Page 45 of Everything But Mine

Amanda and I sit next to each other, and when she takes her seat, Mom squeezes my wrist to grab my attention.

“Mo stoirín,” My little treasure, Mom whispers in the Gaelic she never taught me. Her eyes hold the same sadness they always do when she stares into my eyes, amber like my father’s, rather than her bright blue. “How are you?”

“I’m good, Mom.” I turn my hand up so I can give hers a squeeze.

When I tear my eyes away from my mother, my gaze meets Amanda’s. None of our parents will miss the way her hand travels down my arm and rests on my thigh under the table.

As usual, our parents ramble and tease with different stories from when we were younger. Today, Aunt Kate brings up that summer when Amanda was between boyfriends. They spent the entire week coming up with excuses not to leave us alone in the shared cabin. They think it’s a hilarious parental overreaction. All I hear is the punchline, though. We thought you’d jump at the opportunity to make a move on Amanda, but the joke’s on us. And I’m the joke. Because they were right to worry; I wanted to make a move. I never took it further than staying up well past everyone else to talk to her by the bonfire, allowing every chance to slip through my fingers.

The conversation shifts the moment Mom notices.

“Amanda, sweetheart,” she says, her fork paused halfway to her mouth. “You’re not touching your eggs. You love scrambled eggs.”

The table stills just slightly. Amanda glances at me, her eyes screaming for help, but they also say don’t lie.

“Oh—” She squeezes my thigh, urging me to come up with an excuse.

Our parents, of course, wouldn’t know that even the smell of it has been making her gag lately. I smile when I realize that she’s favoring the white pudding. A staple in my household, not Amanda’s, and for sure not fucking Daray’s. Maybe the baby is as on board with me as I am with them.

Amanda smiles tightly, but I don’t get an opportunity to answer before Aunt Kate presses.

“Honey,” she says, her tone is tentative. “We’ve heard through the grapevine that you’re both living together?”

She’s trying to make it a question, but there is no doubt that they already know the answer. Still, there is a lack of… disapproval that surprises me. Amanda clears her throat, and I let her take the lead on what to share or keep away from our parents.

“Yes,” she says. There’s a certain strength to her voice. “Daray and I are no longer together. I’m living with Eric.”

Uncle Sandro sets his fork down with precision. “Do you need help securing a place of your own?” His tone carries an edge that tells me he’s still trying to get information. Because he knows, just as I do, that if she did not want to live with me, she wouldn’t be.

“No,” Amanda says. She lifts her hand from under the table, and I am bereft at the loss of her touch. But then her fingers find mine against the tablecloth, and she laces them deliberately. It’s not a question anymore. It’s a declaration. “I will be staying with Eric for the foreseeable future.”

Charged silence takes over the table, or it would, if my heart weren’t beating so loudly in my ears. Then Mom claps once, loudly, and lets out an actual squeal. Aunt Kate mirrors it a second later. What the hell? Even Uncle Sandro is smiling. Not just with his mouth. His whole face softens as he looks at our joined hands, and something unknots in my chest.

Before I can process it, we’re all standing and in a tangle of arms. The feel of the three pairs of arms around me grounds me as if I am part of something larger than myself and not held at arm’s length.

“This calls for a toast,” Kate says, pulling back with her eyes sparkling. “Sandro, will you please bring something special?”

“Ah!” He perks up, already stepping toward the kitchen. “I have just the thing.” His native Italian accent is sharpened by emotion.

Amanda doesn’t let go of my hand, even as everyone around us breaks the hug. Uncle Sandro returns with bottles tucked under his arms, already lining up flutes with practiced ease. Rosé for Amanda—it stands out immediately. Her fingers tighten around mine as she takes the glass with her free hand. She’s a week shy of twelve weeks. She wanted to wait. There’s a question in her eyes. I nod. Whatever she wants.

While our parents argue over the wording of the toast, I down my champagne and switch flutes with her. I hate champagne, but I love this; our quiet conspiracy, the way she’s still holding me. And just as the glasses rise, Aunt Kate pauses mid-air.

“Wait,” she says, frowning slightly as she angles the bottle toward Amanda’s empty glass. “How come you didn’t get any?” All eyes fall on her and then flicker to me. The detail doesn’t escape them. “Eric, why do you have Amanda’s Rosé flute?”

It takes a second for the words to land. They also haven’t missed the way Amanda and I shared a look of understanding. Then, all at once, everyone’s eyes swing to her. To Amanda. She gives my hand one last squeeze. Let’s do this.

She takes a deep breath. “I’m not drinking,” she says calmly, “because I’m pregnant.”

The words land like a stone dropped in water—quiet at first, then rippling outward. Mom gasps, hands flying to her mouth. Aunt Kate’s eyes go wide. Uncle Sandro freezes, mouth half-open. Amanda keeps her voice steady through it all.

“We were going to wait to tell you. You know, twelve-week rule and all.”

Kate blinks, doing the math in her head. “Wait, how long ago did you and Daray break up?”

Her posture stiffens a little. “A little over a month ago.”

Kate stares. “And you’re eleven weeks?”