28. Amanda #2
“Nothing’s going to happen with Simo.” When Val scoffs, I add more defensively, “Still, I’m not with Eric. It could, if I wanted.”
Except I don’t want to be with Simo.
Val just looks at me. “You’re more with Eric now than he was with you that night.” Her response carries the weight of the words she doesn’t say. And look what that did to you both.
Onstage, Simo’s voice softens. “In somatic therapy, the body doesn’t fail; it speaks. And too often, what it’s saying is: ‘I’m not worthy.’ We must make space for any feeling locked with the body to be understood and embraced.”
Applause breaks out. But I’m left feeling I miscalculated. The echo of Simo’s words sits right there, in my ribs, my own body more attuned to Eric’s wounds than when the day started.
The open reception hums with that strange blend of relief and professional calculation—people shaking hands, air-kissing, eyeing name tags and affiliations to decide who to speak to next.
I’m holding a flute of something sparkling and nonalcoholic when, again, Simo wraps his arm around my waist from behind.
“Bellissima,” Beautiful, he says, he tightens his fingers around the curve of my waist, too close to my belly.
As I turn to face him, his hand slides to the other side of my waist. “Simo—”
He waves me off, pressing his hand into the small of my back so I move forward. “Let’s pay our respects so we can take that walk, yeah? Where’s Val? And the head of your department?”
I’m about to step away from him, already forming the words I should have spoken before, when my gaze lifts to the ballroom doors and catches on Eric.
He’s pressed his mouth into a thin line of tension that travels down his jaw until it ticks just once. His irises, usually a steady dark chocolate, falter with hurt there and gone in a blink, swallowed down by something darker.
And just looking at him, I can tell he has overthought everything about today.
He looks professional but not overdone in a dark navy suit jacket and charcoal slacks.
His brown hair falls in easy waves, just unruly enough to seem intentional.
The knot of his tie sits slightly crooked.
He clocks the way I shift to make Simo’s hand fall from me, then he holds my gaze, betraying there’s more he wants to say than he will as he walks toward me.
“Eric.” I take a step toward him.
“I’ll schmooze at yours if you schmooze at mine.” He studies Simo, registering his shape from head to toe and back up, then chuckles darkly. “I thought we had a deal. Maybe you don’t need me here at all.”
“I want you here, Eric. This—”
But Simo cuts in. “Are you in the field?” he asks. “You missed Amanda’s moderation. It was excellent.” He turns back to me, hand on my elbow. “You did a fantastic job crafting questions to spotlight the differences in everyone’s topics. Sharp, fluid, so very you.”
“Thanks,” I say, distracted, eyes still locked on Eric, dissecting how his jaw juts out in tension.
“I thought you weren’t presenting?” he asks, irritation slipping into his tone.
“Yeah, I still didn’t,” I say unhelpfully. “I just had to step in and facilitate a roundtable. I didn’t share any research.”
Eric hums derisively.
Simo glances over at him again, extending his hand. “Hi, I’m Simone.”
Eric looks at the offered hand, then his eyes shift to me. With a visible exhale, he shakes it. “I’m Eric,” he says, and then adds, “Amanda’s partner.”
My eyes widen, and Eric’s intense stare catches my shock, making his gaze downward.
Simo raises a brow. “Partner?” He turns to me. “I thought you said you didn’t have a boyfriend.”
The comment drops on Eric like a bucket of ice water, squaring his shoulders while his amber eyes search my expression. When I don’t cut in to explain, he nods and shuts his eyes tightly. I hurt him.
“You’re right. Not the boyfriend,” Eric adds, licking his lips, then shoves his hands into his pockets. The outline of his fists tightens the fabric of his slacks. “Amanda, I’m glad you had a good conference. I’m going to go.”
“You just got here,” I say, desperate to stall him.
“And now I am leaving,” he says.
“Eric—”
He stops, turns slightly. His gaze on me feels devoid of emotion, and I can’t stand that this is how he’s looking at me now.
“What about the key?” I rush the words out before he leaves.
“What about it?”
“Eric, I—” The words are stuck in my throat, any action lodged in my muscles.
