29. Henry
29
HENRY
“We’ve got this tradition,” Arnie tells me, all while knocking my rook off the chess board. “The first night we spend at our cabin, the girls make pigs in a blanket. I used to help, but Melinda told me I over-seasoned them.”
“You did!” Melinda says exasperatedly. “Oh, they were awful, Henry. Just horrible.”
“I’m not much of a cook myself, so I can’t judge,” I admit.
Melinda waves a hand at me as she pours some seasoning on the tray. It looks like everything bagel seasoning, which is interesting. I’ve never seen it put on anything but a bagel. Then again, I’ve never had pigs in a blanket, either. My mom detests finger foods. It’s instilled in my mind to feel the same.
“I just don’t see why we need this many,” Amelie says, throwing the empty plastic wrapping into the trash. “There’s five of us.”
“Because it’s what I bought, so we’re making it.” Melinda pops Amelie in the hip with the end of a dishrag. “We can store them and eat them all week. It’s not like— oh! ” She gasps, then turns to me. Arnie jumps at her suddenness, then keeps on studying the chess board. He’s beating me horribly. We’ve been playing since he finished watching his football reruns, and I’ve won exactly one game. “Henry, do you have food allergies? I can’t remember if you’ve told me before.”
“You’re such a mom ,” Margot says, setting the tray in the oven.
I shake my head. “Nope. I can—and will—eat mostly anything.”
“My kind of person.” Arnie gives me a nod before moving a piece. “Checkmate.”
I sigh and clear the board. “Not a fan of this, I’ll be honest.”
He gives a deep, throaty laugh. “Three out of five?”
“Three out of five,” I respond, setting the board up again.
Amelie laughs to herself, whether at us or something else, I’m not sure. She’s been laughing more this afternoon than when we first arrived, though it’s mostly around her parents. Her and Margot haven’t spoken a word without their prompting, and I can’t suppress my curiosity on what happened.
I know very little about Margot. While Amelie was best friends with my sister, I was more of a distant acquaintance with hers. Despite being at her house most days after school, we spoke maybe ten times, only on surface level things.
Why are you guys late? Henry, you parked crooked, are you the one that hit our mailbox? Did you flatten my bike tire?
For the record, I did hit that mailbox. But it was strangely placed.
The only thing I know for sure is that Margot hates that I’m back. She stared at me like I was a murderer when Amelie fell asleep on me during the football game, as if I’ve somehow manipulated my way back here.
I blame that nap on Amelie getting up early, by the way. It didn’t have anything to do with me. Though she does seem to enjoy the feel of my arms a little more than I remember.
Arnie takes his turn, and I let out a sigh as I stare at the board. I’m seeing a blur of black and white, feeling unable to be fully present. That phone call with my dad won’t leave my mind.
He told me my piece is still at my apartment. Then he asked me what convention I’m at, where I’m spending this time, and I made up some bogus name that doesn’t exist. If I’m lucky, he won’t look into it. But if he does…
Well, the bills come on Monday anyways. He’s got enough to worry about.
“Hey, Ames,” Arnie says, eyes trained on the chess board. “Did you get everything cleared up with work?”
She shrugs, wiping her hands off on a dishrag. “Sort of. I might have to run home early to check on a few things. If our plans permit, that is.”
“That’ll be fine, honey,” Melinda tells her, squeezing her arm. “The only plans we’ve got set in stone are Marg’s art showing and you guys’ birthday party.”
Amelie rolls her eyes playfully. “We’re turning twenty-three, and you’re still throwing us a party.”
“With streamers and everything,” Arnie says solemnly, giving her a wry smile.
Amelie laughs, the sound so natural that it makes my stomach stir. “As long as I get a tiara.”
“Mom got us some,” Margot says, wiping off the counter with a damp rag. “She already showed me.”
“And a cake,” Melinda says. “I’m going to redecorate it, though. It’s just not as good as it could be!”
Amelie grins and grabs a can of soda from the fridge. “I suppose you got gifts, too.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” her mom responds. “You know I did.”
“I did, too,” Amelie says, eyeing Margot almost nervously. “Didn’t know if we were doing that or not.”
“I did,” Margot says flatly.
Amelie gives a nod. “Okay. Great. Anyone else?”
I can tell it’s a joke, but I still respond with, “I did.”
Everyone turns to me, and their eyes weigh on me like anvils. “What?” Margot asks, sounding incredulous. "You brought gifts?"
I blink. “I mean, I’ll admit that yours is quite basic, but?—”
“Why?” Amelie asks.
I shrug. “Birthdays require gifts.”
She shakes her head once. “Did I even tell you…?”
“I know when your birthday is, Amelie.”
Her mouth drops open at that, as if it’s some insane revelation. As if I haven’t fought the urge to call her on that day every year, just to have some excuse for why I was thinking about her.
“Well, thanks, I guess,” Margot mumbles before going back to her cleaning. I give a nod toward her, about to turn back to my chess game, but my eyes snag on Amelie. She’s still staring at me, brows drawn together in confusion. I honestly assumed she’d expect something from me—not in a selfish way, but more in a routine manner. Something that happens simply because it should.
Eventually, she looks away, and she doesn’t look back.
