17. Henry
17
HENRY
Amelie scoops Betty off the ground the second we walk into my penthouse. The cat swats at the strands of hair around Amelie’s face, but she doesn’t seem to mind. I’m not sure she’d care if the animal made her bleed.
“Have you gotten any further on the piece?” She asks me.
I shake my head. I’ve hardly made progress since she last saw me. This piece has been like pulling teeth. Being forced to create never ends well. I can feel myself growing tired, more uninspired, and yet, I don’t have the choice of stopping. Especially not with Amelie watching my every move.
“Very little,” I say, rather than stating all of that. “What I have done, I’ve hated and scrapped.”
“It doesn’t have to be a Van Gogh,” Amelie says, absolutely not helping this situation whatsoever. I know that I don’t have a right to be frustrated—after all, this is something I dragged her into. But that doesn’t make it any easier. “It’s a decoy. If all goes well, no one will see the thing again.”
I give a shrug as I unlock my studio. “I don’t really care who sees it. If I create something, I want it to be good no matter what. It’s the principle of the thing.”
“Ah, yes. The principle of…”
I glare at her, and she only grins. “It’s a personal thing. I hold my work to a certain standard. I don’t care what it’s for. I want my art to be good, just like you want your plans to be accurately carried out. They’re both art forms. There’s nothing wrong with wanting merit.”
“Of course there’s nothing wrong with it, especially when I’m involved.” Amelie sits on the floor and lets Betty climb onto her lap. The cat is asleep in seconds, and I’m honestly stunned. I knew Betty liked her, but it’s strange.
“She doesn’t like new people,” I say aloud.
Amelie shrugs and scratches Betty’s ears. “She’s a good judge of character.”
I chuckle dryly as I drag an easel out of the closet. “Okay.”
“Really, Henry, I think we’re past this. Surely you can admit that I’m not an absolute torment to be around.”
“Never said you were,” I tell her. “But I’m not going to say otherwise.”
“You’re incorrigible.”
“I’m honest.”
I’m not. Time spent around her has gone straight to my head, just like I knew it would. It’s getting harder to separate the Amelie I knew years ago from this Amelie, who is right in front of me and a felon. But she’s tangible. She’s real.
She’s someone I used to love, despite the criminal record. And I’d be lying if I said I weren’t a little intrigued by her.
This is why you shouldn’t be allowed to make your own decisions.
“I’m going to give you a compliment,” Amelie says, leaning back on the palms of her hands. Betty hisses when she does so. “I’ll give you one, then you give me one. It’s a bonding exercise.”
“We do not need to bond,” I say flatly.
She ignores me. “I personally love your cat. I think your apartment is lovely, and I like those glasses of yours. But you knew that part.”
I did know that. It’s embarrassing how often that fact pops into my mind.
“Now it’s your turn,” she says when I don’t respond. “You say something nice about me.”
I chew on my lip. I could say a lot of things, none of which she needs to hear. Amelie’s ego is solid enough without my words, though she loves to be doted on. But what can I say without crossing any lines? Metaphorical ones, I guess. We have no bounds here.
You’re incredibly smart for not getting caught before I caught you.
Maybe not that.
I’m starting to think you may be crazy.
She’d take that as a real compliment.
You’re achingly beautiful, maybe now more than ever, and I can’t ignore it, despite how hard I’ve tried. I haven’t been able to forget it. Ever.
Absolutely not that.
“Your ribbons,” I blurt, more suddenly than I mean to. “I like the ribbons you wear in your hair.”
Amelie’s cheeks flush, and I can almost see the gears turning in her mind. She’s trying to figure out when she’s worn a bow around me. When I’ve paid any attention to her. It makes me grin, and I’m thankful for the canvas to hide my face.
“Did you start wearing those recently?” I ask, just to bother her more. “Or was it something I never noticed?”
Unlikely . I’m confident that I notice everything about her.
“They’re new,” she says, her voice quieter than it was a moment ago. “And I like my ribbons, too. See? We’re much closer now. I know that you have good taste in accessories, and you know that I love your cat.”
“Everyone loves my cat.”
“And everyone loves hair ribbons,” she counters. “But it’s important to be informed.”
I laugh and retrieve another bucket of paint, setting it on the small table near my easel. “Is it my turn to ask questions now?”
“I guess.”
The response stuns me. I was expecting a very emphatic no, but now that I have this opportunity, I won’t waste it.
“What, exactly, did you mean by that voice message?”
“UGH!” Amelie groans. “I knew you were going to bring that up.”
“I think it’s fair.”
