26. Amanda
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
AMANDA
Aknock on the gray doorframe pulls my attention away from the paper I’m grading.
Eric is leaning against it, one shoulder braced into the frame, dress pants pulled taut where his hands disappear into his pockets.
His gaze lands on me first, then drifts across my office.
They linger on the wall-to-wall white bookshelf, the one he helped me build, where spines now crowd tighter than before, layered two deep in places.
“You’ve gotten a few more books since we put that shelf together.”
His chin tilts toward the opposite wall, toward the taller shelves—psychotherapy manuals, theory, the dense kind of texts that smell faintly of dust and glue even when they’re new.
Val’s words echo, uninvited, unwelcome in how welcome they feel.
He’s ready for you. Are you ready for him?
My stomach turns over at the sight of him.
It’s most certainly not nausea or nerves but rather the beginning of excitement.
Almost giddiness hums under my ribs and refuses to settle.
I decide to take Val’s advice and savor the question.
No need to force an answer, but rather holding it at the tip of my tongue, like something fragile I don’t want to drop by naming.
Smirking, I push back from my desk and stand. “What’s got you, Dr. Eighteenth Floor, deigning to visit us mortals on the sixth?”
He exhales, a shift so slight I almost miss it, shoulders loosening as his hands come free from his pockets.
“Well, with Val getting in trouble in Italy, you’re short a lunch partner.
And I…” He drags his fingers along his jaw, then inhales deeply.
“I couldn’t stand sitting up there, not a single student in my office hours, while you may or may not be skipping lunch.
” A breath in. “So, please. It’s past one. Let me take you.”
There’s something careful in the way he says it. Not hesitation, but something closer, unintentional uncertainty. As if he wants to tell me to come with him rather than ask, but doesn’t dare tell me he needs it.
I slide my purse across my body, adjusting the strap so it sits just right, high enough that it doesn’t draw attention to my stretched-out top, without it being low enough that it doesn’t press into my stretched stomach.
Everything’s swollen and stretched, and I’m not even halfway through this pregnancy.
“Alright,” I say lightly. “Let’s get jambalaya on Taylor Street. And tea from that café with the carved owls.”
Eric steps back from the doorway, making and holding space for me like he always does, his world rearranging itself around me without him ever claiming acknowledgment. He waits for me to fall into step beside him.
“Anything else?”
“No, I don’t—” The words catch as something flutters low in my stomach. Not quite a kick. Not yet. But enough to pull my breath thinner, to make me pause mid-step. A quiet, insistent reminder. “Maybe some ice cream,” I amend. “We’ll see how it goes.”
“What—” He stops himself, throat clearing, the question swallowed before it fully forms. “We can do all of that. But… I’d like to do something with you.”
The elevator dings when I press the down arrow, the metallic click echoing in the quiet hallway.
“Oh, yeah?”
“There’s a three-bedroom apartment. August move-in. It’s a block away.” His gaze doesn’t waver. “I want us to see it. Together.”
“Today?”
He nods once. “Unless you have something scheduled.”
I open my mouth—
“Before you say anything,” he adds quickly, a ghost of a sheepish smile tugging at his mouth, “I sleuthed your Google Calendar.”
That pulls a smirk out of me. Val’s voice slips back in, threading through the moment. He needs to stop waiting for permission. Because this—this isn’t just about an apartment. He has his own question he needs to savor, I realize.
“I wouldn’t lie,” I say, softer now. “But sure. Let’s do it.”
We walk to this apartment close, but not quite touching. I’m aware of him in pieces. The brush of his sleeve when we both shift direction at the same time, the faint scent of his body wash when the wind turns, the steady cadence of his stride adjusting to mine without comment.
He talks about the place as we go, but it’s not really about the details or the logistics.
It’s both a trial and a question. If he takes the lead, will I let him or just shut him down?
There’s so much history, uncertainty and yes, pain, between us that it’s often easy to lose myself in how much he hurt me and forget the ways in which I’ve kept him at arm’s length.
The building itself is brick, older, but kept.
Black iron railings, narrow front steps worn just enough at the center to show years of use.
Inside, it smells faintly of polished wood and something floral, maybe from a cleaner used too generously.
The hallway floors creak underfoot, a low, lived-in sound.
The apartment is bright. Light spilling through wide windows, catching dust motes.
Three bedrooms, like he said. One smaller, tucked toward the back.
The kitchen opens into the living space, and the countertops cool under my fingertips when I run my hand along them.
