34. Amanda
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
AMANDA
Sycamores and sugar maples surround us, their branches knitting together overhead and filtering the late-afternoon sun into shifting patches of gold.
Diego’s truck winds down the sinewy roads toward the lake, while Martina sings off-key at the top of her lungs and Diego mutters about the GPS losing signal.
We crest a ridge, and there it is: the lake, dark and still, tucked between pines.
Postcard-worthy. Cabins scatter around and into the woods, log-sided with green roofs and hand-painted numbers.
Diego pulls into a gravel loop and kills the engine.
Martina’s already out the door and running toward the Bennett twins.
For a moment, I stand beside his car with one hand on my belly.
Every year, Eric glances at the paths like he can’t wait to get hiking and climbing before even unpacking.
The thought leaves a hollow ache beneath my ribs.
Twenty-nine weeks and four days, and every beautiful thing still comes with the instinct to turn and share it with him. I’ve never been here without him.
Diego whistles low. Martina screeches with joy. “I love this place.”
“You’re staying with us this year.” He grabs my suitcase, then swings his bag over his shoulder, squinting toward the path.
Us being his loud brood of sisters. I arch an eyebrow, but say nothing when he makes a V with his index and middle finger, points it to his eyes, then at me, and at then the Camacho cabin.
Usually, Eric and I stay in one cabin with my parents and Aunt Ellie.
Diego’s parents always migrate to someone else’s, so their giant bungalow becomes the younger generation’s base.
Then, two Jeeps, one bright red, one yellow, pull into the driveway. Robert and Keith. They always get their own cabin. When Daray came, he went with them. I stayed with my people. We’d sit together at meals, split apart after. Daray won’t be here now. Small mercies and all.
My parents and Ellie, Eric’s mom, come up to me. Dad kisses my cheek, and then Mom and Ellie pull me into a hug.
“How’s my son?” she asks.
I squeeze her hand. “He’s okay.” I offer a small smile, willing her to believe it. “He was just feeling really stressed. He wanted some time to recharge before things got hectic.”
“Did he…” She licks her lips. “Does he need anything?”
“No, no.” I hold her hand tightly. Eric has never wanted her to know he struggles. “We’ll have dinner when he’s back. He’s coming soon.” I reassure both of us. “I’ll stay with the Camachos this time, if that’s alright.”
“Of course.” My dad’s eyes widen. “Tony and Dolores can come with us.” Then he leans in so only I can hear. “Do I need to talk to the boy?”
I shake my head. “He’s not a boy, Dad. And no, you don’t. I just miss him.”
He smiles. “Years in the making, cara. It’ll be okay.”
Between getting everyone settled into their rooms and arguing with Diego’s sisters about not needing the master bedroom, the hours before dinner pass quickly.
By the time we finish setting the large pine table and mixing pitchers of mojitos, we already know the parents won’t move from their seats once they start on their third drink.
I take a seat between Matteo and Andrzej under Diego’s watchful gaze.
I need all the hovering to stop. I need the Bennetts not to gossip about Eric or me. And…
A vehicle pulls up, and my heart pounds because I realize that, more than anything, I need Max to come out of that car.
Alone. A short woman, though still taller than me, with a dark straight bob and a swallow tattoo on her left clavicle, gets out of the car and waits for Max to escort hair, fingers interlaced, to our table.
Diego’s energy shifts, and he stiffens. He flicks his gaze to Andrzej’s, but Matteo and Martina both clock it and turn to observe the newcomers.
Once Nova and Max get to the head of the table, everyone scrambles to make space.
Keith stands to hug Nova for way too long, then hands her his mojito while his wife, newlyweds as they are, sits beside him. No drink or smile for Cece.
Nova is being introduced around the table.
The Bennetts hug her immediately. Diego’s sisters land somewhere between chin lifts and polite waves.
Diego himself gives a tentative smile. When Laura says my name, Nova’s blue eyes flick my way, shifting between me and everyone. As if he’s looking for him.
“And that’s everybody!” Keith says, clapping his hands loudly.
“It’s not everybody,” Martina mutters, curls bouncing, eyes rolling. “Eric’s not here.”
His name is like a gong in the middle of the forest, commanding everyone to go quiet.
