23. Amelie
23
AMELIE
Arlington
Hello. I’ve finished the piece. I’ll be home all evening. Swing by if you want to see it, because now we need an actual plan.
Also bring takeout if you’re feeling nice. Thank you.
I double check my phone as I leave the Chinese place down the block. He said it right there—I can show up whenever I want. Open arrival times have my heart. If I want to get there at six or nine, it’s fully up to me. It’s beautiful.
Speaking of open times, I’m being tormented by the exact opposite at this moment. It’s been four days since I promised my mom I’m coming to the cabin, and I’ve spent that time tying up loose ends. All my clients are aware that I’m on leave. We delivered a piece two nights ago. Our money was deposited through the hall’s pay system just yesterday. Everything has lined up perfectly.
Except that I’m still going solo to the cabin. But that’s a later problem, given that I’m on my way to Henry’s with a bag of food. I’ve already decided that I’m not asking him, which is good. It leaves us more time to focus on work. He’s ready to take the next step and make his piece public. It should help speed up this process, but I’m not sure how much.
He’s waiting for me in the lobby when I arrive. I swear his face lights up when he catches sight of the bag on my arm. Good for me, honestly—he’ll be much more open to my antics if I’ve fed him.
“You’re a darling,” he says solemnly, and I nearly trip over my feet. Because of my shoes, obviously—they’re slick on the bottoms! “Though I won’t repeat it.”
I snort as the elevator opens. “Yeah, I’ll be expecting payment for the curry chicken later.”
He eyes me. “Curry chicken?”
“Mhm. And egg rolls, and rice. Surely you can find something you like.”
“You know I like all of that,” he mumbles, taking the bag from me. “And why would I reimburse you? You stole my wallet and bought your breakfast a week ago, if I can remind you of that.”
“Okay, and then I paid for my own drink at the bar. A lady should never do that. So basically we’re even.”
He sighs, but I think he’s biting back a smile. I look at the ground as the elevator hits floor eighteen, willing it to go faster. Why does being in enclosed spaces with him feel so tense? I think I’m about to start sweating, and if I do that, I will scream.
The shiny doors open, and right before I step forward, Henry pats something into my palm. I look down in shock at the twenty-dollar bill resting in my hand, then glance back up at him. “What are you?—”
“Thank you for dinner,” he says casually, stepping out of the elevator.
My jaw is fully agape. I hadn’t actually expected that. I don’t even want the money. I just wanted to be a nuisance! An argument was the most I thought I’d get from him, and that was enough to satisfy me.
Keys start rattling around, and I realize the elevator is about to close again. I run to catch Henry as he unlocks his apartment, and when we walk inside, he takes the food to his living room. He sets the bag on the coffee table and carefully lowers himself to the floor, kneeling onto the rug before sitting on the ground completely. I assumed we’d just go to his studio, since that’s basically the only place I’ve been here, but he motions for me to join him.
“Come eat first,” he says. “This stuff is awful when it gets cold.”
I don’t have to be told twice. I take my heels off by the door and join him, cautious as I pop open the container of chicken. Henry goes for the egg rolls, and the first thing he says is, “Why do you look more tense than normal?”
I blink, caught off guard. “Huh?”
“You just look…stressed.” He unwraps a pair of chopsticks, snaps them apart, and hands them to me. “Your eyes look crazy, and your jaw is clenched. Grinding your teeth is bad for you.”
“I know.” I did not know that was a thing. “And anyways, it’s the whole family situation.”
“Ah . The fake boyfriend thing?”
“That,” I confirm, stuffing a piece of chicken into my mouth. “I doubled down on it yesterday, and I’ve never regretted anything more. And then, Jensen—you remember Jensen, right? I feel like you need to picture him before I tell you this.”
“I recall,” he says. “Keep on.”
I exhale. “Actually, I don’t think I should even tell you this.” I’m going to, though, because I have nothing to lose. He’ll probably get a kick out of it, and I’ll get to tell a story. Win-win. “But my mom was hounding me for my boyfriend’s name, and Jensen said ‘Henry’. ” I roll my eyes and pray it looks nonchalant. “So now she thinks you’re coming with me tomorrow.”
Henry is silent as he chews his food. A good quality, really—this is something I’ve always given him credit for. If I can hear you chewing your food, you are immediately an enemy. I believe that with my whole heart and I’ll never change.
