21. Henry
21
HENRY
My head is spinning when I leave Amelie’s apartment. What on earth happened tonight? How did we get from point A to point B?
I don’t know, but I know how I got involved. I was standing as close to that alcove as I could without looking suspicious. Her voice somehow managed to get through the noise, and I just…panicked. And then I got closer, and I heard the men shouting at her, and I didn’t know what else to do.
I could’ve taken a photo. Could’ve gathered the evidence my dad wants and ended this ‘partnership’ altogether.
Instead, I punched the guy closest to me and bribed the others to keep quiet.
I’ve lost 300 dollars and some dignity tonight, but I can’t find it in myself to care.
Snow is still falling as I walk home. I’m shaking, whether from the wind or the adrenaline coursing through me, I’ve not decided. It’s extremely unpleasant—my entire body is in some mode of panic, and it’s all because of Amelie. Because I was worried about Amelie.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I grab it embarrassingly quickly, assuming it’s her.
It’s not.
Roman Arlington
Where are you? Elizabeth said you aren’t home.
I stop near a lamppost, kicking myself for even checking the notification. Not answering is an option, yes, but giving him reason to assume something is up would be worse.
I’ve been out for the evening. Where are you?
The second I hit send, I rethink the message. I don’t think I’ve ever asked my dad where he is, and it’s an odd time to start. But I want to know if he’s got the slightest clue what I’m up to.
He wouldn’t tell me by any means, but maybe he’d give it away accidentally.
Roman Arlington
I’ve been holed up in my office. Any luck on finding the piece?
Not yet.
Roman Arlington
Hurry.
Thank you. Very helpful.
“Henry?” Someone calls, and I turn around slowly. Amelie’s friends are walking toward me hand in hand. They’re both bundled up in a ridiculous amount of clothes, which honestly sounds preferable to the wet shirt I’m still wearing.
“What?” I ask, wary as they approach me. “Weren’t you guys just?—”
“Did Ames get home?” Meg asks.
I crack my knuckles, just to do something with my hands. “Yeah, I’m on my way home. Why? Is she okay?”
The amount of worry in my voice is pathetic.
“We haven’t talked to her,” Jensen says, nearly frowning. “Figured she’d want some alone time.”
I blow out a breath. “What happened back there?”
“I think the men heard her break the window, and it just spiraled.” He shrugs. “It was horrible to watch. I’ve never seen her that scared, not on a job. But it never should have gotten to that point. I knew we shouldn’t have?—”
“Don’t be like that right now,” Meg says, pulling her gloved hand away from his bare one. He rolls his eyes and drops his arm, and I notice that he’s got a tattoo across the back of his hand. “Amelie will be okay, Henry. She’s probably cozied up on the couch, drinking hot tea and simmering. Or watching Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Either one works as a coping mechanism for her.”
The thought of Amelie safe in her apartment is enough to loosen the knot in my chest. I need her to be okay. Not knowing if she was—and thinking that she wasn’t—was one of the worst things I’ve ever felt.
I hate myself for not doing more. For not cleaning the cuts on her arms and making sure she stopped bleeding, though I know she wouldn’t have allowed me that close. There’s a likelihood that she wouldn’t have even let me walk her to her door, but I should have asked.
She’s driving me out of my mind . I assumed that would go away after four years, but it’s only getting worse.
“Hey,” I say slowly, remembering a question that Amelie couldn’t answer. “What…what piece did you guys get?”
The two of them swap a glance, confirming a suspicion that I already had.
It’s one of mine.
“I don’t even care,” I add on. “I just want to know what’s going on. Please.”
Meg looks at Jensen, and he’s shaking his head subtly. All that does is further solidify my guess, but I keep my mouth shut. It doesn’t matter. If they have it, I won’t be getting it back, regardless of the answer.
“It was yours,” Meg finally says. “ Nautical Abyss. It got taken from us. Karma and whatever, probably. But Ames wasn’t lying about your Ophelia being there. I have a photo if you don’t believe me.”