I move through it slowly, aware of him behind me, not crowding, not directing. Just… there.
As we move through the apartment thinking, side by side yet not out loud, about which room would keep the crib, and whether we could share a desk, Eric’s steady presence carries endless possibilities as an offering.
There’s a moment, standing in what would be the living room, sunlight stretching across the floor where I’m not looking at this apartment.
I’m looking at him measuring the wall with his wingspan.
On his profile, the crease of his brows deepens, and the sun catches on his hair.
“I think we could fit one more shelf for your books in this front room.” He doesn’t turn to me as he says it, just keeps studying the wall. “Maybe even a bassinet?”
Something inside me shifts, then. Not forward. Not yet. But not back, either. Just… changed. The switch doesn’t happen underneath a pile of memories I refuse to talk about. It’s out here in the open, simmering vis-a-vis imaginary furniture over hardwood floors.
Neither of us likes the apartment. Its layout is too narrow and long. The purpose wasn’t loving the apartment: it was both of us savoring what could be without naming it into something heavier.
The late afternoon light hits differently once we step outside—warmer, thicker, caught in the glass and steel of campus buildings and bouncing back in soft gold.
The air carries that early-shift promise of spring, still edged with cold but loosening its grip.
The building’s door swings shut behind us with a muted click.
And then—
“Is that you?”
The voice is light. Carefree and casual in a way that couldn’t be further from who I am.
I step beside Eric and flick my gaze to the woman in front of him.
She’s already smiling at him, short, dark hair, tenderness on the curve of her lips, pleased about this coincidence, and not bothered at all.
She’s pretty, but it’s the swallow tattoo on her left clavicle that pulls my focus—dark ink against skin, wings spread mid-flight.
Eric turns stiff and pale, lines around his mouth and eyes hard.
“Oh my god,” she says, stepping closer. “It is!”
He doesn’t acknowledge her.
“Is this the girl you kept talking about?” She glances between us, dismissing any alternative other than what she’s decided we are.
“I’m really glad,” she continues with a touch of fondness that grates me, “that you two managed to figure it out.” A small, knowing tilt of her head.
“You kept talking about how much you wanted her.”
And I know Eric’s expression. I spot exactly when the corner of his eyes shift from narrow to wide—confusion to recognition.
When I saw Eric’s reaction to Max’s photo, I thought she might have been the woman from three years ago.
Even if she isn’t, I can tell she’s someone who knows parts of Eric I’ve fantasized about but never had.
She doesn’t wait for a response. Just smiles again—at him, not me—and steps back. “See you around.”
And then she’s gone, swallowed into the building we just came out of as if she was just passing foot traffic, into the ordinary flow of the street like she didn’t just split something open. Eric’s sickly pale, sheen of sweat over his forehead, as if he’s what got split open.
And inevitably, we’re both there. It’s three years ago, sharp and sudden. For a second in the memory of his mouth on mine, and for a whole silent minute in the memory of him fucking someone else hours later.
It’s the image I never asked for—but now I carry with me anyway—of him choosing something easier than what I could give him. Someone easier.
I fold my arms across my stomach, more instinct than intention.
“Amanda—”
“Many times?”
He shakes his head. “Barely once. I don’t remember half of it. I hadn’t—” He swallows. “I hadn’t done that in a long time, Amanda. Years. I stopped, and then—”
“And then what, Eric?” I ask in a whisper.
He meets my eyes, his swirling in amber shades of guilt and self-disgust. “Then you told me you were pregnant. And any hope of us crashed.”
He shuts his eyes forcefully, wrinkles around the corners.
“If her and Max stick… It’ll stir shit for me. But you did nothing wrong that night, Eric.”
“It doesn’t fucking feel that way.”
“If anything, you took me in.” I swallow. “And you gave me way more than I thought you’d be willing to.”
A strained chuckle comes out from him. “You have to know I’m willing to give even more.”
I nod. “I like this. I think we’re finally letting ourselves and each other speak the truth.”
“So, honesty?”
I step into him and take his hand. No intertwining of fingers, no romantic tension. Just two people with pain between them, trying to find a path forward. “Honesty.” Then, I add, with a steadier voice than how I feel, “Lunch?”
He drops his forehead to mine and rolls it side to side. “Let’s do it.”
And this time, it doesn’t feel like he’s savoring the question, but like he’s jumped straight in. And I don’t feel like I’m savoring it, either, but rather, like I’m drowning in fear.