“I—” My distaste for his shoes-on-the-desk thing dies away.
They’re putting me up for the promotion. I wait for it to feel as good as I always thought it might. Maybe it’s the fact that I know I haven’t been putting in nearly as much effort and don’t really deserve it, or maybe it’s how I’ve become disillusioned with this entire place. The process of land acquisition, the way we’ve been going about it, is slimy and untenable. Something I don’t want to be involved in.
But even as I’m having those thoughts, I’m standing up, shaking Don’s hand, thanking him for the opportunity. Walking back to my desk and sitting down, I feel numb.
I should walk out of here right now, start looking for a new job. Something that doesn’t make me feel soulless. But I can’t stop thinking about the look on Evan’s face when he realized what was happening. When he automatically assumed I was a part of it.
Maybe I was stupid in thinking I could be a part of Granite Peaks. That they would accept me—that Evan could so seamlessly fold me into his life. I forgot what I was doing up there in the first place and all the cases I’ve helped with before that.
Even if I’d helped him avoid having his land taken from him, it’s not like that would have absolved me of all the harm I caused while working here, blissfully unaware of just how bad it was.
Slowly, I reach to the other side of my desk, opening up the file with new leads. I open it, glancing at the different properties, settling back into my role and trying to forget pizza croissants, Blue, and the smell of cedar wood from the restoration site.
It’s not like it was ever going to be real, anyway.
“Amy Callaghan!If you don’t come to the door right now, I’m calling the police to do a wellness check!”
Kirstin shouts through the door, and I realize, with a start, that it’s been days since I last responded to one of her text messages. Rising up from the couch—where I’m looking over some spreadsheets for work—I walk to the door and throw it open, staring at her.
She stands in the hallway, her hand raised like she was planning to keep on knocking.
“Oh,” she says, the air whooshing out of her at the sight of me. “What’s wrong, Amy?”
“Nothing,” I deadpan, jerking my thumb over my shoulder. “Just trying to get some work done.”
Kirstin’s brow furrows. “It’s Friday. What are you doing home?”
I realize she must have seen my location still here in Denver, rather than making my way up to Granite Peaks.
“Work,” I repeat, clearing my throat and shifting from foot to foot. “Which I should get back to, unless you need something?”
She’s stunned for only a second. “Yes, I need something! I need you to be serious. I need you to not ignore my fucking text messages!”
I should ask her to come inside, to keep from doing this in the hallway, but I’m just so exhausted. And the last thing I need is for Kirstin to see the depression pit I’ve been living in.
“I’m sorry,” I say, though I know it doesn’t sound genuine. “I?—”
“Youmissedtheir recital,” Kirstin hisses, her concern for me melting into fury. Guilt drops into the pit of my stomach—Jordan and Rae’s dance recital. I’d completely forgotten about it. “Do you know how heartbreaking it was to watch themwaitfor you, only for you never to show up?”
“I—” I open my mouth, not sure what to say, tipping on some precarious ledge between staying numb and plunging, headfirst, into the hurt. And I can’t let myself do that. “I’m sorry. I just have a lot of work to get done.”
Kirstin blinks, baffled, and says, “And how does Evan feel about that? Is he cominghere?”
“There’s noEvan and me. There never was.”
Her face softens slightly, but she’s still angry about the recital. Rightly. “I’m sorry, Amy. I know how much you liked him. But you can’t bury yourself in work and pull away from everyone who loves you when you’re upset.”
“Well, I’m sorry we can’t all be like you!” I snap, crossing my arms. “You may have this cozy, perfect life where you don’t have to worry about your career, but I don’t have thatluxury, Kirstin.”
She jerks her head back like I’ve slapped her. We stare at each other for a second, and I struggle to keep the feelings at bay, instead focusing on the anger, the numbness.
“Fine,” she whispers, taking a step back, shaking her head. “Just—just call me when you’re not going to bite my fucking head off. Asshole.”
With that, she turns on her heel and walks down the hallway, giving me plenty of time to call her back. To apologize.
But I don’t. Instead, I close myself off, shutting the door, locking it, and walking to the couch, where I sit and wait for tears that never come.
CHAPTER 25
