3. Amelie
3
AMELIE
I walk home in a complete daze.
The effect that encounter had on me is dehumanizing. I wish I could say that I’m unbothered; that seeing Henry did nothing to me, and I’ll never replay our exchange in my mind again.
But that would be a lie. And while I’m not against the action, I don’t feel like putting in the effort. Lying to oneself is a different feat than lying to another.
I trudge up to my apartment, taking the stairs rather than the elevator just to torture myself. I have hope that it will calm me down. Wear me out a bit. I even stopped at my favorite bakery down the street to try and quell my energy, but it didn’t work.
I reach my apartment and shove my hand in my purse for my key, only to find that it isn’t there. The only things I have are my wallet, a tube of lipstick, and a rollerball perfume.
And the perfume is leaking ! Of all days.
“Come on !” I sigh, tapping my foot on the base of my door. Jensen is going to give me so much grief for this. “Hello? Let me in. I’m distressed.”
Distressed is a loose term for my current state. I’m jittering like a madman who just snorted three lines of cocaine and downed a RedBull. Jensen is going to ask me what’s going on, and I’ll have to tell the truth, because if I don’t, he’ll manage to come up with something even worse.
What’s wrong, Ames?
Oh, nothing, you know.
So you got chased by the police on the way here, tied them up in the elevator, and left them for dead?
Yeah, Jensen has the worrisome mindset between the two of us. It either makes him levelheaded or gives him gas. But I got him a cinnamon roll to make up for the added stress, so he’ll be fine.
When the door swings open, I practically fall through it. Jensen takes a step back, looking at me with a deep frown. “You can’t use your key?”
“Forgot it,” I say, locking the door behind me. I give him the paper bag in my hand and watch his eyes light up. “Cinnamon roll.”
He snatches it from me and practically tears the bag to shreds. “What did you do wrong?”
Oh, Jenny. Let me tell you something.
“I didn’t do anything wrong,” I say, and that’s the truth. “But…something odd happened today.”
“Something bad, I’m guessing.”
“Eh.” I exhale. “You’ve heard me mention Henry Arlington, right? In passing?”
He chews aggressively as he tries to register the name. It only takes him a moment to place it, I guess, because he finally says, “From high school?”
I nod.
“Vaguely.”
“Okay. Well, the piece we’re nabbing tomorrow is his.”
Jensen gracefully chokes on his mouthful of food.
While he’s attempting to breathe again, I step into the kitchen and dig a tea bag out of the cabinet, then put a pot of water on the stove. He stops hacking by the time I’m choosing my mug.
“Sorry,” he says breathlessly. “Food down my throat. Anyways, I should’ve connected the dots. I read the file this morning, the one Meg sent over. Like, how many ‘Henry Arlington’s do you know?”
I know exactly one. And I wish I didn’t even know that many.
“Yeah,” I say. “It’s just…it was weird.”
Jensen just shrugs as he devours the last of his cinnamon roll. “It really doesn’t affect us. Guess you should get in touch with Meg, though. See if she wants to make any changes.”
He’s right, but I really don’t want to. Meg and I are friends—close enough that working this job hasn’t ruined us yet. Her and Jensen, on the other hand… They’ve been ‘on-and-off’ for a few months, and any time they speak, it ends in catty arguments.
“I’ll call her tomorrow,” I tell him. “Has she found the floor plan yet? I got a photo of the location for her.”
He gives another shrug as he wipes his sticky hands on his pants, and I cringe. Stickiness is not something I tolerate. I’d really rather tear my arms off my body than be sticky. “I’m not sure. She said she’d be by tomorrow afternoon beforehand to talk things through with me.”
I narrow my eyes at him, at the wording of that statement. “With you…”
“Yeah, so, she’s mad at me.” He pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. “Who’s shocked? Respectfully, you women are confusing.”
“No, you men just assume you know us.”
Jensen pulls my teapot off the burner and loosens the lid. I grab a mug out of the cabinet—my favorite, with the Breakfast at Tiffany’s movie poster on it—and make my tea while he goes on.
“I just thought it would be over by now. The arguing. Like, how back and forth can it be? We’ve like, admitted things already. Shouldn’t that sort of seal the deal?”
I shake my head. “Not particularly. It can be back and forth for a long time. A very ridiculous time, in fact.”
He rolls his eyes. Since I’m a nuisance, I pat his arm, then press my knuckles extra hard into the spot under his neck. He smacks my hand away, and I act all innocent, though I know he’s sore from all the working out he does. That was his stipulation for the jade couch—I got that, and he got to turn the dining room into a home gym.
It was fine until our place started smelling like sweat. I took care of it with a few bottles of Clorox and a hazmat suit. And no, I’m not exaggerating—I still have the thing in our closet.
“Clear it up by tomorrow,” I tell him, aware that isn’t what he wants to hear. “Really. We can’t work together when there’s a rift.”