She starts to get her phone out, but I wave a hand. “I believe you. Thank you. That’s all I was wondering.”
They give me the most miniscule smiles before leaving. Jensen throws his arm around Meg, but she elbows him before they turn the corner. I pocket my hands and wait until they’re out of sight to keep walking.
So. Amelie still has Nautical Abyss. I assumed that was dead and gone by now—off to trade, never to be seen again. Should I even care at this point? Do I try and snag that one back, alongside my auction piece? I’d like the thing back, but my dad would kill me for focusing on it. Nautical Abyss is not of utmost priority. It isn’t a favorite, therefore, it means nothing to him.
I don’t think it would matter anyways. Every plan we’ve made so far has worked against us.
Well, that’s dramatic. We’ve only put one into action, (Bondi’s, which I hated anyways) and the other (the decoy) hasn’t seen the light of day. I’ve got to finish it soon, but even then, what are the odds of it working? What if it doesn’t accomplish our goal?
I have too many questions, and no one has answers. This charade isn’t solid. Everything has multiple outcomes, and I hate it.
I give the doorman a brief wave as I step on the elevator. I make sure to keep my right hand hidden from him, lest it raise suspicion—or actual spoken questions. I’ve never punched anyone before. I didn’t expect it to batter up my knuckles, but my middle finger landed right on the man’s nose. It doesn’t hurt, it just looks bad.
Which might be worse, because now Lizzy and Dad will see it, and neither of them are very reserved with their questions.
I shrug off my coat once I’m inside my apartment. It’s nearly ten now, I think, and I’m exhausted. Adrenaline rushes aren’t for me—I don’t like the low that comes afterward. But for some reason, instead of going to my bedroom, I skip right past it and go to my studio.
I roll up my sleeves and drag out a box full of acrylics. My brushes are all caked with paint, so I find the most usable one and start working on the decoy. This piece still hasn’t presented itself to me. It’s ridiculous to say I’ve got no idea what I’m painting, but it’s the truth. A vague picture in my mind is all I have. Will the subjects end up happy, or sad? Will the piece have an edge of anger or regret? I never know for sure. Not until the very end.
Time is ticking by. I’m aware of it as I stack layers of color onto each other, waiting for a perfect image to appear before my eyes. The paint on my pallet is dwindling down to nothing, and the shades are all smeared together in the middle. It’s a mess—the piece, my now paint-covered clothes, all of it. It’s horrible.
And when I take a step back and stare at the canvas, I wonder what Amelie will see when she looks at this piece.
I’ve never cared what someone thinks of my art, not directly. I care if it’s mildly desirable, because if it weren’t, I’d be out of a job. But I paint what I want. No one can sway me from my instinct, from creating what I feel.
Amelie could, though.
She was the only person I’ve ever asked for feedback. Back in high school, the two of us would often share pieces and critique the other’s work. If she told me the perspective looked off, or the shading could be better, I’d work on it, and the next day I’d ask her again. I trusted her to guide me in the right direction. And she did. Everything she ever suggested was good. She made my art better. She made me better.
She was good for me. So, so good.
But now, it seems as though she hates my paintings, and I don’t know what changed. What shifted her love for art. I don’t know if it’s my work, or how she views me as a person, or another thing altogether. But I want her to tell me. I’m willing to beg for an answer.
You’re ridiculous, I tell myself, slathering on another coat of paint. Utterly.
It’s hours before I’m content with the piece. Before I see the image in my mind presented on the canvas. Faces stare back at me, a mix of good and bad and emotions I can’t quite identify. I couldn’t be happier with it.
With a heavy sigh, I carry my brushes to the sink and wash them. I set them on a drying towel, then turn my easel toward the wall, not the window. No need for someone else to get a glimpse of it.
Amelie said I may not see this piece again, but I’m sort of counting on that not to happen. If this whole operation doesn’t go to plan, then this will be my auction piece. I don’t have another option.
And if my dad has a problem with it…
He will. But I’m slowly losing my will to care.