Despite declining a beverage, Amir starts up the coffee machine and places a mug under the hot waterdispenser, tossing the tea bag inside. I glower at him in sulking silence for a couple of minutes and when the mug is full, he carries it to me.
“Here. Drink.” He holds out the mug. I refuse to look at him. Asshole. “It helps with nausea. Take it.”
“I don’t feel nauseous,” I bite back, arms crossed. “I’m fine.”
“Needs to cool down, anyway.” Amir sets the tea on the coffee table in front of me before taking a seat to my left. He takes a small sip of his old-fashioned and leans back against the loveseat, shifting to face me. “Well? What happened?”
I expel a labored breath, burying my face in my hands. “Nothing. I’m fine. Everything is fine, okay? I just want to leave. I want to?—”
“I heard about Damon.”
My head snaps up. “What?”
Amir gives me a casual shrug. “Quinton called.”
I dig my nails into my palms. “Of course, he did.
“He’s worried about you, Emery. He said you haven’t been home in a couple of days.”
I swallow, spine tightening. I know this isn’t Quinton’s fault. I know that I’m being unfair. Irrational. Emotional. But I can’t be there, in that house, when it feels so fucking empty.
“He said you missed your OB appointment yesterday,” Amir adds, his concerned gaze flitting across my face. “You’re pregnant.”
“About four months now.” My voice is distant, lifeless.
He blinks, and I know he’s doing the math. Creatinga timeline. His face pales slightly as he connects the dots. “You were pregnant when?—”
“When I was shot? Yes.”
Amir’s kept his distance since that night. Since he and Quin found me lying in a pool of my own blood. He sent flowers. A card. Told me my job would be waiting for me when I was ready. But he didn’t bring up anything else. Not the fact that we invited him in. Not the fact that he accepted. None of that matters now. It’s water under a crumbling bridge.
He swallows, running a hand through his hair. “Jesus…”
“I’m fine.” I place a hand over my stomach. “We’re fine.”
“Is that why Damon left?” Amir asks hesitantly. “Because he’s not the father?”
A chill passes over me. “I don’t know who the father is. I don’t want a test. I don’t want to know.”
“I see…” A charged beat. “Then, why? He… You all seemed rather…happy. At least from what I’ve seen.”
Tears well up in my eyes as I shake my head. “I can’t tell you,” I whisper, defeat washing over me. “It’s… It’s so complicated. It’s…” I glance at Amir. “I know you think talking about it will help, but I literally can’t.” Not without revealing Damon’s crimes.
“Even if you can’t talk to me, you should talk tosomeone. Quin… He told me about your condition.” Is nothing private anymore? “If you keep it bottled up, the stress, it can…”
“I’m well aware of the risk associated with high stress,” I snap. “But thank you for your concern.”
He fishes a business card out of his breast pocket and holds it before me. “Here.”
I eye the card warily. “Amir, I can’t?—”
“My sister is a tenured professor of psychology at Columbia.” He wiggles the card. “She doesn’t have a practice anymore, but I can guarantee you she is discreet. Anything you tell her, she’ll keep private.” His brown eyes meet mine, knowing and honest. “Anything.”
Slowly, I take the card and read the print.Dr. Safia Hadid, Behavioral Psychologist.“How many sisters do you have?”
“One.”
I frown at him. “This is the same sister that accompanied you to the presidential fundraiser?” Amir nods. My frown deepens. “She didn’t look old enough to be tenured.”
