Page 5 of Everything But Mine

I wrapped my arm around her shoulders and held her tightly, dropping my head to kiss her forehead. She lifted her head, and our lips were closer than they’d been in years. All it would take was a small, catastrophic movement, just a tilt of my head. It was so tempting, but I made the smart, heartbreaking choice, and simply murmured, “Always.”

When the cab finally pulls up to my building, I stumble out of it, feeling the need to scrub myself clean. As I open the door to the building and make my way up the stairs, I seriously consider therapy for once. If she’s having fucking babies, I really need to move on. I really need to figure out my life. Any part of it. I need to just be fucking well for once. If I had been in the first place—can’t think about that now. As I turn around the staircase and onto my floor, my apartment door comes into view. Thank fuck. And then she is there, cradling her knees, giant backpack still on, two fully stuffed gym bags surrounding her. I come close to her, and as she lifts her gaze to meet mine, I see her tear-stricken face. One thing is clear: I’m going to fucking kill him.

CHAPTER TWO

AMANDA

For the first time since I held that test in my hands, I can breathe. I’m almost excited. Everything will be okay. I can—mostly—afford this. With that peace of mind, it’s less like I’m trapping my boyfriend and more like having my shit together. I’m twenty-eight years old. I can have a baby.

On the way home, I pick up dinner because he’ll for sure freak out. But Thai food is his security blanket, and my plan will be the cherry on top.

Before I even set the food on the coffee table, I know something’s off. The apartment is silent. Not TV, no music. And yet…

I cannot believe this, I tell myself, heading toward our bedroom. It all makes sense now. Why it has never felt like mine. Why my stuff always meant to be tucked away in drawers or closets. Why there has never been space for me.

The bedroom door isn’t fully closed. But it’s open enough for me to see the shadows on the wall. And more than that, I hear them. The squeaking mattress. The headboard knocking. The groaning and moaning.

“Yes, honey, faster. Deeper.”

Yeah, I don’t know about deep.

“Fuck yeah, just like that. You feel so good, baby.”

Yep. Baby her. Baby me. Because why bother keeping the people you’re fucking straight?

“So tight and wet around my cock, baby.”

Well, that’s quite enough for me. As livid as I am, I know what not to do. I don’t open the door. I don’t look. Been there. Done that. Fuck that shit. Instead, I lift my knuckles and knock loudly.

“Daray,” I call. The moaning stops. A loud thump follows. “Tell her to get dressed. I’m going to have to come in there for a few things.” I pause and swallow. “You and I need to talk.”

Turning back toward the living room, I look at the coffee table and the couch, covered in the plaid throw he hates. Have they fucked on it? To the side, there’s a small kitchen table, where I’ve lit candles he brought. Were they for her? The large living space feels suffocating with unwanted flashes of the last time I went through this.

Fuck it. I head for the closet by the front door and pull out something—anything—to pack away as much as I can. My large gym bag, my old hiking backpack, and a smaller duffel bag that doesn’t fully zip will have to do.

By the time he emerges, gray sweats, raggedy T-shirt, freshly fucked hair, I’ve already thrown my bathroom essentials into the backpack. His brown eyes don’t dare meet mine, and even his broad, muscular shoulders curl inward because he knows. He knows what he’s done to me. My arms are crossed tightly over my chest. Maybe he knows, but he doesn’t get to fucking see me come apart.

Last time, I was a wreck. I stood there, frozen, watching until I ran. Halfway across the world. Now? I guess practice makes perfect. I’m all out of flight. The only thing on my mind is to act, to fight.

“Is she on her way out of the room?” I ask, calm.

He scratches his elbow, and the gesture pulls his too tight shirt over his chest and stomach. The way he gazes down, dark blonde strands hiding his eyes from me… He’s nervous. Not caught-in-the-act nervous. More like shit’s-about-to-hit-the-fan nervous. There’s more to know.

Well. Fucking lucky me.

“Yes.” He nods. “She’s just getting dressed. She’ll give us some space.”

“Oh, joy,” I say sarcastically. The fucker smiles. He never got my humor after all.

I wait silently while he nervously taps his fingertips on his thighs. He opens his mouth to speak, but I stop him with a raised hand. I refuse to get into this until we’re alone.

Finally, there are footsteps. She emerges. A foot taller than me, coming right up to his ears, blonde curls perfectly styled around her waist, no matter that she just took a tumble in my sheets. Eyes so blue she may have photoshopped the ocean onto her irises.

Gorgeous freaking Cassandra.

The don’t-worry-about-it-we’re-just-friends Cassandra.

The I-don’t-even-look-at-her-like-that-she’s-one-of-the-guys Cassandra.