36. Amelie
36
AMELIE
I want to claw my skin off the entire way to the showing.
It’s a small thing, Margot told us. Held in the town community center. She’s proud of it, though—of the fact that someone recognized her work and wanted it displayed. I desperately wish I were happy for her.
She’s been gone since the crack of dawn, according to Dad, and I’ve tried not to give it any thought. I’ve tried to focus on things other than this event, which honestly proved to be worse for me. I thought about the fact that our birthday is tomorrow and that I don’t even want to talk to her. But I knew I’d come to the realization eventually. I was fine with it.
And then Henry decided to come to my room, and my judgment lapsed, and now I don’t know what’s going on.
I haven’t so much as looked at him since he took his hands off me. We’re in the back of my dad’s minivan, sitting pressed against the doors like we’re too scared to touch again. I am, anyway. Mistakes were made, and they can’t happen again.
My parents are oblivious to the tension. They can’t tell I’m angry; can’t tell that Henry and I are acting strangely. They can’t tell we’re acting at all. Right now, the only focus is getting us here and getting back to the cabin before Dad’s team starts playing.
I don’t even notice we’ve arrived until Dad shuts the engine off. We’re parked in front of a beat-down brick building, surrounded by no more than ten cars. I was expecting something packed out, but I’m not sure why. The population of this town hardly surpasses two-hundred people.
Mom takes the liberty of breaking the silence, turning around to stare at both Henry and me. “Is everyone ready?”
“Absolutely,” I say before I can catch my tone.
Mom sighs. “Amelie, honey, it’s?—”
“I know, Mom. I’m happy for her.”
Lie.
“It’ll be fun,” she says. “Promise.”
“Just try to enjoy it,” Dad says. “You’ll find something in there to look at. We’re just doing a walk-through, anyway, and then we’ll be out. Marg will be home shortly after.”
With a nod, I force myself out into the freezing air. Goosebumps cover my skin the second the wind hits me. I’m wearing a coat, but it does little, given that my legs below my mid-thigh are completely bare. I grab my handbag and close the car door, and before I even start toward the building, Henry is at my side.
My stomach flips at the mere sight of him, but my heart rate kicks up when he offers me his hand, palm-up.
“Henry,” I warn. “We?—”
“Come on, kids,” Dad calls, zipping his coat. “We don’t have all day.”
I roll my eyes and slap my hand onto Henry’s, hating myself when I tangle our fingers together reflexively. It feels like every nerve ending in my body travels to where his rough skin is touching mine.
“Margot said she’s somewhere off to the right,” Dad says, opening the door. “Which piece does she have up, Mel?”
“ Agreeance, ” Mom says. “It’s my favorite of hers.”
I tuck my free hand into my coat, trying to warm myself as I look around this place. The inside is a stark contrast to the outside, as in, it isn’t dilapidated. The walls are freshly painted, and the floors look new. I’d guess that any budget went toward the interior.
People flit around with their eyes glued to the walls, taking in the art hung around them. There are a few that catch my eye. Some that I know would sell if this were a larger populated area. One to my left is something that I, myself, wouldn’t mind taking, solely because I don’t like it.
“There she is,” Mom says suddenly, tugging on my arm and dragging me toward the corner of the room. Margot is standing in front of a large canvas, shaking hands with an older man that looks almost entranced by her work. His kind eyes are settled on the painting behind her, even as he keeps talking. It’s like he can’t look away.
My face is neutral as I study her painting, but my thoughts are a whirlwind.
I don’t understand it, not at first. It’s a simple contrast of dark and light. Night and day. A dark shadow is at the base of the canvas, pushing back against the burst of light coming from the top. The two are muddled together at the center, mixed into a dark gray color, but otherwise, they’re completely separated.
“Huh,” I say under my breath.
“You like it?” Mom asks quietly, hopefully.
I nod. “It’s interesting.”
“I don’t wholly understand the point of it,” she admits in a low voice, “but I don’t want to ask. The colors are nice, though.”
“I think it’s a literal show of agreeance,” I say, recalling the name. “It’s supposed to be two totally different things coming together.”
She tilts her head and squints at the canvas. “Hm. Perhaps.”
“That’s exactly it, actually,” Margot says, stepping forward.
My stomach rolls with something like dread as we approach her, and it only worsens when I see her face.
She looks happier than I’ve ever seen her.
“We’re so proud of you, honey,” Mom says, giving her a hug. “This is lovely.”
“Thank you,” she says, her eyes bright. “So you guys like it?”
They both nod. “I love it,” Dad says. “It’s incredible, pumpkin.”
Margot gives them a smile, then turns toward me. I stiffen up, my back going totally rigid. “You? Do you like it?”
“Yeah,” I say, nodding for good measure. “It’s great, Marg.”
She doesn’t smile, doesn’t say anything before turning back to our parents.
