28. Amanda
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
AMANDA
I’m in the middle of conference chaos, holding a stack of lanyards and straining to hear what Val is saying.
Printers whirring and microphones buzzing swallow her rapid-fire instructions.
She’s in full command mode, with her hair twisted into a claw clip and a sharp navy blazer.
Another adjunct in our department is trying to merge two panels due to last-minute cancellations.
A speaker is panicking over a corrupted PowerPoint, and the undergrad volunteers have questions about swag for participants.
The hunt for three-bedroom apartments to rent continues as Eric and I argue over neighborhoods.
We’ve shifted from temporary to at least “for the time being.” Eric’s always sweet about the baby.
He even bought this soft blue onesie the other day that says Therapist in Training.
Since the last ultrasound, I don’t just see the possibility of Eric being more than a co-parent…
I savor it. The taste is as addictive as it’s terrifying.
It’s all very loving in its domesticity—he won’t suggest an apartment without a coffee shop within a block.
And I’m hyper aware of the drive to his climbing gym—never considering neighborhoods out of the way.
Sometimes, hurt still twists inside me, but this whole new dimension of what we’re becoming makes my lower stomach swirl with cautious excitement.
What happened three years ago… that’s the hurt.
What he did thirteen weeks ago… that’s why I’m guarded.
I told him I was pregnant thirteen weeks ago…
His way to cope was to get wasted and fuck someone else.
I’m jealous of her… And yet, it’s not the jealousy that makes me pause.
Is Eric an incident away from self-sabotaging and hurting my baby and me in the process?
“Okay,” Val says, the clap of her hands yanking me from my thoughts. “You’re on registration. If Simone shows up early, just point him to Ballroom B. Tech’s still tweaking the sound feed.”
I flinch at Simone’s name, bunching up the lanyards in my hands. I’d forgotten about Simo. Val pauses everything for half a breath and studies me.
“You good?” she asks in a soft tone at odds with her personality.
I nod, then shake my head. “I forgot about Simo.”
Val arches her brow. “And?”
I bite my lip, release my tight hold on the lanyards, and start arranging them. “It’s just that—”
She gives me a look that’s both knowing and time-crunched. “Welcome to running a conference and nursing unresolved feelings at the same time. You’re a good multitasker. You’ll figure it out.”
Then she’s gone, off to herd mics and panelists. While I’m left here, surrounded by glossy programs and alphabetized badges, trying not to think about how Eric should have known about Simo before today.
Soon enough, however, there’s enough of a line of presenters and attendees that my thoughts of Eric get buried. Handing out name cards, directing presents. There are refreshments right across from us. It all kind of fades in my professional persona until I hear a deep, musical voice.
“Ciao, bellissima, come stai?” Hello, beautiful, how are you? Before I can respond, a loud kiss on my cheek follows the familiar weight of his arm on the small of my back.
“Simo.” I gasp.
He’s come from the back, straight to me rather than wait in line for his turn to pick up his presenter’s badge. He’s always been a cocky bastard.
His smile widens when I turn, deepening his one-sided dimple.
His glasses dangle at the tip of his nose, and his gray-blue gaze focuses on me, swelling with sincere care.
I forgot how much tenderness there was between us.
I was a huge mess the first few months in Milan, and Simo, I feel more than simply remember, was more than a guy.
He was a friend who held me more than once and cracked so many jokes when my expression went grim.
Muscle memory kicks in, I twirl one of his stubborn gelled curls around my index finger and let it bounce back.
I could pick his laugh in a crowd, and when his torso vibrates against my side, the intimacy of it claws at me. He has his arms around me, and my ear pressed against his pounding heart. Too much like back then, when we strolled through Parco Sempione between magnolia and lime trees.
My stomach is different, though. It doesn’t mold against his the same way. He’s the first one to step away, his hands on my hips, while his gaze flickers down and focuses on the widest part pressed against him.
“Sei in cinta?” You’re pregnant? He’s flabbergasted.
He shoots out his hand, as if about to touch my stomach, and when I shift away, he nestles his fingers into mine, holding my hand tightly. It’s just a clasp of fingers, and still, his touch is not right. He studies my wider hips and larger chest, and I fight the urge to close my blazer.
“Pregnancy looks good on you, bellissima.” His English carries his Italian roots, the cadence of his voice going up and down musically.