“Amanda,” he says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Let yourself in. Text me. Or find somewhere else to sleep tonight. Your call.” He says it like he always does, like I get to choose, but this is different; he’s walking away. His back retreating in a sea of people who don’t matter.
Simo exhales. “Che cazzo.” What an asshole. He smirks.
It grates me, the insult. “He’s my baby’s dad.”
Simo blinks. “Oh. Well, of course, biological fathers are important. Let’s take a walk and talk.”
I shake my head. “No, Simo. Eric’s not the father like that. But he is the father, and he is my partner.”
That catches Simo off guard. For the first time all day, he gets it. We’ve been done for years.
“Is he really going to do it, Amanda? Raise a child who isn’t his? That’s a hell of a commitment.” His accent thickens with each word.
“Yes,” I say.
“Tra il dire e il fare, Amanda…” Between saying and doing.
And we’ve been crossing that sea for months.
The second my baby’s heartbeat flickered on a screen while Eric sat beside me, silent, stunned, but still there.
And beyond that, we’ve been folding laundry, buying groceries, and arguing about how much we need a home office.
That’s not talk. That’s figuring out how to do.
“Lo fa, Simo.” I want Simo to know. He does.
Simo nods. “And he’s a good guy? He’s good to you?” He’s looking at me tenderly again, and now that he isn’t attacking Eric, I can give him a little of mine in return.
“He’s the best.”
Simo nods again. “Bene allora, capisco.” Well, then. I understand. “Better go get him.” He tips his head toward the doors. “He was pissed at you.”
By the time I get home, it’s been over an hour since Eric left the reception.
The door to my home stands in front of me.
It may be his apartment, but he’s made my home these past three months.
I hold the key in my hand, tracing the dents and grooves of the metal and pressing it into my finger pad until it takes a few seconds for my skin to return to its natural color.
I do think of the last time that I used his key, and I hyperventilate.
Today, it was me who hurt him, and I’m not to blame for his mistakes, but if I’m building anything with him…
Therapeutic exposure works better if you don’t chicken out halfway, Val’s words echo in my head.
It’s fucking time.
I slide the key into the lock, the metal catching with a soft click, louder in the stillness of the apartment. I turn it and step inside. The lighting is muted, shadows stretching long across the room without quite hiding anything.
Eric is on the couch, legs stretched out, with an open bottle of beer hanging loosely between his fingers.
His eyes are clear and sharp. There’s maybe a sip or two missing.
The buttons in his shirt are undone all the way through, the wrinkled fabric pooling around his bare torso.
The ink on his chest is on display, calling to me.
He doesn’t look at me.
I close the door behind me and stand next to the kitchen counter, at the edge of the living room area. I wait in silence for him to speak or make a move, wondering if this is how impatiently powerless he’s been feeling about everything between us.
“You used the key,” he says, taking a swing from his bottle, eyes fixed on the large windows to his right. “I didn’t think you’d come tonight.”
I shake my head. “I came home. To you.”
He laughs once, sharp and small. Not amused.
“To me?” he says, slowly dragging a hand down his face.
“I’m not a fucking place to go back and forth from.
” He tightens his hand into a fist over his mouth, as if he’s trying to stop the words from spilling out too fast. “I have worked so fucking hard to show you I can be okay with whatever you give me.” His voice is low but controlled.
“And you—you—” His hand drops to his side, deflated of energy.
“Do you want to tell me who that guy was today, Amanda?”
“He’s just a friend, Eric.”
He winces at the word friend, his shoulders recoiling inward into a curved line. “You mean a friend like me?” He finally meets my eyes when his voice cracks.
His deep amber eyes swirl with pain, but they’re edged with restraint, sparing me from his pain. Even at his worst, his instinct is to save me from himself.
“Nobody in my life is like you.”
He lets out a tortured huff. “But you’ve fucked him, yeah?”
I lick my lips, nodding. “Back in Italy.”
He stands up, the liquid in the bottle swishing with the abrupt motion. “And you thought about it today.”
I shake my head.
He takes a step back from me. “You let him think you might anyway.” He cocks his hip, curling his fingers around the neck of the bottle. “And now you, coming here, using that key, feels like you’re settling.”