Page 36 of Everything But Mine

“You know his history. You know my history. You think Daray’ll do better for you?”

I flinched at the name he always avoided.

I shook my head. “It’s not about better.” And it really wasn’t. It is about a safe distance from you.

Eric’s jaw ticked. “Look, if you’d just let me⁠—”

“No, Eric. No. You can stay and help me, or you can get the fuck out so I can finish.” My hard line was always where Eric stopped. Because he fucked up once, and I knew I decided what the boundaries were.

He exhaled sharply, really looking up at me, and for a second, I thought he might ask me not to move in with Daray. To choose him.

He pushed the book closed and caressed every letter with his fingertips, such gentleness in his calloused hands that it woke up the ghost of his touch.

My spine broke into goose bumps as he handed the book to me.

“This one is important to me. I don’t want it lost or damaged.”

I let my eyes linger on him, but he was already taping up the box, already grabbing the Sharpie to scrawl in big, blocked letters. Amanda—Books.

I didn’t tell Eric that Daray had already said there wouldn’t be space for my books.

Diego’s hip bumps against me, and I refocus my eyes on him. His belt digs against the upper part of my hip.

“Your phone’s lighting up, Amanda,” he says.

That finally seems to snap Eric out of it, who is now staring at the boxes, equally confused.

I stare at my phone. Sure enough, there’s a text.

Diego

He’s going to buy and build you at least two bookcases.

“Alright.” Eric breaks the silence. “Let’s pack everything up so we can get out of here before the fucker comes back.”

While Eric came out of his trance, I went into my own. The effect is the same whenever we’re concerned. We leave each other feeling off-kilter. It’s the danger of this forced proximity we’re in.

We’re grocery shopping. He doesn’t really need the food. His freezer’s stuffed, not that I’d go anywhere near frozen pizza with pineapple—even before I was pregnant. He’s been doing this, though. Having me meet him places after our workdays finish so I am not left waiting for him, since I refuse to use the key. Perhaps that’s reason enough to stop this and stay with Val. She’d hate this co-parenting idea.

Eric’s methodical. He always brings a list and goes straight for what he needs. Not today. We’ve also never grocery shopped for a shared space before. I guess this is another opportunity to figure out boundaries and each other.

Eric’s got a large cart, and we’re standing in the cereal and breakfast aisle. He’s rambling about breakfast.

“What kind of cereal do you like?” he asks.

I pretend to study the boxes, but Eric’s our child speech keeps replaying in my head. The way his voice wavered. Like the two words weren’t a suggestion, but a confession of his deepest desires. A confession of my deepest forbidden desires. I take a random box off the shelf, just to have something in my hands, something to do while my brain scrambles. This excitement tastes offensive, a betrayal of myself. I remind myself how it felt even worse to squash all the hopes I had harbored for Eric and me three years ago.

“You still like those?” Eric’s voice cuts through my thoughts, making me notice the box I’m holding. Honey bear-shaped cereal. “We used to fight over those when you were tiny. Every Saturday morning I spent at your house.”

I scrunch my nose. “I don’t remember that.”

“You were really little.” He takes the box from me. “You probably don’t remember throwing your bowl at my face when you were two and a half because I finished the box.”

I’m quiet. He’s known me all my life. His mom brought him to the hospital when I was born. Carried him in one of those toddler carriers. There’s a picture of him, trying to squish my cheeks over his mom’s shoulders. They were both smiling, and I was screaming bloody murder. He would have been just over two. He was itching to touch me before he could speak.

“That does sound like me,” I mumble.

“Do you still like these?” He shakes the box gently, its contents rattling against the cardboard.