29. Eric #2
“Yeah, yeah.” She waves her hand. “So…” She claps her hands together. “You pick mine, I pick yours?” Her eyebrows wiggle playfully at me.
For so long, since I fucked up, since she moved back, anything other than pain and history with her felt not just out of reach, but delusional. Now, I could extend my arm and grab it, if I find the right moment.
“Let’s do it.”
I take a seat on the patio by the parlor, claiming a shady corner.
Amanda slides in next to me, rather than across me, until our thighs are flush against together.
I hand her the cup I chose for her, and she passes me mine.
I picked her favorite for her, and she picked…
her second favorite for me. She’s grinning, dragging the spoon around the soft cream.
After a few bites, her expression hardens, lips pressing into a thin line. “Honesty, right?”
I nod, my stomach churning. “Honesty.”
She draws in a long breath. “I’m going to talk to Daray soon.
I needed time to wrap my head around”—she circles her hand around her belly bump—“this situation. It’s time to woman up, though.
Decisions need to be made.” She flicks her gaze to my hand, stiffly curling around the ice cream cup. “I want him out of the picture.”
My grip on the paper cup relaxes. “You do?”
“But I don’t get to force him.”
I swallow and force myself to push the words past my dry throat. “No, you don’t.”
She nods, eyes glassy with a hint of sadness. As a kid who was abandoned and avoided, I get it. No matter how badly I want to rewrite the rules and pretend this kid is mine in every way. Her chest swells as she breathes in and cups my jaw.
“The reason I want to talk to him…” She darts her eyes to the tree behind me, then looks at me straight. “I’ve been think—do you want the baby to have your last name?”
My breath stumbles. Amanda takes it the wrong way because she starts to ramble.
“I’m not trying to trap you or anything,” she says quickly. “I just—shit, Eric. You know how my mom’s delivery went, right?”
The question knocks the air out of my lungs. I don’t know the specifics, but I’ve heard enough whispers around Mom’s friends over the years. Sandro was so terrified he’d lose either Amanda or Aunt Kate that they never tried for children again.
Amanda brushes her thumb on my jaw, bringing my gaze back to her, and swallows. “If your name’s on my will, as designated guardian, and I secure some kind of arrangement with Daray… I can protect your parenting rights.”
What. The. Fuck. Amanda’s thinking about protecting me?
Like I’d care about anything else if she—except I would.
I’d care about our baby, and him ending up with Daray because biology is louder than love.
I’ve had my head up my ass worried she’d want her Italian ex-lover more than me while she’s been thinking about the legal ramifications of the situation we’re in.
Underneath it all, in the way she swallows thickly, and how she plays with the scruff against my jaw, it’s clear as day to me. Amanda’s terrified of labor.
“Slow down for a second.” I cover her hand with mine. “What happened with your mom—”
“Could happen to me.” She drops her gaze to her stomach. “Late onset preeclampsia. Severe hemorrhaging during the C-section. Surgical intervention.”
I place my hand on her neck, her pulse thumping against my thumb.
She lifts her gaze to mine, green eyes shining with unshed tears of fear. “She barely made it, Eric. And it could happen to me.”
“Doctors are monitoring everything they can. They’ll catch it as early as they can, and you’ll be okay.”
I say this like my words can speak it into existence.
She smiles thinly. “I have no control over that.” The words come out above a whisper, cracking at the end. “But I have more control over who takes the baby home if I’m… unwell.”
“I’m taking the baby home, Amanda, and you’re going to be okay.”
Her smile deepens, but it’s wobbly. “I want Daray to sign away his rights. And then he’ll be legally yours.”
“We don’t say shit to Daray. And I sign the birth certificate.”
She shakes her head. “That’s fraud.”
“Well…” Sweat gathers on my palms, melting gelato sticking to my fingers. I put the cup down and meet her eyes. “Marry me, then.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “What, Er—”
“Listen to me.” I wrap my fingers around the wrist holding my cheek. She’s so much smaller than my middle finger goes over my thumb. “Husbands go on birth certificates, right? No questions asked?”
She casts her gaze downward and bites her lip. “That’s skipping like a thousand fucking steps between you and me…”
I huff. “We’re already having a baby.”
She looks into my eyes, hers glistening, and taps her hand against my jaw. “It’s not our time for that.”
Without looking away, I wait for the shame and self-doubt to creep in, but Amanda didn’t say no; she said the time isn’t right. And I agree.