“Grazie.” Thank you. I turn back to look for his badge and registration folder.
Taking the paperwork from me, he asks, “Will you attend my panel?”
I smile and nod. He is a good presenter—charming, captivating. He brings an expanded outline and his timer, and just talks as he looks at his audience.
“Non vedo l’ora.” I can’t wait, I say, without thinking. Then I hear the way it sounds, like I’m interested.
He’s taken it that way, too, his eyes wide. “Il tuo ragazzo sarà qui stasera? Magari tuo marito?” Will your boyfriend be here tonight? Maybe your husband?
I wave his comment off. Some boyfriend I had. “No, no boyfriend. Much less husband.”
Simo hums with a satisfied tone, then leans in and brushes his cheek against mine, first the left and then the right, the way they do in Milan.
There’s no time for me to add any correction or nuance to Simo’s assumption that I’m single.
And I am—single. Still, it’s a candid friendship.
Eric and I are in such a complex situation…
The day continues in a whirl of conflicting needs and directions, trying to account for presenters’ needs, refreshments, and a smooth transition between panels.
Everything about Simo slips my mind. I do think of Eric, and I check the time more often than I should, knowing that he’ll be here for the open reception later today—“to make the schmoozing more fun.”
After lunch, I head to Val’s panel. She’s discussing “The Therapist as a Public Figure: health is the spotlight,” using her own very popular social media channel as a case study.
I look to the side when something bumps my elbow, finding Simo’s steely eyes on mine, pressing against my left side in the crowded room.
“Sai? Val e bravissima.” You know? Val is very brave. “She’s calling out all those therapists on socials for the fame and money.”
“Everyone starts those accounts to promote health, and then they end up hyping up BS mental health apps.”
“You know what we say ‘tra il dire e il fare c’è di mezzo il mare’” Between saying and doing, there’s the sea.
His words linger between us, echoing that night in Milan when I told him I was returning home, to Eric, though I didn’t speak his name.
It was his response to me the last time we had dinner in Milan, “Non sparire!” Don’t be a stranger!
And he yelled back “Tra il dire e il fare” before turning around the corner, leaving me to walk my way through the crowded streets of Navigli.
“What are you doing tonight?” His accent is all Milanese smoothness, swaying with the tilt of his head, and one of his curls brushes my forehead.
“Same as you, I’d think. Attending the reception.”
Simo dips his head further down, closer to my ear. “Have a walk with me. After.” His pronunciation slipped at the word after—vowels broader with a foreign softness that doesn’t belong to such a decisive proposal.
I hesitate. He’s looking at me as if no time has passed at all, and time has passed, but the wreckage I was in Milan and how quickly Eric backslid into old habits tugs at my own fear. I shift my weight, stepping just far enough that Simo’s arm no longer brushes mine.
Val’s voice cuts through the room, calling out the double standard of a question that came from the audience, brilliant and in her element. I focus on her through the end of the presentation, pressing my index finger against my lips every time that Simo tried to get the conversation going again.
Once Val’s roundtable is done, I don’t cross paths with her until she slides into the empty seat beside me just as Simo is being introduced for his panel.
His candid, warbling voice gives the opening question an unintended edge: “What happens to a wound when no one believes it’s real?
” The pause is strategic. The smile he throws my way is all charm before he continues.
“It is our sacred role as therapists to be the first mirror that says: ‘Yes, this pain is real. Yes, healing can happen.’”
Val murmurs, “He’s good.”
I nod. “He’s very knowledgeable.”
Simo’s accent carries the presentation.
Val nods again. “Diego came to my talk. I’ve been tasked, though I want to know myself, with asking why you’re getting cozy with Mr. Hairy Belly Button.
” I’m about to respond when she cuts me off.
“I don’t need to know why Diego knows so much about your lover’s body hair.
” It sounds like a joke, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.
“Former lover,” I mumble.
Val doesn’t quip back. She’s watching Simo at the front of the room. “I asked if you were ready for him,” she says—and she doesn’t mean Simo. “I told you to sit in the question.”
I nod.
Her breath is restrained and clinical. “This thing with Simo might feel harmless, but it’s going to hurt him.” She breathes more slowly now. “What you’re doing isn’t sitting in the question. It’s trying on an answer to see how it fits.”