24. Eric #3
There’s a beat of silence before Amanda’s hand slides into mine. Her fingers thread mine with purpose, thumb curling over my larger palm and brushing my skin. Her eyes stay locked on Max’s, but she holds on to me both tightly and with tenderness.
“Eric and I are raising him or her together.” Her voice isn’t defiant, though there’s a strength to it, discouraging any argument.
It’s a careful choice of phrasing. She’s not saying the baby is mine, but the implication is that I’m the father. A line in the sand drawn with our intertwined hands. Shut the fuck up, Max.
He doesn’t, of course. “So, you two are what? A couple now? Weren’t you with Daray like five minutes ago?”
“Yes, Max. Thanks for bringing that up. I was with Daray.” Amanda doesn’t raise her voice. She just does that Val thing where she drops her tone in volume and temperature. “Now he’s with someone else.”
Max leans over the table, too far into our space, the sour-sweet smell of champagne rolling off him. His shoulders slump inward, and he scratches the inner side of his forearm.
“Shit, I didn’t—” He rubs his mouth with the back of his hand.
“What are we supposed to think, though?” He gestures sloppily around the table, arm knocking a fork out of place, like this is a group discussion and not Amanda’s life.
“Yesterday, Daray said—and now you and Eric—” He points at our hands. “Well… you know.”
I roll my neck, bones cracking.
“You’re not supposed to think anything,” Amanda answers. “You’re supposed to keep your mouth shut and mind your own fucking business.”
“Whoa, whoa.” He leans back, holding up both palms, then takes an exaggerated gulp of his mimosa.
Whatever flicker of guilt he felt dissolves fast. His mouth twists, mean and loose.
“Easy.” He squints at me, head tilting, looking me over in a slow, sloppy once-over.
“Sorry, man,” he says, voice dropping. “Guess you’re not doing something right with her, clearly Daray knew how to fuck the bitchiness right out of her. ”
The red hits me so fast I don’t even register my chair scraping back until I’m halfway to standing. “You’ve got some fucking nerve—” I start saying, but before I can so much as poke Max, Amanda’s hand lands on my chest—flat, firm, right over the knot tattooed there. Skin on skin.
And I freeze.
Her fingers don’t push or move. They stay, claiming the center of the intertwined loops, the seams of us inked into my skin.
Her palm skims slightly, almost a tremor, at the center of the eight-shaped figure.
There’s tension rolling off her palm, restraint in the touch of her fingertips brushing against my skin in front of everybody.
Goose bumps break out down my ribs like wildfire.
“Sit,” she says, low and sharp.
“That’s enough,” Andrzej cuts in, stepping up behind Max with zero hesitation. “Time to call it, man. Your decision-making’s sleeping it off, as should you. Let’s go.”
Max opens his mouth again, though before he says a thing, Amanda fixes him with a censoring stare. He mutters something under his breath and lets Andrzej herd him out with a slap on the back that doesn’t look like a joke.
Amanda drops into the chair beside me and tightly laces our fingers together.
Her pull on our hands makes me sit down next to her.
Our joined fingers land on her crossed legs.
Her stare is pure defiance, chin tipped up at the whole table.
Pride surges through me, tangled with a possessive heat that makes me want to drag her closer.
All I do, though, is squeeze her hand back.
“Well.” Martina claps once. “That was… a lot.”
A few tired chuckles ripple out.
Diego swoops before silence coats the table for too long. He’s been cooling and redirecting tempers all his life. “The adults rented the usual spot in September. It’s going to get crowded if everyone’s bringing their partners.”
Martine rubs her hands together and looks around the table.
“I, for one, don’t want to leave whatever this was festering till September and have it explode in front of our parents.
Hard pass.” Martina fakes a shiver, curls shaking violently.
“Let’s do something low stakes. Barbecue in July? Before cabin time?”
Nods circle the table. Someone hums in agreement. Relief more than excitement. That’s how it always is with this almost family we’ve got. You show up even when it’s messy.
“I’ll be back in Boston,” Matteo says.
My shoulders lock without permission. Amanda’s thumb brushes over my knuckles. She feels it. No one else does.
“The Bennetts will organize it. Loop everyone in,” Carmen adds. “They’ll send out one of their spreadsheets or a form or whatever.”
A couple of laughs break loose, softer this time. I stiffen, and Amanda’s thumb brushes over my knuckles.
Martina looks between us. “You two in?”
Amanda and I glance at each other. A silent understanding passes between us, then we look back at everyone at the table.
“We’re in,” she says.
And just like that, something steadies inside me. Amanda isn’t going away. She isn’t leaving. I just have to fight for her. That, I can do.