Until Lorena Bennett answers. “Come on, Martina. He”—she gestures at Keith—“didn’t mean it like that. Eric’s basically a Camacho. If there’s one of you, then there’s all of you.” Her eyes light up. “Like a representative! Keith would’ve said the same about Diego.”
“Yeah?” Diego says, voice flat. “Wanna try that one on me, Keith?” There’s a dare in the question.
“Where is he, anyway?” Max asks.
“He had things to take care of,” I say. “And you were a dick to us last time.”
“Maybe we wore him out,” Laura adds, tossing her braid over one shoulder. “Finally cracked.”
Half the table breaks into laughter. Cece winces. Nova looks around, eyes squinting.
“Come on, guys.” Max takes a sip of his beer. “It was a joke.” He stresses the last work with a slam of his palm on the table. “You should all be laughing.”
Andrzej’s sister, Elena, shakes her head, and he adds, “We’re not kids anymore. This bullying bullshit needs to stop.”
“Sure, sure,” Keith says, hands up. “Didn’t mean anything by it. I’m just saying, the whole ‘my dad didn’t want me’ thing… He’s so sensitive.”
“Right,” Matteo mutters, not looking up. “Because you’re a model for emotional maturity.”
Carmen slurps her drink.
“You don’t have to take my word for it.” Keith’s eyes lock on Matteo’s. Then he slips into a thick accent, mocking Matteo’s first years here. “‘He’s hung up on a girl.” He turns to Nova. “Hey, Nova, want to tell them about your one-night stand with Eric?”
“Dude.” Max turns red around the cheeks and ears. “Can you stop fucking bringing that up? She’s my girlfriend.”
Nova shakes her head and meets my eyes as her lips go downward. A wordless apology.
Keith keeps going. “Eric was pining over Amanda. You know, the way he’s done for years, drunk and at bars? Talking about how she”—Keith points at me—“is his home? Fucking sad if you ask me.” He downs half his beer. “Still, fucked her.” He points at Nova.
She stiffens. “I told you that stuff because I thought we were just sharing stories, not stockpiling ammo to humiliate someone.”
I stand up, the metal chair screeching against the stone floor. “Stop,” I say. “Stop talking about Eric like he’s this thing that’s too damaged to matter. He’s one of us. And if that doesn’t mean anything to you—”
“He’s ours,” Martina says, and the other Camacho girls nod in agreement.
Diego shifts in his chair, ready to add, but Eric isn’t theirs. “He’s mine,” I say. “Not your punchline.”
Keith’s head tilts down, his wife farther away now. I walk away, both hands under the wider part of my stomach, and head to the cabin.
The first night of these weekends is usually a long, drunken blur.
Tonight, our parents remain one large group, but us kids split into two.
Diego and Andrzej do their best to keep the cards and conversation flowing, but it feels forced.
Everyone is carefully avoiding the same pink elephant in the room.
After the fifth time Diego asks me if I needed anything, I step onto the porch. The parents are gathered around a fire. Robert, Eric’s father, has his arm slung over his wife—but his eyes won’t leave Ellie.
Matteo joins me, sitting next to me on the stairs of the front porch, where an eternity ago, I gave Eric my first kiss. He’s quiet and sits with me. I don’t mind this version of Amanda duty.
To our left, Nova crosses the deck in silence and sinks into one of the empty chairs. Tears track down her cheeks, catching the moonlight. She lifts her chin and looks our way but doesn’t come over.
“I can tell her to leave,” Matteo mutters.
I shake my head. “She did a shitty thing, but she isn’t the problem.”
He hums, leaning back.
“He talked about me when he was with her.” I tilt my head in Nova’s direction.
Matteo shifts a bit closer to me and whispers, “You’re Eric’s preferred topic.”
I look at him, he chuckles, and I smack his bicep.
“I don’t mind her.”
“No?”
“I don’t like it.” I hitch a shoulder.
“You don’t have to like it,” he responds. “Sometimes, there’s so much hurt inside us, it needs out.” Matteo stands up and offers me a hand.
“Yeah,” I whisper, taking his hand. “I know some about that myself.”
My hurt never came out as scathing as Eric’s. It came out as distance. As other men I let in to keep Eric at arm’s length, even when I knew he was the person I wanted most.