“I’m going to say something,” he says, “and I don’t want you to cut me off. I want you to let me finish.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll make a big deal online about a new piece, right? I’ve got a decent audience, so it’ll get some word out. I can even tell my dad to put it in the flyers. Subtly, I can hint that it’s here, in my studio.”
“Okay,” I say again, growing more wary.
“Then we’ll leave that up to fate, and I’ll go with you to your parent’s cabin.”
Gracefully, I start choking on my chicken.
“You’re kidding ,” I say, grasping my water glass. “You’re lying.”
“No,” he says plainly.
“You haven’t—Henry, you haven’t seen my family in years!” I’m practically stuttering now. “And you and I don’t even get along. This wouldn’t work.”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. I have a pretty fun time with you.”
NO. “What about Betty? She can’t stay here all alone. She’s a baby.”
His eyes are a little too heavy on me. “Lizzy can feed Betty when she gets home from work.”
I bite down on my lip. Take another sip of water to get the burning out of my throat. What if…what if this isn’t horrible?
No. No, it’s definitely horrible, and it wouldn’t work. We are not about to go back to the past. Pretending to date him wouldn’t end well for either of us. I know this.
But it is an easy solution, kind of. And a marvelous way to irritate him.
“You don’t have anything to gain from this,” I say.
Henry shrugs. “Maybe not.”
“And you wouldn’t be able to stand me for a week straight,” I continue. “I mean, even way back when, I was still on good behavior. You know, like early relationship behavior? Where I don’t eat in front of you and all that?”
A crease appears between his eyebrows. “You ate a rack of ribs in front of me after our prom.”
“Yes, and I ate them daintily .”
He snorts. “Yeah. Okay.”
I huff, still intent on convincing him this is a poor idea. “Are you seriously up for this? Was seven months not enough torture for you? Because it was for me.”
“We must define torture differently, Amelie.”
I gape, waiting for him to say more. He just goes back to eating.
Am I really considering this? Surely not. I can’t be! My mom is insane. She’ll lure Henry into a false sense of security with muffins and then start talking about grandkids. Dad will make him watch football for hours on end. The poor guy’s eyes are going to be bleeding by the time we make it back here.
But also…it’d be nice to have a focus other than Margot. I’d prefer that it’s not Henry, but beggars can’t be choosers.
“Pack warm clothes,” I mumble, regretting all of this already. “And something nice. Margot’s got a showing at a local museum.”
I wait for his questions about that last part, but they don’t come. Good. He can probably sense my hostility, which isn’t a shock whatsoever. I stopped putting on a front for him a while ago.
“Okay,” he says.
“My family is insane,” I remind. “You remember that, no?”
Amusement lights his eyes. “I remember.”
“And my mother is insistent on grandchildren.”
“I’m pretty sure all moms are.”
“We don’t need to do this.” I say that one more to myself.
Henry takes a breath. “But we’re going to, aren’t we?”
Yes. I’m afraid that we are.
“We’ll leave tomorrow morning,” I say. “Do you have a car?”
“Yes.”
“Perfect. Pick me up at six in the morning.”
“Mm-hmm.” He takes a long drink of water. “Anything else?”
I pretend to be deep in thought, tapping my nails on the tabletop. “Donuts in the morning?”
“Well, that was a given.”
We finish eating in silence. When we’re done, I dump both our cups of water in the sink, and he throws the boxes away. There was very little leftover, but if we’d had more, I would’ve taken it.
Once everything is cleaned up, Henry leads me to his studio and uncovers the painting. “It’s all done,” he says, sounding oddly nervous. “Should I upload a photo of the thing? Or just mention that I’ve completed something new?”
I don’t respond, mainly because my eyes feel magnetized to the canvas. I know Henry’s staring at me, trying to figure out what I’m thinking, but I couldn’t care less about him watching.
Two children. A boy and a girl, running through a field. They have the same exact faces, so I do well to assume they’re siblings. It’s an adorable portrait at first glance, but much like his other pieces, they become chilling when you look deeper.
The children are crying. For what, I’m not sure—there’s nothing chasing them. No storm or even a cloud above them. The girl’s face is red, and the boy’s face is pained, glistening with tears. But neither have a clear reason to be upset.
It looks so familiar, and yet, I’m almost certain I’ve never seen something like it before.
“Ames?” Henry asks quietly.
