(AMANDA)

When Donovan arrives, it's already past noon. Gavin greets him at the entrance, and maybe it's just my impression, but both seem to have lighter, more smiling expressions. Very different from the last time they saw each other. I'm still at the table, playing with the last bit of bread and toast left in my bowl. Gavin announces he'll make a quick lunch, probably something with bacon, if I know him well. Donovan sits in the chair across from me. His gaze...

I swallow hard. His smile is as radiant as a comet's tail.

"Hey, shorty," he says.

"Hi, Donovan," I reply softly.

The gasp that escapes his lips is audible, and his demeanor changes completely. From enchanted he goes to perplexed, and from perplexed to touched. But his eyes, though bright, don't overflow with tears. I see him making a great effort not to touch my hand, breathing slowly to regain control. It's easy to read him once you figure out how to turn the pages, follow the paragraphs, commas, and periods. Unlike his best friend, Donovan is fully aware that his emotions need to be controlled, not the other way around. The dark brown-skinned man smiles again, this time a more sentimental, contemplative one.

"I'm so happy for you," his voice is low, deep, and absolutely chilling to my arms. I can't stop looking at him. "Does it hurt a lot when you talk?"

"A bit," I lie. In fact, every time I make a sound, I feel the incessant scratching of my vocal cords.

"You don't need to strain yourself to talk right now. Take as much time as you need," he says. It's as if he guessed my lie without even trying.

As we talk, I notice Gavin is focused on our conversation, despite being busy preparing lunch. Donovan asks:

"Does Dr. Solloman know about this?"

"Not yet. But I have an appointment this Friday... I think he'll be glad to know."

"He will. You know, shorty, I was Dr. Solloman's patient myself."

My surprise is evident, but before I can inquire further, he continues:

"Someday I'll tell you the whole story. But what I can declare without a shadow of a doubt is this: he is one of the best people I've ever met. He helped me more than you can imagine, and the echo of his teachings has lingered in my mind all these years; they'll probably endure until I die. You're in good hands. I'm rooting hard for your full recovery, and I know you'll get there when you least expect it."

His words are affectionate and assertive. It had been a while since I noticed that Donovan and Gavin had a lot in common, but it was their differences that made them interesting. Gavin was very much the type to say what he thought, how he felt, and what he wanted to do; there were no filters, just sincerity with a touch of impulsiveness. It was as if the blond always wanted to act with transparency, not hide anything and not withhold information. I believe that was his way of conveying trust and honesty.

Donovan wasn't like that. Although always sincere in every word, he weighed how and how much he would say it. There were superfluous things that didn't deserve to be verbalized, so he excluded them and said what was necessary. Yes, I was constantly praised by him. I heard words of encouragement, help, companionship, and complicity; I knew I could count on him for anything. His strength was not only physical but mental. I imagined he needed to be that way because he dealt with many things in the company, and no boss or vice president can deliver their own weaknesses and vulnerabilities in that way.

Gavin was a dreamer and an artist, who always saw things intensely, interpretatively, and deeply. He drew valuable lessons from situations with a touch of drama, which I affectionately called Gavinian charm. Donovan was a pragmatist and a natural leader. His calmness and planning made him a good source of security, as it was obvious that he always thought about the best course of action, not just for himself, but for everyone.

The only thing that seemed to change them both, apparently, was what they felt for me.

The white American with blue eyes suddenly found himself taken by an unusual firmness, more direct words and less rambling. Donovan lost some of that composure, caught up in thoughts, feelings, or whatever it was; always trying his best not to show he was in control, but it was too easy to see when it happened.

The vice president of Urus spoke a little quieter, and I had to lean in to hear better.

"And you know I'll always be here."

I blink, embarrassed. Donovan looks at me in a way that could mean anything. Do I want to interpret the message he sends me?

I look at the kitchen. Gavin saw and heard. And probably understood perfectly what his friend meant.

. . . . . . . . . . . .

(GAVIN)

I was jealous.