“It is not .” She twists her hair around a finger. “But it was just a joke. My mom wants to set me up with someone, so my friend swooped in and said I had a boyfriend. She was trying to help, but Mom told me to bring him along, and now…”
“You’re caught in a lie that only a fake boyfriend can get you out of.”
“Not…exactly?” Amelie shrugs. “I could tell her the truth. She wouldn’t even be mad—you know she wouldn’t. But I don’t want to. I’ve got enough to deal with there, and an added date with some guy I don’t know sounds horrible.”
“What else do you have to deal with?”
She looks over at me, eyes narrowed. I ask the question carelessly, and I think we’re both a little stunned that it left my mouth, but I’m curious. I’ve wondered about her family more than I care to admit. Oftentimes, they were more a family to me than my own.
“Margot,” she says, and I look up from my work, intrigued. “We don’t talk anymore, and Mom is intent on putting us back together for our birthdays. I don’t see it going well, and I’m not thrilled to be trapped in a cabin with her for a week. Plus, I’ve got to tie up all my loose work ends by next Saturday, and it’s not going to be fun. My clients are mad at me, and I—” She stops. Blinks twice. “No. Why am I telling you this?”
I shrug. “Don’t know. I assumed you needed to talk, so I’m letting you.”
“I do, but not to you.” Amelie sets Betty aside before walking over to me. She appears at my side and stares at the painting, and I track the movement of her eyes, trying my hardest to gauge her reaction. It’s pretty apparent that she has no idea what she’s looking at. Which is fair—I don’t either. I’ve been sketching random shapes, coloring them in, and calling it a piece of art. “What is it?”
“Not sure yet.”
Amelie nods and moves closer to the canvas, which only draws her nearer to me. My breath hitches when I register the warmth of her body, the scent of her perfume. She must be aware of me too, at least somewhat, because she takes a stiff step away and crosses her arms.
“Well, I like it. I think you’re on the right track.”
“It’s boring,” I admit. “I don’t like it.”
She exhales sharply. “Henry, it doesn’t really matter if you like it. Didn’t you hear? I have a week to tie up loose ends. You ,” she pokes me in the chest, “are a loose end. Whatever you need to do, get it done by then.”
I grab her hand and put it back at her side. “I don’t know if I can do that.”
“You will.”
“That’s not how this works. You left us one week to finish this, set a trap, and catch the guy. That’s on you. The timeline is insane.”
“That timeline is preferable,” she counters.
I drag a hand through my hair and sigh. This should’ve been something I factored in—the unpredictability. But I hadn’t realized we had multiple deadlines, either: hers and my dad’s.
Regardless. I don’t think I can swing it.
“I’ll try,” I say quietly. “But I?—”
“HENRY?!” The word is shouted through my living room by a familiar female voice.
Liz .
If she sees Amelie, I will never live this down.
“That’s Lizzy,” she says, voice filled with awe. “Isn’t it? Isn’t that Liz?”
“Get in the closet.”
“I’m sorry ?”
“In the closet.” I put my hands on her waist and steer her toward my storage closet. She opens her mouth to protest, but before she can, I close the door. I’m aware that this isn’t the best way to buy her silence, but I don’t have another choice. I walk to the studio door and open it, praying Liz doesn’t say anything we need to keep under wraps.
“Hen!” Liz sings, strolling in. Today, she’s decked out in a very 70’s-esque outfit. Bright pink bell bottoms and a psychedelic neon shirt. Her outfits are often eccentric, but I have to say, this is a new level. “You didn’t tell me there was a breach at the museum the other day!”
I can almost see Amelie laughing to herself.
“I handled it,” I tell her. “I didn’t want to stress you out.”
“Oh, I couldn’t care less. But did Dad tell you he moved the auction?”
My jaw tightens. That’s another thing Amelie doesn’t need to hear. “Yes. I’m not sure the exact date, though. Did he tell you?”
“No.” She drops her bag off her shoulder and gives Betty a quick pat before looking at the canvas in front of us. “What are you painting?”
“I’m not sure.”
A laugh. “You always say that, and then you paint something incredible.”
“That doesn’t mean I know what I’m doing.”
Liz shakes her head. “I think you do know. You just don’t want to tell anyone in case it doesn’t live up to their imagination.”
I stare at the canvas, hating that she’s right. Rarely do I tell someone what I’m planning to paint. I did that once—told my Dad about an idea, and he loved it. Wanted to display it. But when I started working, it was all wrong. The proportions. The colors. It looked nothing like what I’d envisioned, and it felt like a failed reflection of myself.
Since then, I don’t talk about my plans. I just paint.
“I think you had one too many espresso shots this morning, Liz,” I say after a pause.