I blink. Tip my head to the side. “Whatever you want,” I say. “I don’t think it’ll matter.”
He just nods. I’m more aware of his lingering gaze now, but still, I don’t look away from the piece.
I hate art. I decided that long ago.
But something about Henry’s work is very haunting. Enthralling. And I don’t like the way I’m drawn to it even more than I used to be. The way I’m tempted to ask the story behind each piece. I want to know what went into this painting. I want to know where he drew the inspiration, what coursed through his mind while creating it.
“Do you recognize it?” He asks.
I blink, shocked. “No. Why would I?”
He shrugs. “Just curious. You’ve seen the photo it’s based on before.”
“Huh?” I shake my head. “I don’t think I have.”
“I showed it to you. It’s a photo of Lizzy and I.”
Now that I’m actively trying to remember, my brain goes blank. That’s why it was familiar, I guess, but I don’t recall the original image. I also don’t remember it being a sad photo.
“You weren’t crying in that one, though,” I guess.
Henry exhales. “No, we weren’t.”
“So why did you make this sad?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “It just happened. But I haven’t named it yet.”
“You could put it out as a sort of competition,” I say, looking up at him. “Let people suggest a name.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t like that.”
“Why?”
“I don’t want people naming something I created.”
I shrug. “It would be good for publicity.”
“No,” he says with that tone of finality again. “Something else.”
Sighing, I glance back at the painting and focus on the little boy’s— Henry’s —face. Despite it being sticky with tears, his expression is almost curious. Full of awe and something a little deeper. More terrifying.
“ Childlike Wonder. ” I look up at him again. “Something like that. Something ironic.”
He crosses his arms. “Actually, yeah. I really like that.”
“So we’ve got it?”
“I think we do.”
Yes. One more thing checked off the list.
Henry snaps a photo of the painting and uploads it to whatever site he’s on. I almost ask him to forward it to me so Meg can drop hints, too, but that sounds like a good way to get more attention than we want. I still believe that whoever is behind this knows Henry. Maybe a competitor that he’s unaware of, someone who’s popularity he’s taken over with his own. The possibilities are, unfortunately, endless.
“It’s done,” Henry says a few seconds later. He holds his phone up and shows me the post, along with a mildly wordy caption that I don’t care to read. “I’ll call my dad tonight and tell him to leave the cameras on, and that I’ll be gone for…how long is this?”
“A week,” I say, then quickly add, “But you don’t have to stay the whole time. It’s sort of a birthday thing, too, so I’m sure Margot?—”
“I’ll be fine,” he says, hitting send on the message he’s been typing. I’m awaiting more questions, given that I’ve told him basically nothing, but Henry doesn’t even look up from his screen. He dials a number on his phone and holds it to his ear. “Liz?” He says after a few seconds of silence. “Yeah. I’m gonna be gone for a bit. Can you—no, it’s not something from Dad. Can you—Liz, let me talk. Can you feed and water Betty?” A pause. “Great. Thanks. Yes, I’ll leave your payment on the kitchen table. Uh-huh. Okay, bye.” He hangs up and looks at me. “Alright. My arrangements are set.”
I gape. “It’s that easy?”
“Sometimes.”
How is that even possible? When was the last time I’ve gotten to do anything with that little effort? It takes an army for me to go shopping longer than an hour, and all he has to worry about in a week-long span is keeping his cat alive.
“Alright,” I say, tucking my hair behind my ears. “Well, just…yeah. Pack warm clothes, like I said.”
He nods, and it’s suddenly insane to me that we’re doing this.
My ex-boyfriend. I’m taking my ex-boyfriend to my family cabin and lying about it. And the worst part is, I don’t feel any remorse. I’m honestly relieved that he’s coming. I don’t really care to think about why.
Henry and I make our way out to the living room, and I grab my purse off the rack. I put my heels back on—he’s a no shoes in the house person—and he slides my coat onto my arms. I don’t miss the way his fingers brush the back of my neck, the way his breath seems to catch in sync with mine, but I assume it’s unintentional.
“Bright and early,” I tell him, hiking my purse up onto my shoulder. “I like blueberry donuts. Also anything with sprinkles.”
“I know. I’ll bring you a black coffee to wake you up.”
I narrow my eyes. “You wouldn’t dare.”
“We’ll see.” He grins, then opens the door. “Sleep well, Ames.”
I throw a wave over my shoulder. “Have nightmares, Arlington.”