That was it. I had nowhere to run, no perfectly plausible excuse I could invent. It was ridiculous, small, petty, and dangerous, but it was what I was feeling. And how to deny a feeling? How to simply pretend it wasn't there?

Even if it were the case, however, I couldn't do anything - and that's what hurt. Knowing that any more drastic action would jeopardize everything, not just my long-time friendship, but also Amanda's health. I was completely cornered.

As I prepare the coffee, I hear Donovan's words, and I glimpse his face as he speaks. It wasn't mere suspicion; he really was interested in her. The last time I saw him like that was ten years ago, when everyone around him, including me, thought he had finally found his soulmate. There was no doubt about it. Donovan... Donovan was... Moved.

But what about Amanda? Was she moved?

That was the question I was going to ask. I wanted to hear from her lips what was really happening between the two of them, but I thought better and concluded it would be very unfair of me. The fact that she had that nightmare and the crisis was already indicative enough of her disturbance. I didn't need to be the executioner who would further increase that tension. No; if she were to think of me, it would be as the nice guy who spared her more trouble. And anyway, even without her opening her mouth about it, I already had the answer. Maybe I had had it for a long time, but I didn't want to see or accept it.

I'm almost done. The smell rising from the frying pan is delicious and pushes away some of my unpleasant sensations. I need to stay focused, especially since we had the time and circumstances in our favor. I know that at some point I would have to talk about my feelings and Donovan's, but now... Now we couldn't be distracted. It was her integrity that mattered in the end.

I put the food on the table and serve them. I also set a plate for myself. The day is sunny outside, the sky very blue. Everything would be fine, I repeated mentally. Amanda attacks her plate voraciously, and Donovan and I exchange glances. We had never seen her hungry, nor eating like this. Then the girl looks at us and smiles. The laugh is so contagious that it leaves me bewildered, foolish for this seemingly fragile woman, apparently fragile, but so strong that she was still there, alive and whole. Not well, but she would be. We had faith.

Clattering of cutlery on plates. Donovan and I nibble at our food, but all the attention is on Amanda.

"So...," I begin. "Tell him your name," I ask. I hope she doesn't feel bad about it. It seemed to have a disgust for saying it.

"Amanda," she replies, looking directly into my best friend's eyes.

Donovan blinks, the most surprise and reaction he allows himself to show.

"It's a beautiful name."

"Thank you...," she starts eating again.

"Amanda..." The way Donovan says her name makes me uncomfortable. I ignore. "Can you tell us a bit about yourself?"

She ponders what to answer. I see her chin, then her hair, and then she looks at her plate. She's deciding what she can and can't say, what she can say out loud without falling into a decadent spiral of pain and agony. Interlacing her fingers, which I've already taken as her typical cautious sign, Amanda says:

"I can. Not much."

"All right," I say. "We won't pressure you. Just share what you can."

Amanda nods. Then she takes a deep breath.

"I'm from here. I mean, from Rio, anyway. And... I..."

We don't say anything, allowing her to organize her thoughts without pressure or interruptions.

"I don't have anyone."

The silence is heavy now. Amanda continues:

"I have nothing left. No one to go back to."

"Do you have family?" Donovan asks. There's a slight tremor in his voice.

"No."

Her voice is so low, yet so decisive, that it leaves no room for doubt. I can't think of anything to say, nothing that can comfort her or make her happy. The chair where I sit seems to suck me down, sinking me in shame.

"Do you have a place? A home?" Donovan asks again, very softly and very delicately. For me, he could take the lead on all the questions. I'd be happy just to hear Amanda's answers.

"No."

More silence.

"Amanda...," I murmur.

"But you already knew that, didn't you?" Amanda asks.

Translate to English, replacing dashes with quotation marks:

"I and Donovan make confused expressions at the same time. She clarifies:

'These last few months that I've been here... None of you seemed surprised to see my face on a missing person poster, nor did you consider going to the police station.' The long sentence seems to take its toll, as she coughs. Then she continues: 'You already knew.'

I feel embarrassed. Donovan gives a smile that I know is more nervous than anything else.

Amanda smiles too, but weakly. She must be doing her best not to break down in front of us.