There’s a blanket of silence until the oven timer goes off. Arnie and I basically speed run the end of our chess game, which doesn’t matter in the slightest—he still beats me, and he gloats about it subtly throughout the meal, but I don’t mind it. I think I’m the only person willing to play the game with him.
The five of us sit around the table with a massive tray of pigs in a blanket in front of us, and the meal seems to go quickly. We talk, but it’s light, surface-level conversation. Margot asks Amelie passive-aggressive questions about work, and she deflects. Then vice-versa. I rattle off basic small talk, trying to stay on the safe side of things.
Arnie and Melinda are the only constants. They keep conversation with me like they’re actually curious how I’ve been. I’m open about my career, they tell me about theirs, and Amelie even throws me a few pieces of the puzzle that I’ve found her to be.
She built her career at eighteen.
Jensen and Meg were never meant to be her partners, but they stumbled upon the opportunity and thought a cut of money was worth it.
She hates art.
I’ve guessed that last part for a while, but it becomes more apparent in this conversation. And I just want to know why.
I don’t find out, of course. Not over this meal.
When we’re all done, Amelie volunteers to do the dishes. Margot and her mom both offer to help, but she insists we go to the living room and talk. So we do—Melinda shows me her most recent crochet project, which is a blanket with cat ears. I’ve got no idea how it’s practical.
She goes on a tangent about her last blanket that looked like a bee, and I listen. I do. But at some point, my eyes wander to Amelie, who’s scrubbing the dishes like they’ve wronged her. She’s got bubbles down the front of her shirt and I’m not even sure she cares.
Something about this environment has her more on edge than I’ve seen in a while.
“Excuse me for a second,” I say when Melinda finishes her story. She nods and smiles knowingly, so I assume she can see right through me.
Slowly, I walk into the kitchen and approach Amelie. She doesn’t even notice me until I stop next to her and say, “Hey.”
To which she flings soap all over the front of my shirt.
“I’m sorry!” She winces at my chest. “You scared me. I was zoned out.”
“I can see that,” I say, a smile playing at the corners of my mouth. “Can I help you?”
She holds up her gloved, sudsy hands. “You wanna play housewife? Be my guest.”
I laugh. “Give me a towel. I’ll dry them.”
She doesn’t hesitate to hand me the rag to her left. I start drying the chipped blue plates, setting them in a stack next to me when I’m done. For a brief moment, my brain wanders to how laughably domestic this is, but I push that thought as far away as I can.
“So,” I start. “You thought I forgot your birthday, huh?”
Amelie shakes her head. “I didn’t say you forgot . I just didn’t know you remembered.”
“I remember more than you want me to, Ames.”
She straightens up. “What does that even mean?”
I shrug, aware that I’m close to talking myself into a corner. “I think you want me to act like I forgot everything between us.”
Amelie sniffs. “Well, I mean, I did. So.”
I laugh. “No, you didn’t.”
“And how would you know?”
“Because I know you better than that. You remember everything.”
“Debatable,” she says, but her voice is quieter than it was a moment ago. “And anyways, this is irrelevant right now. My mom is taking photos of us like a stalker.”
I raise a brow and look into the living room. Sure enough, Melinda has her phone in the air with the flash on. Amelie snorts when she hides it away, trying to be sneaky even though that’s the last thing she is.
“I saw that,” Amelie says.
Melinda gapes. “I didn’t do anything!”
I grin. “Forward me that photo.”
Amelie looks up at me with a challenging expression. “If you want a photo of me, you can simply ask.”
“Didn’t think you’d comply.”
Instead of responding, she hands me another bowl.
I finish drying the dishware and set it aside. Amelie drains the sink seconds later and removes her gloves, placing them neatly on the edge of the counter. She leans back against the marble countertop and crosses her arms, practically mirroring my stance.
“I can feel you staring at the top of my head,” she says. “What do you want?”
I shake my head. “Nothing.”
“So stop glaring at my scalp.”
“Okay. Look up, and I’ll glare at you.”
Shockingly, she does. I expect some kind of retort, anything to try and get under my skin, but all she says is, “Thank you.”
“For drying the dishes?”
She rolls her eyes. “Henry. You know what I mean.”
I take my glasses off and clean the lenses against my shirt to busy my hands. “You don’t have to keep thanking me. I wanted to do this.”
“ Why ?” She asks, and though she’s asked it at least twice now, I’ve never truly answered it. I told her it was a return for the help she’s giving me, but she doesn’t believe that. I can’t even blame her because it’s a flat-out lie.
I came because I wanted to. That’s the truth.
I want to see her. I want to spend time with her, want to know her again. Because I never planned on losing this. I had no idea that when I kissed her against my car before I left for school, I’d never kiss her again. That wasn’t my plan.
The plan was always her. I was supposed to come back to her.
But it’s different now. Nothing is the same.
“I’m still figuring that out myself,” I murmur, putting my glasses back on my face. My eyes stay on the ground, but I can feel Amelie’s on me, trying to decipher what I mean.
After what feels like an excruciating amount of time, she must decide there’s no point. Amelie walks out of the kitchen and joins her family in the living room without giving me a second glance. I follow slowly and take a seat next to her on the couch, and within seconds, Arnie has us roped into a game of poker.
Margot wins.