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THIRTY
Davit
“This is Amy speaking,”she said into the phone’s headpiece.
“It’s me,” I said, realizing that I was whispering.
“Hello,” she responded; her voice was even, but the tension in it was something I couldn’t deny.
“I have something to take care of this evening. The men will follow you home when you’re ready to leave,” I said.
“Okay,” she responded.
She hung up without saying good-bye, something that wasn’t like her.
Or at least it hadn’t been before all this.
She’d gone back to her house, but eventually, she’d come back to mine. Never to stay the night, but I counted it as a victory that she came at all.
But she’d been firm about keeping her distance at work. She’d told me that people were starting to talk about how much time we were spending together, and she suggested we limit it to stifle any talk.
I had wanted to argue, felt a need to publicly stake my claim, even if I hadn’t staked it privately yet, at least not out loud. It was that urge that had made me agree to the request.
Because Amethyst pushing me away only made me want to pursue her that much more.
And that kind of thinking was dangerous.
After all, the only thing that mattered was keeping up appearances.
I told myself that more times a day than I could count.
But the truth—one that I wasn’t even ready to admit to myself—was that it was more than that.
Not that Amethyst seemed to think so.
The distance I had worried about before was a practically uncrossable gulf now.
She was with me physically, but things had changed.
She’d spend most of her day at work, still working as hard as she always did, if not a little bit harder.
Then, she’d go back to her house, stay there until late in the evening.
It was only well into the night that she would finally come to my place.
I supposed it meant something that she did come to me, that she spent every night in my bed.
But there was a wall between us now.
Even if I might have accepted the circumstances, I knew Amethyst didn’t.
It wasn’t Keenan’s death, or at least I didn’t think it was. This went deeper, I suspected, and that distance was because of me.
I fucking hated it.
As I often did, I thought about that time when I had stuck the gun in her face.
Then, I wouldn’t have hesitated to pull the trigger, but now, the thought seemed impossible.