. . . . . . . . .

(DONOVAN)

The beautiful girl with brown skin, expressive eyes, and delicate fingers like porcelain named Amanda is not just that, but also intelligent and insightful. A sharp mind that always paid attention to details... It surprised me, intrigued me, and, I confess, made my heart beat a little faster. It was increasingly impossible not to be enchanted with every small act or gesture of hers.

'You... lived nearby?' I ask.

'No.'

'So, far away then?'

'... Far away.' She nods several times, then furrows her brow, looking at nothing in particular.

'So... How did you end up in Botafogo?'

She gasps, but immediately tries to disguise her nervousness. Gavin, who has been silent and just observing for a while, leans forward quickly and says:

'Amanda, calm down. You don't have to answer if you don't want to.'

'Yes, that's right,' I affirm. 'I'm sorry, I... didn't mean to leave you like this.'

Amanda raises both hands up and gives a smile of reassurance:

'You don't need to apologize. I said I would talk... So I'll talk.'

'But if talking about these things hurt, you don't have to say them.'

Her eyes shine.

'You've been taking care of me for the past three months. The least I can do is answer your questions...'

She lowers her head, embarrassed, and bites her lip while playing with a piece of potato. I observe her closely. Every detail of that face had become irreparably precious to me. I had a desperate need to make her well, to see her happy. And now she's restless, subdued, and uncomfortable. It pains me greatly to see her like this.

'I have an idea,' I say.

Both she and Gavin look at me, curious.

'Let's go to a nearby park. We'll buy some ice cream and you can talk more with us. Or we can just sit quietly and enjoy. What do you say?'

'Donovan, I'm not sure if it's a good idea, she's never left the apartment,' Gavin murmurs.

'All the more reason for us to go out then. What do you say, Amanda?'

Amanda seems to be making a decision. She looks at me and then at Gavin, seeking mutual approval. It's good to know that she weighs decisions on both sides, indicating no favoritism. This increased my chances... But of course, I don't want to imply anything by that.

She nods, sparing her voice. In a joint decision, we get up from the table and leave the apartment.

Inside the elevator, Amanda looks only at the floor. She really hasn't been outside for fresh air anymore; the most she did was watch the cars from the balcony. I noticed she looked pale from lack of sunlight too, so I decided to kill two birds with one stone.

In the park, the three of us sit on a green bench in front of a fountain. Amanda seems fascinated by the water and doesn't look away. She's sitting between Gavin and me, and I feel an almost irresistible urge to put her in my lap... Or just hold her hand.

Gavin is silent, lost in thought as much as Amanda. I notice a blush on his cheeks when he discreetly looks at her. I pay more attention. Their eyes sparkle, and I notice when he puts both hands in his pockets; his universal sign of nervousness. I swallow hard as I analyze everything as calmly and peacefully as possible. I can't question him, I can't corner him. Silence would be the best way to not only get answers, but also solutions.

But someday this would have to end. It was risky and bold, but I needed to open my heart not only to him, but also to her. I had to make my position clear about us, and then dance to the music. One thing was obvious, however. The only way I would give up on that, set it aside, would be if Amanda rejected me. Didn't delay or slow down; she would have to say in no uncertain terms that she didn't feel the same way about me. Which I would already know to be a lie.

I'm so focused on analyzing Gavin in a way that he doesn't notice that I jump when I feel Amanda's delicate fingers touch mine.

She keeps looking at the fountain. Shocked, I look down and see her small, fragile fingers there, touching me so lightly it could pass for a feather. She's touching me. Really touching me.

It's as if that simple gesture set my whole arm on fire, and the fire ran through my veins to all my limbs. I think I'm breathing too hard; sweat breaks out on my forehead with all the frenzied pheromones firing. The impulse is much stronger than I could ever imagine. I can't contain myself. I'm going to take her hand... For real. Grab it with mine and promise, swear that no one will ever hurt her again.

But then she opens her mouth. And she speaks softly, but clearly, still not looking at me or Gavin.

'I lost my son.'"