I blow out a breath and flex my hands at my sides, trying to shake the feeling in my gut. My skin is practically itching with nerves. I want to leave, badly. This place is anxiety inducing for reasons I don’t fully understand. Or maybe it’s not this environment; rather, it’s the situation.
My discomfort must be more obvious than I’d like, because Henry picks up on it almost instantly. “We can walk around,” he says so only I can hear him. “Do you want to?—”
“Yes.” I nod. “Let’s do that.”
He walks away without another word. I follow behind him at a slow pace, glancing around the room without truly focusing on anything. Henry does the exact opposite, though—he stops before multiple pieces, getting closer to examine each one. I’m watching him more closely than the art. At the way his face shapes into something new with each one he looks at.
“This one is remarkable,” he says when we’ve reached the back of the building. We’re tucked in a small alcove, alone except for the canvas in front of us. It’s a simple work, no larger than a notebook. A field of flowers, laid out in pink and orange, with a promise of storms in the sky. “It’s balanced well.”
“The colors?”
“Yes,” he says, sounding excited that I’ve even asked. “They complement each other well. I’ve attempted a few pieces like this, but they fail miserably each time. Nature isn’t something I’ve learned to capture well.”
Instantly, I think of his piece, Fleur of Words. That’s nature, I want to say. It’s a flower. But I don’t, because I don’t want him thinking that I’ve paid more attention to him than I’ve had to.
I nearly laugh at the thought. All I’ve done for the past few days is pay attention to Henry. I’ve gone back and forth from staring at him to trying not to stare at him, and I’m failing at the second part. He’s taken up a good portion of my thoughts. It worries me more than anything else.
“What are you thinking?” He asks.
I shrug. “About the piece? It’s alright.”
He laughs quietly. “No, I know you’re not paying attention to the piece. What’s on your mind?”
I open my mouth. Close it instantly. I can’t just tell him the truth—that I’m hardly even here, hardly even thinking. That I’m only focused on what happened an hour ago and I can’t seem to shake the memory of it.
His hands on my neck. His lips on my jaw. The words he whispered ? —
“Nothing,” I say, hoping there’s enough conviction in my voice for him to believe it. “I’m fine.”
He narrows his eyes, looking at me with a sense of disbelief. I hold my breath, waiting for an argument to come, but it never does. Instead, he says, “I’m sorry.”
And somehow, that’s worse.
“I’m so sorry for earlier, Ames.” He shakes his head. “I shouldn’t have?—”
“No,” I say, blinking rapidly. “It’s fine, Henry. It wasn’t…it wasn’t all you.”
He looks at me like he’s shocked, but unfortunately, I’m telling the truth.
I wanted it. Wanted him. More than I’ve wanted anything in a long time.
Which is a very, very bad thing.
“It won’t happen again.” My voice is weak for what I’m trying to convey. “It just…it won’t.”
“It won’t,” he responds stiffly.
“Good.” I look away. Toy with the necklace around my throat and try not to remember the way his skin felt against mine when he put it on me. “Great.”
Henry clears his throat and removes his glasses. He cleans the untouched lenses with his shirt before looking over at me. “I’m proud of you, you know.”
Those words alone are enough to make my jaw drop. “What?”
“For being here today.” He puts his glasses back on his face. “I know you didn’t want to.”
I study his profile once he turns his gaze forward, those four words repeating over and over in my head.
I’m proud of you.
Hearing that—when I’ve done nothing more than begrudgingly show up—confuses me. Why would he say that? My first assumption is that I’m being made fun of, but I don’t think that’s the case, though I can’t find another reason he’d be genuinely saying that.
“I meant that, Ames,” he says quietly, seeing right through me. “Promise.”
And for some reason, that’s what makes the pieces fall together in my mind.
The pieces of why I changed. Why I altered what I wanted, the second that Margot wanted it too. Why I subconsciously still compete against her— everyone —in my mind.
Because I want someone to be proud of what I’ve chosen.
I think that’s all I ever wanted. For someone to say it.
My parents may be proud of me, but they’ve never told me that. I used to assume they’d say it, given that I sort of followed in their footsteps, but that’s not the case. And it’s nothing against them. Maybe they didn’t know I needed to hear it. Maybe I should’ve told them that I did.
Maybe I acted so self-sufficient that they thought I didn’t want to hear the words.
But hearing them now, over this, is almost enough to send me spiraling.
I can’t afford that, though. Not in front of him.
“Thanks,” I mumble. “Thank you.”
Henry nods, brows pulled together as he looks at me. Rather than asking what’s wrong—probably because he knows I won’t tell him anyways—he offers me his hand again. I take it and don’t say a word as we walk back toward my parents. They ask us questions, but I let Henry answer them as I play his words over and over through my mind.
I need him out of my head.
But that’s looking like less and less of an option the longer this goes on.