Page 20 of Everything But Mine

I abandoned his tattoo and let my palm slide over the ridges between his ribs.

“You’re withering away. Do you even eat?”

“I eat,” he whispered, barely audible. “I drink more.”

“Do you have a problem?”

His self-deprecating chuckle followed. “Just one more to add to the list.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I. There are things you don’t want to go into. I respect that. But I can’t tell without discussing those.” He blinked, eyes glossy without pretense.

“Look at us, Eric.”

His gaze fell on everywhere our bodies touched with heat, then he met my eyes.

“You called. Truly called. I came. You—” My throat tightened. “I came back for you, and you wished you weren’t here.”

Eric’s arms wrapped tightly around me, “But you weren’t with me. And it’s my doing. Like you said, I gotta lie in the bed I made.”

“You’re scaring the shit out of me with all of this, you know.”

“I know.” It was more a broken breath than words, and the hoarseness in his voice made my chest cave.

Counting ribs on his chest, a reluctant tear escaped and rolled from my cheek onto his tattoo. Skin against skin, his hipbone digging into my inner thigh becomes a reckoning. Our bodies fit in each other’s as halves of something that once was whole. And together, we cry. For him, for me, for this “us” that could have been.

“I will be okay. It’s not on you to fix me. I know that. Do you?”

I nodded against his chest, though I wasn’t sure. I’d had his back for as long as I could remember. In our messy embrace of tangled limbs, long after his breathing had steadied with sleep, I forced myself to put my hurt aside. I made a decision. To move back.

I blink, grounding myself in the stranger’s voice. I’m not at the river. I’m not in the cabin. Just here. Now. Soaked in water. Someone’s trying to clean me up.

I swallow hard and nod. “It’s fine.” I try to smile, but their expression tells me I failed.

It’s never really fine. Three months after that night, he helped me unpack in a studio apartment back here. His presence reminded me of everything I tried to forget while I was away.

And now, with someone else’s baby in my womb, I don’t know how to do this without Eric. But I know I can’t do it with him.

CHAPTER SEVEN

ERIC

The gym smells like chalk, sweat, and rubber—sharp, but with an undercurrent of disinfectant. I grip the next hold on the wall, fingers pressing into the textured plastic, and pull myself up. My muscles burn, but it’s the good kind, the kind that forces focus.

Diego’s already at the top, hanging loose against the ledge with one knee bent, shaking chalk from his fingers. He’s got that compact, lean build that makes him a natural at this—quick hands, quick feet, always moving efficiently with no real effort behind it. His black curls are sweat-damp, sticking to his forehead, hair tie long lost. When I haul myself up beside him, he gives me a once-over, then snorts.

“Man, why did you add all those extra weights? You’re climbing slower than my abuelita.”

I lean back against the cool surface, exhaling sharply. “Fuck off.”

“Right. You’re just kicking and pulling at the wall like you got nothing better to do.” He shakes his head, dusts off his hands. “C’mon, what’s up?”

“Where’s Andrzej today?” I ask, trying to distract him. “He usually tags along with us on Wednesdays.”

“Andrzej’s got girl trouble.” He dismisses it with a wave. “Don’t dodge. What’s going on?”

I hesitate. It’s Amanda’s business, not mine. But Diego’s one of the few people who actually listens instead of just waiting for his turn to talk. He’s also my closest friend, other than Amanda. When I was thirteen, during one of those summer trips to the cabins, it slipped out that Keith and I shared a father. Ever since, Diego helped me kick my half brother’s ass more than once during those summers. Diego is part of the fabric of my childhood and a permanent fixture in my life that I’m thankful for. I roll my shoulders, flex my grip against my knee, and say it. “Amanda stayed the night.”