Page 130 of Everything But Mine

Italian and Spanish echo into the apartment before I even see them. My dad and Diego’s, Tony, walk in carrying a toolbox and two six-packs. They each kiss me on the cheek and head straight for the nursery, following Diego and Eric’s voices as they argue about which screws are D or F.

“Hey, kids,” Tony booms, peering into the room. “How come it’s three grown men and the crib’s still in pieces?”

“They’re doing their best.” I stand next to Dad, arms crossed.

“Out.” Tony waves them away. “Bring more stuff up from the truck. I’ve put together a few of these.”

Diego groans. “Didn’t we all get the same crib?”

Tony smacks him. “You’ve got cousins. I’ve built all their cribs.”

Dad rolls up his sleeves. “And I’ve put together two.”

“Two?” Eric and I ask.

“Yeah.” He pats Eric’s shoulder. “Who do you think helped your mom with yours?”

“Enough of that. Work time, Sandro.” Tony grabs the manual. “These pictures better make sense.”

Much later that evening, after the truck is finally empty, my dad and Tony announce the crib is assembled. Eric checks each slat and joint for any wobble, listening to Tony’s directions on how to adjust the mattress height. Everyone helps figure out where everything goes—couch, desk, bookshelves. By dusk, the walls stop echoing. I’m just about to collapse onto the couch when Val barrels through the door, carrying a tray of food and two bottles of wine. Behind her stand the four Camacho girls, Diego’s mom, and the Bennett twins. Eric’s mom and mine close the group, each person lugging diapers and wipes in every size imaginable.

“What is all of this?” I wave at everyone around us.

“A peace offering.” Laura puts down a box of diapers and smooths her braid. “We hurt you guys.”

“We’re sorry, Eric,” Lorena adds.

“They’re having a fit of collective guilt.” Val points at the twins. “Ignore it.”

Diego’s mom pats Eric’s cheek. “We love you, Eric. You two”—she points at us—“are about to have a life-changing experience. You deserve moral support, hot food, and help unpacking.”

Eric blinks and moves closer to reach for my hand, tugging me to him.

“So…” Laura wiggles her eyebrows. “Are you two going to kiss, or are we still pretending you’re just roommates?”

Eric doesn’t even hesitate. He leans over and kisses me. It’s not showy, but also not shy. His lips firmly touch mine, slow and assertive, though chaste enough for the parents in the room.

“Happy?” he says to Laura.

My dad claps his hands. “Before this gets more heated, everyone pick a box and unpack, people!”

It’s really chaotic for hours, but by midnight, when Diego leaves, we’ve unpacked almost everything. Eric wraps his arms around me. We stand there, holding each other while he processes an entire support system he didn’t know he had.

When I get out of the shower, I lean against the ensuite door, scrunching my wavy hair with the towel until water stops seeping down the back of the plain blue T-shirt I’m wearing. After draping the towel over my shoulders, I settle against the door frame, the edge pressing into my arm.

A few droplets still drip onto the shoulders of my T-shirt, the hem barely brushing the tops of my thighs. I should probably dry my hair some more, but I can’t take my eyes off Eric, bare-chested, as he wrestles with the fitted sheet.

He’s secured three corners, but the one missing—his—has declared war. Every time he manages to pull it over one corner, the one diagonally across from him pops free, and he groans. Finally sick of circling the bed, he adjusts the stubborn corner one more time before climbing onto the mattress on his knees and elbows, stretching across the bed to keep both rebellious corners in place. The movement draws a pronounced dip between his shoulder blades as his spine arches. In the closet mirror beside the bed, the muscles along his ribs pull taut, ink shifting over his torso every time he moves.

Finally satisfied, he flicks his eyes up and finds mine in the mirror. I hold his gaze for a beat before letting my attention trail down his chest, along his sides and over his abs. I let myself look without shame, with unabashed admiration, because I finally get to look at him whenever I want.

Smirking, Eric sits back on his heels, never breaking eye contact through the mirror as he does the same thing. His gaze traces the curve of my breasts beneath the shirt, his teeth catching his lower lip when my nipple beads beneath his stare, before drifting down to the goose bumps rising along my thighs.

When I lift my eyes to his chest again, he’s breathing harder, each gasp for air making his chest expand in short, shallow huffs. The head of his cock begins to harden, the outline of it noticeable beneath his shorts. The fabric grows tighter the longer my gaze lingers there. He’s not fully hard yet, but the warmer the air turns between us, the more decadent and glassy his eyes turn, the less tired I feel.

Still, through the mirror, he meets my eyes and pats the space beside him on the mattress.

“Come here.”