Last time we tried to ignore a conflict, Meg slugged Jensen for tripping an alarm. I’m not saying what they have going on is healthy, but for some reason, they won’t let it go. I consider the two of them my horribly dysfunctional, sometimes-divorced parents.
“Just talk it out,” I press when he doesn’t answer me. “You’re both adults. Why don’t you tell me what happened, and I’ll help you work on your approach?”
He snorts, and I’m rightfully offended. “Yeah, no. Thanks though.”
“I’m a great problem solver!” I take a sip of my tea and burn my tongue, so I abandon it on a coaster. “Come on, Jenny. Let it out.”
“I don’t even know . I think the whole ‘actual feeling admission’ thing screwed with us, and now…”
“Now you’re two confused little angels.”
“You’re irritating me, but yes. I think we’re just confused and angry.”
I take a deep breath. This isn’t what I wanted to come home to, and I certainly don’t need it to carry into tomorrow, but I haven’t got time to mend things. I’m a fixer—bordering on a control freak, per Meg. But clearly she isn’t the wisest, given that she’s involved with Jensen. So who can say?
“You’ll figure it out,” I say, more so a command than encouragement. “Just get it done by tomorrow.”
He groans. “Amelie?—”
“No. I’m not arguing, Jen. Call Meg, take her out for coffee, and either figure it out or put it on hold until next week. I want left out of it, but it has to be resolved.”
Reluctantly, Jensen saunters off to the bedroom. There’s only one real bedroom in this place, and he’s been so gentlemanly as to let me have it. He takes three quarters of my drawer space in return, but that’s fair. My clothes are hanger clothes, anyway.
I duck behind the dressing screen in the middle of our space and take off my dress, then slip into my pajamas from this morning. Once I’m clothed, I collapse onto the sofa and grab my laptop off the coffee table. I flip it open and plug it into the charger so I can research our painting for tomorrow.
Not to snoop on Henry. This is for work, obviously.
I open my inbox and click the newest email from Meg. The subject line is Nautical Abyss, which I assume is the name of the piece. It’s a bit on the nose, really, but I suppose it could be worse.
There are three files attached to the email. The first is the museum’s floor plan—apparently, she did complete it—and the next is a basic biography of the piece, the museum, and Henry’s new exhibit. I skim it briefly before clicking on the last one.
When the image clears on my screen, I clench my jaw so hard I’m frightened for my teeth.
It’s just a photo of Henry. But he’s standing near his painting, and he’s smiling, and it’s…
Nothing . It’s nothing.
I swallow and click out of that tab, tempted to chuck my laptop across the room.
“Did you see the file Meg sent?” Jensen calls from the hallway, making me jolt. His voice is so loud . Why does his voice carry at full volume? Is that a man thing?
“Just got it,” I croak. “We’re all good.”
He nods and reenters the living room, now donned in what he classifies as dressy clothing. He’s wearing jeans—they’re nice ones, I’ll give him that—and a sweatshirt. It was once white, but I accidentally washed it with my red one, and, well…we all know how that goes.
“You going to talk to her?” I ask, taking another drink of my now-lukewarm tea.
“Hopefully,” Jensen says, grabbing his keys. “If I make things worse, then I’m blaming you, and we’ll reschedule the job.”
“Oh, no, we won’t.” I look at him pointedly. “We will not, Jensen Velasco. Do not test me.”
He scratches his stubbly jaw. “You don’t scare me. I’m more worried about what Meg is going to say when I show up at her door. It’s a toss-up.”
“It’s Russian roulette,” I correct.
He shrugs and walks out the door.
I burrow deeper into the couch and continue drinking my cold tea while scrolling through emails. I’ve got offers on offers on offers, all which I need to decline but don’t have the guts to.
Used to, the three of us only took one or two jobs a month. It’s how we stay under the radar so well—you can’t trace a pattern when there isn’t one. But lately…I’ve taken more jobs. Neither Meg or Jen like it, but I call the shots. On their terms, no less. They don’t want to be in charge, lest it come crumbling down.
I like the responsibility. I’ve learned to bask in the constant adrenaline, learned to crave it.
Right now, though, I think these emails are just tempting because of how out-of-control I feel. My chest is tight, and I’m thankful this tea isn’t caffeinated. I think my heart would implode if it were.
I drain the mug and set it aside. Clear out a few emails, just so I don’t click one and get us into a slew of trouble. My team wouldn’t even be mad—just annoyed. But I’m trying to keep the peace right now, so I can’t be adding problems.
With a heavy sigh, I set my laptop on the table and grab the TV remote, then wrap the knit blanket tighter around my body. Meg’s apartment is a fair distance, so even if all goes well, Jen won’t be back until later tonight.
So, like the lazy bump-on-a-log that I am, I watch Friends until I can’t think anymore.