17. Eric
— ? —
Eric
I can still feel her.
Three hours later, sitting in my office, pretending to read reports, and I can still feel the shape of her breast in my palm. The weight of it. The way her nipple hardened against my thumb.
I’m losing control.
I’ve built my entire life on control. On discipline. On wanting things and acquiring them through strategy rather than desperation. But Valentina doesn’t respond to strategy. She doesn’t care about my money or my restaurants or my name.
She cares when I show up. When I listen. When I stand between her and the people trying to hurt her.
My phone buzzes. My mother.
“I saw the photos,” she says without preamble.
“What photos?”
“Someone at the restaurant took pictures. You and Valentina. They’re online now. Some gossip account.”
I pull up my laptop. Search.
There we are. Me with my arm around her waist. Her uniform stained with wine. The caption reads: Bailey’s Waitress Girlfriend Still Married?
The comments are vicious.
Gold digger.
Homewrecker.
She’s still married and already sleeping with her boss?
These women will do anything for money.
“She’s going to see this,” my mother says quietly.
“I know.”
“What are you going to do?”
I don’t answer. Because I don’t know.
The silence stretches. I can hear my mother breathing on the other end, waiting. She’s never been good at waiting.
“Eric.” Her voice is different now. Sharper. “Still married. Is that true?”
I close my eyes. Pinch the bridge of my nose.
“Yes.”
“You didn’t tell me that.”
“It’s complicated.”
“It’s not complicated. It’s a yes or no question, and you chose not to answer it.” She pauses.
“She doesn’t belong to him. Not anymore. He cheated on her. Took everything. She’s in the middle of a divorce.”
“In the middle of. Not finished.”
“Mom-”
“I’m not angry about the divorce. People get divorced. Life is messy.” Her voice tightens. “I’m angry that you lied to me. By omission, maybe, but still a lie. I thought you were finally letting someone in, and instead you’re playing games I don’t understand.”
“I’m not playing games.”
“Then explain it to me. Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like you’re involved with a married woman, and the whole internet is calling her a gold digger, and you’re sitting in your office pretending everything is fine.”
I don’t have an explanation. Not one that makes sense. Not one that doesn’t sound exactly as messy as it is.
“I care about her,” I say finally. “More than I’ve cared about anyone in a long time. Maybe ever.”
Silence.
“And the marriage?”
“It’s over. Has been for months. She’s fighting him in court right now. He took her house, her money, her job. She’s been living in a motel, working at my restaurant, trying to survive. The only reason the divorce isn’t final is because he’s dragging it out to punish her.”
My mother is quiet for a long moment.
“Why didn’t you just tell me that?”
“Because I didn’t want you to look at her differently. I didn’t want you to see the mess before you saw her.”
“Eric.” Her voice softens. “I’ve been through a divorce. I know what it looks like when someone is trying to rebuild from nothing. I would have understood.”
“I know. I should have trusted you with the truth.”
“Yes. You should have.” A sigh. “But I suppose you come by the secrecy honestly. Your father never told me anything either, until it was too late.”
The comparison stings. She knows it will.
“I’m not him.”
“No. You’re not. But you have his habit of thinking you can control everything by controlling information.” She pauses. “Valentina deserves better than that. So do I.”
“I know.”
“So what are you going to do about this article? About the photos?”
I look at the screen. At the comments section that’s getting worse by the minute. At the way they’ve turned Valentina into a villain in a story they know nothing about.
“I’m going to find her,” I say. “Before she sees it. Before she decides this is one more reason to run.”
“Good.” My mother’s voice warms slightly. “And Eric?”
“Yeah?”
“Next time, tell me the truth. All of it. I’m too old and too sick to waste time on half-stories.”
“I will.”
“I mean it. If this girl is important to you, then I want to know her. The real her. Not the version you think I can handle.”
“Okay, Mom.”
“Now go. Find her. Fix this.”
She hangs up.
I stare at my phone for a long moment. Then I grab my keys and head for the door.
***
Valentina
I see it at 11:00 p.m.
Marianna sends the link with a string of angry emojis and a message: Don’t read the comments. I’m serious. Don’t.
I read the comments.
By midnight, I’ve cried twice and thrown my phone across the room once. The motel walls are thin enough that my neighbor bangs on the wall and tells me to keep it down.
I text Eric: I think we should stop.
No response.
Five minutes. Ten. Fifteen.
I start composing another message. Something longer. Something about how I can’t keep doing this, how I’m ruining his reputation, how he deserves better than a scandal attached to a woman who can’t even afford her own apartment.
A knock at my door.
I freeze.
Another knock. Louder.
I look through the peephole.
Eric.
I open the door. He looks terrible. Tired. Hair messed up like he’s been running his hands through it. He’s still wearing the same suit from this afternoon.
“You’re here,” I say stupidly.
“You tried to end things by text. Did you really think I’d accept that?”
“It’s midnight.”
“I’m aware.”
He steps inside without asking. Looks around at the water-stained ceiling, the rattling AC unit, the single window with its view of the parking lot.
His jaw tightens.
“This is where you’ve been living?”
“It’s what I can afford.”
“This isn’t-” He stops. Breathes. “We’ll discuss that later. Right now, tell me why you want to stop.”
“Did you see the article?”
“Yes.”
“The comments?”
“Yes.”
“Then you know why.” I wrap my arms around myself. “I’m bad for you, Eric. I’m married. I’m a mess. I’m a waitress who got wine poured on her by her husband’s mistress, and now there are photos of you defending me like I’m something worth defending.”
“You are.”
“No. I’m not. I’m a project. I’m a charity case. I’m exactly what everyone says I am.”
“You’re wrong. They are wrong.”
“I’m realistic.”
He sits on my terrible motel bed. Just sits there, watching me, like he has all the time in the world.
“What are you doing?”
“Waiting.”
“For what?”
“For you to stop pushing me away.”
“I’m not pushing you away. I’m letting you go before I drag you down with me.”
“That’s the same thing.” He leans back. Crosses his arms. “I’m not leaving until you believe me.”
“Believe what?”
“That I don’t care about the article. I don’t care about the comments. I don’t care about the photos or the gossip or any of it.”
“You should care. Your reputation-”
“Is worth nothing if I can’t protect the people I care about.” His eyes find mine. Dark. Serious. “I told you once that I wanted you. That hasn’t changed. The only thing that’s changed is how much.”
I don’t have words. The exhaustion of the day, the humiliation, the fear, all of it crashes over me at once.
“I don’t know how to trust anyone anymore,” I whisper. “My husband made me think I was loved for four years. Four years of lies. How do I know you’re not the same?”
Eric stands. Crosses to me slowly. Stops close enough to touch but doesn’t.
“Then don’t trust me,” he says quietly. “Just let me show you.”
He stays for another hour. We don’t touch. We barely talk. He just sits on my terrible bed while I sit in the one chair, and somehow that’s enough.
When he finally leaves, I lock the door and press my forehead against it.
My legs are weak. My heart is racing. I feel wrung out and scraped raw and somehow, impossibly, less alone than I’ve felt in months.
That’s when I notice it.
His jacket. Draped over the back of the chair.
I pick it up. Hold it to my face.
It smells like him. Something expensive and warm underneath.
I sleep in it that night.
And I dream of nothing at all.