She pulls the corner of her mouth up, giving me a shy smile, when I mumble that I understand. I lean my forehead on hers, and she brushes against me. After a second, she fixes her eyes on mine again.
“Daray’s enough of a dick, and he’d figure out how to get you in trouble for it.” She squares her shoulders. “It all needs to be legal and above reproach, so he has no way to take him from you.”
I nod.
“So, I’ll talk to Daray, and…”
“And we’ll do what we need to so I’m on that certificate.”
Her pinkie finger hooks around the neck of my shirt. “But are you okay with this?” She swallows. “Even if I—”
No, I wouldn’t be fucking okay if she’s… But—
“He’s been my kid since we agreed he’d be, Amanda. Nothing’ll change that.”
My entire life I’ve been someone people walk away from. Somehow, I’ve become the person she knows won’t walk away. She trusts me to raise her child. The intensity of her stare lays a heavy weight on me, laying herself bare and telling me where she stands.
“You won’t get hurt,” I add, voice low.
I squeeze lightly right where her neck meets her shoulder.
“I don’t plan to.” She leans her head down, cheek brushing against my palm. “But Eric, if anything—”
“Yes.” I cup the back of her nape now. “Anything. I’m in.”
She leans her forehead onto mine, and the air wooshes out of my lungs, fanning her lips.
Her pulse quickens at the base of her neck, as if she’s bracing for rejection.
But we’re finally on the same wavelength at the same time, as I let the knowledge settle that neither of us needs perfection. We just need each other.
“He’s mine. Not just until Daray changes his mind. You get that, right?”
Amanda swallows. “That’s the point.” She tightens my grip on her neck with her own hand. “He is yours.”
My rib cage swells with how much I want this. Her. Him. Us.
“I’m not your contingency plan or his.” I flick my eyes down to her belly.
“I want to be the person you can’t wait to wake up to.
The one who makes pancakes while you sleep in.
Bring him to you at night so you don’t leave the bed to nurse.
I’ll teach him how to fall and get hurt without panicking.
Hell, I’m learning how to do all of that with you.
” Her mouth quirks slightly. I exhale. “No matter what, Amanda, he’s got me. I just want a shot at having you too.”
She intertwines our fingers through her hair—skin sticky with gelato.
“This is not just about the baby, Eric.” She swallows. “You said I’m it for you. You’re it for me.”
I don’t move. Not yet. I want to savor the way her words reach inside of me. But I know this is our moment. Eyes aren’t on us, she isn’t leaving or angry, and I’m her choice.
I lean into her with reverent slowness. We’ve kissed before, but there’s respect for what this means that’s never been here before.
She leans in toward me, eyes flicking to my mouth, then back up.
I echo the movement, taking my time. There’s no urgency.
Just the gravity of everything we’ve carried.
The quiet ache of letting go of the past if our lips were to meet in these next few seconds.
And they do when I take the lead because I have a right to want.
My lips want hers, slow and sure without boundaries or performance.
I press a kiss against her lips before nipping at the seam of her mouth.
Her lips part, tongues wrap against each other, languidly in a mutual surrender that makes my heart stutter.
I kiss her deeper, our tongues gliding, curling, tasting.
The rhythm is both new and remembered, like we’re choosing each other because of who we are rather than in spite of what we’ve done.
There’s still heat in our kiss, though. Her legs slip over my lap, drawing me into her. The shape of her outer thigh presses against my crotch, my cock thickening against the zipper. I pull her into me, searching for the last sliver of space between us and willing it closed.
This slow, slick drag of tongue against tongue is a declaration. We’re kissing our way into each other’s souls. And I want my fucking name branded on hers. When we part, I rest my forehead against hers, rolling it lightly. I don’t say a word. Just gently squeeze her to me.
The tears track down her cheeks—fuck—and panic grips me.
“Sweetheart,” I say gently. “What’s wrong?” My voice is raw. I’m terrified she regrets it. That I somehow said too much, or gave too little. “Did I—did I not do a good job?”
Her mouth parts a fraction, then shakes her head and kisses me again. The kiss is all her this time, deep and sure, and I can taste the salt of her tears. Maybe some of them are mine. When Amanda pulls away, she continues to give me quick pecks rather than languid tongue swirls.
“Eric, let’s go home.” Her tone is demanding, but her eyes catch mine, tentative, worried I’ll pull back.
I palm her arms, rubbing up and down her biceps before I nod. Her smile in response is lopsided, a flash of teeth when she licks her lips. I need to tell her the only things that’s left to say—one last failure from my end to unveil to her.