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“In the city, thanks to you.”
“Are you okay? You’re not hurt?”
His laugh is the last thing I expect. “I’m being treated like a king. I’ve been checked into the penthouse suite, fed a buffet of traditional foods. It’s quite remarkable.”
“Oh.” I look over my shoulder towards Zahir, except he’s paced away. His back is to me, his eyes cast out on the view of the desert. My heart pangs. I am torn again, love for both men dragging on me until I feel like I could snap.
“When will I see you?”
“I – not for a few days, dad. I need to sort some things out here first.”
“Amy?”
My heart thunders through my chest.
“Tell me you’re okay?”
A tear rolls down my cheek. “Of course, I’m fine.”
“You don’t sound fine.”
I close my eyes, suck in a deep breath and try again. “Really, dad, everything’s great.”
“If he’s hurt you, shaba, I will –,”
“Don’t!” I cut him off, aware there’s every possibility our conversation is being recorded. “Don’t even worry about it,” I finish with an attempt at calm, infusing my voice with what I hope passes for amusement. “You know me, dad. Would I ever do something I didn’t want to do?”
There’s a long pause.
“There’s so much you don’t know, Amy,” he says on a weary sigh. “So much I never told you.”
My stomach squeezes and unconsciously I move closer to Zahir, a sense of apprehension running the length of my spine. I came into this marriage with my eyes shut. I thought one thing, I saw this all as black and white, but the truth is, there are two sides to every story and I don’t know if I’ve properly heard either.
“I know.”
Zahir turns to face me, piercing me with eyes that reach right to the core of my being. My heart skips a beat.
“But are you happy to be home, dad?”
I wait, breath held, for his answer. It reaches me on a whoosh.
“Yes.” His pause is heavy with reflections. “I just hope my return didn’t come at too high a price.”
I hand the phone back to Zahir, strangely awkward, careful not to touch him. A stupid precaution, given how intimate we’ve been.
His mocking smile shows he understands.
“Thank you.”
His response is a tightening of his shoulders, a look that shows me he’s as unwilling to accept my thanks now as he was the day before.
“I still can’t believe he’s home,” I say, awed and shaking. “I know you don’t want my ‘thanks’, but I am so grateful, Zahir. This means everything to him, and me.”
His eyes rake my face and he nods then, a look that is a surrender.
“Your thanks are unnecessary. We made a deal – you have upheld your end of our bargain, it was time for me to do mine.”
My stomach swoops. He’s right. There’s nothing intrinsically offensive in what he’s said, but disappointment clips through me. What did I expect? A declaration of love? A statement that he can’t bear to see me unhappy so he moved heaven and earth to give me what I want?
