down again. The whole table feels off-balance. The air’s too dense, conversation staggered because half of them just want to gossip about what the hell’s up between Amanda and me. Good thing we have fucking Diego and Martina for this shit.
“Alright,” Diego announces, clapping once, loud enough to break the tension. “T-minus 120 minutes till checkout for anyone too cheap to pay for late checkout. Losers. Pool time while the food gets here.”
“That’s right,” Martina adds. “We’re getting every penny out of this overpriced resort for uptight rich people.” She points straight at Andrzej.
“Ha-ha. You’re hilarious.”
“She is. She got it from me,” Diego says, locking eyes around the table with mock menace before landing on Val. “Come on, Val.”
“Not even in your wet dreams,” she replies without missing a beat.
And just that fast, everyone laughs. Diego stands, laughing as he strips off his shirt and tosses it over her head. She ducks with a scream. Amanda laughs. It’s not a polite, strained chuckle. It curves the whole bottom of her face and lingers behind her eyes.
I feel it like a kick to my sternum.
She’s been putting Diego between us like a goddamn noisy buffer, as if I didn’t kneel for her in front of an audience last night. As if I’m not sitting six feet away, swallowing bitterly that just last night, she was next to me, holding my hand, and now she’s… not next to me.
“Dude,” Matteo says beside me, cocking an eyebrow. “You’re getting red. Step away with me. Let’s swim. I promise not to drown you unless you start brooding too hard.”
I scowl at him because I want to stay and suffocate Amanda with my closeness, the way she suffocates me with her distance.
Amanda’s not looking at me. Fuck it. I stand up and reach for my shirt behind my neck, pulling it off in one swift motion. I want her to see the ink on my skin. I want everyone to see it now—what she means to me.
The breeze hits my skin, triggering goose bumps.
The attention of the group shifts, but I don’t feel anyone’s gaze but hers.
And it echoes back to that one night she saw it.
The slow, whispering touch of her fingertips, memorizing the ink, tracing every detail with a reverence no one had ever gifted to my body before or since.
Interwoven circles stretch across my left pec—a Celtic symbol for soul friends.
It’s connected in a seamless thread to a double Hercules’ knot—strength, resilience.
One side framed with an A, the other with an E.
The quote beneath it stretches onto my rib cage, snaking down toward my left hip.
I wanted it large, a lesson etched deep: to die of longing for something you’ll never live.
Our never-was, living forever on my skin.
I cross to the edge of the pool without looking at her, unable to face that she might not even be looking. I dive in, clean and fast, and the cold shocks my turmoil into silence.
I float on my back and let the weightless silence of water simmer my own frustration down until Diego splashes me right in the face and pulls me under the water by my waist. I cough up as I resurface and aim for Diego just as Matteo and Andrzej join us.
Diego swims after me, following me away from gossiping ears.
“You pulled out the big guns today.” His head tilts toward my bare chest.
I shrug. “Desperate times.”
I pull myself out of the pool and give him a hand. He pulls himself out without help. Hands go straight to his long, wavy hair, so it doesn’t frizz too much. Vain.
“We talked. About what happened before Italy.”
“Fucking finally.” He observes my expression closely. “But not good?”
“You know, two steps forward. Five back.” I turn to him. “What about you?”
He nods, dragging a hand down his face, water still dripping from his hair onto the tile. “Well, it’s slow with Val. No steps forward, fifteen back.”
“Do you have any guns you can pull?”
He snorts. Instead of answering, he reaches behind him, grabs a towel from the clean stack, and snaps it once in the air before tossing it straight at my chest. He waggles his eyebrows as far up and down as they’d go, mouth crooked with a lazy, sleepy grin.
The towel hits me square in the face. I peel it off, already regretting the question.
“Sure. I have my—”
“Don’t say it,” I warn, pointing at him with the now-damp towel.
He doesn’t even hesitate. “—Big cock.”
I whip the towel back at him. It smacks against his shoulder and slides to the floor while he laughs, loud and shameless. I shake my head, grabbing a fresh one and scrubbing it over my hair harder than necessary, trying not to smile.
He leans down and dumps the dirty towel in the hamper—that’s Diego for you, cleaning up after messes.
On our way back, Amanda is finally looking at me. She can’t take her eyes off my tattoo. I’m not used to the heat of her gaze, and my cheeks warm up.
At the table, Diego takes my seat, lying about wanting to talk to Matteo. As I take his chair, my forearm brushes Amanda’s. I keep my shirt off, the towel hanging over my neck. Amanda throws furtive glances my way, warming my skin.
Laura Bennett can’t resist whatever gossip she’s spinning. “That’s an interesting tat, you’ve got, Eric,” she asks. “Must have hurt.” She’s trying to keep it appropriate. We all have our roles in this group.
I shrug. “Most things worth having hurt,” I answer.
“I don’t remember seeing it before. Is it new?” Lorena adds to the inquisition, trying to figure out the timeline.
“No—”
“Can I touch it?” Laura asks, her smile tugging at the right side of her mouth.
“No.”
She pouts. “Come on. I just want to check if you can feel the ink.”
“Laura,” Amanda cuts in. “He said no.”
“So.” Martina cuts the tension. “When did you get it?”
“A bit over two and a half years ago.” I’m answering Martina, but I’m talking to Amanda.
“It’s beautiful.” Laura’s blue gaze trails from my shoulders down to my hip, following the ink.
I shift in the chair. “I agree.”
“And you have an A because of—” Her eyes flick to Amanda.
“And Amanda,” Max interrupts, dragging the vowels in her name. “You’re having Eric’s baby now?”