She lets out another laugh. “I did. Five too many, actually. But that’s not important. And anyways, I love it so far. I think you’re doing great. Is this the replacement for the auction?”
No, I want to say. I want to tell her that this is a fake. That Amelie and I are trying to get my original piece back. But then I’d have to explain a whole lot of things that I’m not ready to discuss, and I don’t want to drag Liz into my trouble. She doesn’t need that from me.
“Yes,” I say instead. “Though it’s taking longer than I’d like.”
She sighs. “Well, you’ve gotta kick it into gear. He won’t be happy if it’s late.”
I swallow. “I know.”
Lizzy walks over to her bag and picks it back up. “I guess I’ll get going, since you seem to be in the zone .”
“You don’t have to. Just take a seat somewhere if you want.”
A horrible offer, really, given that there’s an art thief in my closet.
Thankfully, Lizzy shakes her head. “I’ve got work to do. My editor wants a new article by Monday, and I’ve hardly started the research.”
“What’s it about?”
“ Fashions of the seventies.” She spins to show me her outfit, which, as I guessed, is heavily inspired by the era. “And why we shouldn’t let them come back. Do you know how embarrassing it was when I walked into work, and he handed me the assignment? I didn’t even want it! I love bell bottoms and bright colors. He’s sick.”
“He’s a fashion editor.”
“Still demented,” she mutters.
I hold back a laugh. “But you’re still going to write the article.”
“Of course I am. I’ll write the best article he’s ever read on how Penny Lane coats should be burned.”
“You’ll do great.”
“I will. And you will, too.” Her heels click loudly as she walks to the door. “See you Sunday, Hen. Bring a bottle of wine.”
I look up from my canvas. “What’s Sunday?”
“I don’t know, but you’re always over on Sunday.”
“Okay, but you don’t like wine.”
She sighs. “I need it to cook.”
“But you don’t cook .”
“I know!”
And with that, she leaves.
“Can I come out now?” A soft voice says from the closet.
Sighing, I walk over and lean against the opposite wall. “Yes.”
Amelie opens the door and steps out. She looks up at me curiously, and I wait for a lecture about shoving her in a closet, but it doesn’t come. It’s almost like she’s waiting for me to say something.
“What?” She asks finally. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
I shrug. “Just curious why you stayed in there. I sort of assumed you’d claw your way out and kick me in the shins.”
She crosses her arms to mirror my stance. “Walking out seemed like a good way to get caught, and I don’t really want Liz to know what I’ve been up to.”
“Liz wouldn’t care,” I say honestly. “She’d probably kiss you for terrorizing our dad, then drag you downstairs for manicures.”
Amelie sighs fondly. “It’s fine. The closet was lovely, anyways. I had lots of friends there. Dust bunnies. Spiders. I think there was even a shadow monster.”
I fake a gasp. “Maybe he took my painting.”
The corners of her mouth lift, and I get the most ridiculous urge to trace the shape with my thumb. “Maybe he did.”
She doesn’t say anything more than that, so I don’t either. After a few moments of silence, Amelie steps around me and goes to the window, staring out over the city. I’m tempted to go up beside her, to ask what she’s thinking, but I keep my feet planted on the ground.
“Tonight,” Amelie says suddenly. “We’re getting your piece tonight, Henry. Nine o’clock. Wear your best clubbing outfit.”
I practically snort. “What?”
“Your piece is at Bondi’s. The nightclub, you know.” She looks over her shoulder, brows furrowed. “Did I not tell you?”
I shake my head. “No, but this doesn’t seem smart. Won’t it be crowded?”
“Like I said: more people to hide amongst.”
This is a horrible idea.
“I’ll be at your apartment at a quarter ‘til.”
Amelie turns around, a full smile on her lips. “Such a gentleman. First, he blackmails me, then he escorts me to clubs.”
I exhale. “You’re intolerable today.”
“Ah!” She points a finger in my face. “Say one nice thing. Let’s keep it going.”
“No.”
Amelie makes a tsk ing noise. “You used to be so kind .”
“I still am.”
“No, you’re a nuisance now.”
“Such a sweet talker,” I murmur, taking a step closer.
Amelie’s eyes widen, and her gaze dips below mine before she says, “No. Stop that.”
“Stop what?”
“Just—stop talking.” She looks over her shoulder, then back at me, her eyes now dull. “I’ll see you tonight. Don’t aggravate me.”
“I might.”
“Keep your mouth shut, then.”
“And let your night be boring?”
“Arlington,” she warns, but it’s not so threatening when she says it like that. “Don’t test me.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I say, opening the door for her. “Bring a coat tonight.”
She says nothing as she leaves my apartment.