Page 100 of Everything But Mine

Diego nods, without even wincing. Our friends think because he’s a bit of a cinnamon roll, Diego can’t get shit done. His moral compass, though, is brutal. As much as I don’t think Eric would… I’ve been wrong before. If he does, Diego’s right, I have to cut him loose.

Diego parks badly, blocking a fire hydrant, hazard lights on just outside the PhD bar, the letters glowing above us in neon blue and yellow. We’re getting in and out. Either he’s not here and we move on, or he is.

I’m opening the door to the bar and stepping in before Diego can help me through any of it. Inside, the music is loud and the lights are too low. We push past people who give me wide, confused looks, like they’ll get pregnant just from brushing up against me.

Still, no trace of Eric. No matter how much Eric’s done to show he won’t do what he did again—even if I believe him—my body and mind can’t reconcile hurt with belief. Swallowing back the bile that’s gathered in my throat, I point Diego to check the men’s room while I check the women’s. He isn’t here.

And if he isn’t here… We’re flying blind, and the options turn grimmer by the second. We try a few more bars, a beach on the north side, and a fishing pond on the west side. Every place we check and don’t find him heightens the tension inside the car. The air starts feeling stale, too small for the panic building between us. I grow quieter with every dead end, folding further into myself while Diego unravels in the opposite direction, hands jerking sharp on the steering wheel, answers turning clipped and impatient, like anger is the only thing keeping fear from swallowing him whole.

Then, I remember Steelworkers Park—a climbing wall tucked lakeside on the south side.

Diego flicks his gaze to me, then signals left. “It makes sense.” He nods, checks that four-lane avenue is deserted, and makes a sharp U-turn.

By the time we get there, it’s almost one in the morning. The park is packed, people drinking on benches or skinny-dipping in the lake, yelling and playing loud music. Someone makes a comment about us and my belly. Diego pulls me closer to him, his arm over my shoulder, as we follow the sandy path until the climbing wall emerges in front of us.

There’s definitely someone there. They’re rappelling down, as if suspended in time, boots planting against the concrete before pushing off again. Even from a distance, I can tell they’re a confident climber, and their moves are familiar. My pulse spikes up, and when we reach the wall, the climber touches down. Metal clinks in the quieter area as he unhooks himself from the ropes, then peels off his gloves and takes off his helmet.

For a breathless few seconds, I can’t make out his features—just the outline of him beneath the weak orange spills of the streetlights. Broad shoulders, over six feet, skinny frame, and dark wavy hair damp with sweat I’d know as well as my own reflection.

Eric’s okay. The suffocating constraint around my chest loosens, and my knees almost buckle. It’s Diego who grabs me. And finally Eric hears us and looks our way, standing and breathing and safe. Relief crashes through me hard enough to hurt, washing out every coherent thought I had on the drive here. I don’t even get as far as anger. I just want to get to him.

But Diego moves first.

One second, he’s beside me, rigid with tension, and the next, he is striding across the pavement. Eric squares his spine, and then recognition must kick in because his shoulders relax. Diego grabs Eric’s shirt and yanks him upright, hard enough that the carabiners at the waist clang together. It’s kind of impressive, given that Diego is on his toes to make up for the height difference. They stare at each other, Eric a bit startled and wide-eyed, chest rising and falling, Diego breathing hard, rib cage expanding.

“Diego—” I say.

Then he swings.

The punch lands square across Eric’s mouth with a sickening crack. His head snaps sideways, boots scraping against the pavement as he stumbles back a step. Drops of blood splatter against the concrete.

I gasp when Eric straightens, puffing up his chest, tightening his fists. The sound brings his attention to me, and his anger freezes, shifting away from returning the punch.

“What the fuck, Diego?” Eric wipes his mouth, spits again. “What is wrong with you?”

Diego chuckles once, but there’s no humor in it. He plants himself chest to chest with Eric. He barely reaches his nose, but the aggression radiating off him is something new. Eric takes a step back in shock.

“What is fucking wrong with you?” Diego shoots back. “You think this is okay? Disappearing while a pregnant woman is at your home, wondering where the hell you are until one in the goddamn morning?” He shoves at Eric’s chest, forcing him back another step. “You didn’t even bring your phone in case something happened. And it did. We nearly lost our goddamn minds.” He plants both palms on Eric’s chest until he falls flat on his butt. Diego drags a hand over his face. “I told you, if you were gonna go for it, then go for it. No half-assed bullshit. What the fuck was this, Eric?”

“Enough,” I snap before Eric can answer.

Both of them look at me. Blood stains Eric’s mouth. His breathing is uneven, a defensive forearm stretched over his face. I notice his shoulders are tightly wound like he hasn’t fully come back down from whatever place he disappeared into tonight. Fear churns inside me, but the sight of him lulls it back into violent relief.

“I’m leaving.” Diego turns my way. “You coming?”

“I’m riding with Eric.”

Diego studies me, and then nods, but before he can turn away or argue, I catch his wrist and pull him into a fierce hug. His whole body stays tense for a beat before he exhales raggedly against my shoulder, the sound rough and exhausted.

“Text me when you get home,” he mutters.

“I will.”

Then he pulls away and heads for his car, leaving me alone with Eric beneath the washed-out glow of the streetlights.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

ERIC