38. Amelie
38
AMELIE
I’d really rather this day just end.
The moment I woke up, I was tempted to go right back to sleep. That wasn’t much of a possibility though, given that Mom and Dad were in my room, singing happy birthday and placing a plastic tiara on my head.
I managed to escape breakfast by taking a shower. Unfortunately, I used all the hot water, so my paradise ended in half an hour. I hid in my room for an additional hour before being forced outside with the promise of cupcakes.
I wasn’t told I’d have to make the cupcakes, but that’s where I am now.
It’s noontime, and Henry and Dad are in town. According to Mom, they’re getting chicken wings for lunch. She put Margot and I to work baking our own cupcakes. I’m fully aware that it’s her last attempt at getting us to talk before Henry and I leave to go back home, which happens to be tomorrow.
Just the thought of it makes my stomach pool with dread. I don’t want to be in a car with him. I don’t even want to look at him. Avoidance has been my solution all day, and it’s worked wonderfully so far.
Though I can’t truly push his words from yesterday out of my mind.
What happened to us, Ames?
He doesn’t get to pretend he isn’t at fault. I don’t care that we’re tangled up in this stupid partnership, that we’re required to spend time together. He doesn’t get to act like he did nothing to me.
But that can’t be my focus. Today, I’m worried about keeping the peace with Margot. Our birthday celebration has been nonexistent, save for Mom and Dad’s singing this morning, and honestly, I prefer it this way. It’s easier to act like this is just another day, because it is.
“I hope you’ve had a happy birthday, girls,” Mom says, scooping some batter into a cupcake paper. “I’m excited for you to open your gifts. I think you’ll love them.”
“I know we will,” I say, and she bumps her hip into mine. “How long have you had them?”
“A lady never tells her secrets,” she says, which I know means a very long time . Mom always has gifts long prior to the day, even for Christmas. “But I do want to know you girls’ secrets. Have you talked yet?”
Margot and I exchange a sideways glance, and Mom catches it immediately. She sighs but doesn’t say anything.
“I’ve tried,” I mutter.
Margot scoffs. “Okay. Try and make me sound like the bad guy.”
“I didn’t mean it that way.”
“We have talked,” she argues. “I’ve told you what I think.”
“That isn’t talking .”
“Well, that’s what I’m willing to say.”
“Girls,” Mom repeats gently. “Let’s not fight.”
I bite my tongue and slather some icing on a cupcake. “We aren’t fighting.”
“Aren’t we?” Margot sets the whisk in her hand aside. “Because I think we might need to.”
“I see no reason why. We’re allowed to disagree, Marg. It’s fine.”
She shakes her head. “But you wouldn’t stop for me.”
I finally look up at her. “ What are you talking about?”
“Stealing. If I asked you to stop, you wouldn’t. You’re set in your ways, and you won’t let anyone sway you.”
“You wouldn’t stop painting if I asked you,” I say, suddenly feeling very ready to fight. “How’s it any different? I’ve built something of it, just like you have with your art.”
“You built something of crime. Don’t act like you cured cancer.”
My lungs constrict. This—whether she knows it or not—is her playing on my insecurities. I can’t figure out if she’s doing it on purpose. “Don’t.”
She ignores me. “Would you ever stop?”
I exhale. “I don’t know, Margot.”
“What about for him?”
“For who?” I ask stupidly.
She looks me directly in the eyes and says, “Your boyfriend. Henry.”
I turn away and grab another cupcake. It’s not like I didn’t expect this question to some degree. I’ve waited and waited for Margot to make another jab at Henry and I, at his ‘choice’ to date me again. I’m only shocked that she waited until today to do it.
No, I want to scream at her. Nobody will cause me to change. Nobody will dictate what I do ever again, especially not you.
But I can’t force the words out. Whether because there’s some falsity to them, or because I know there’ll be a rebuttal, I don’t know.
Everything in my brain feels skewed right now. I can’t have a thought that feels solid—they all feel half true, half false. I meant what I said when I told Henry that being here is messing with me. My emotions have never felt muddier.
After our words yesterday, after the argument that started just before I cut it off, I thought about Henry and I. About how different we are now.
He and I are opposites at this point in our lives. He creates what I steal, what I take and sell off. And even though I vowed to never take something of his again, I don’t know if that really changes anything.
Because I am a problem in his way of life, no matter how you look at it. That’s just the way things are.
“No,” I say finally, not as confidently as I’d like. “He’d never ask me to.”
“He will,” Margot says, and I don’t like the way it makes my heart drop. “He’s going to ask. No one in their right mind would be okay with what you do.”
“Margot,” Mom scolds, her voice firmer than earlier. “Stop it. She cannot help that she has too much of me in her.”
I give my mom a small smile. She’s right, technically—she’s the one who dragged Dad headfirst into her mess, though I don’t think he put up too much of a fight. They were so in love, I’m not sure they would’ve cared if they got caught.
“I love Henry,” Mom says suddenly. “Always have. He’s such a sweetheart, and he’s obsessed with you, Ames.”
My mouth drops open a little. I try to control my expression, because logically, that shouldn’t surprise me. If we were really dating, I’d probably be aware of it. But I can’t stop myself from asking, “What makes you say that?”
She laughs. Laughs. “Honey, it’s obvious—even more than it was when you two were in high school. That boy looks at you like you’re art. He’s mesmerized by you.”
I swallow hard. Try to act normal. “Well, I guess that makes sense. I’m incredible.”
Mom grins like she knows something I don’t. With a sigh, she slides the last tray of cupcakes into the oven, then leans her back against the counter. She crosses her arms and studies Margot and I, eyes flicking back and forth between the two of us.
“Go get your gifts for each other,” she says. “Now.”
I do, obviously. I don’t care how annoyed I am with my sister; when Mom says to do something, I do it.
I go to my room and grab the present I’ve had tucked in my closet all weekend. Margot is already in the kitchen by the time I go back downstairs, awkwardly holding her gift bag. I take it and give her mine, and the two of us don’t say a word before opening them.
Hoards of tissue paper cover the actual gift. I set it all aside on the kitchen table as I dig to the bottom of the bag. There’s a cardboard box inside, and a faint clinking noise anytime I make a movement. I remove it from the bag and hold onto it until I can open it with a knife, then glance up at my sister.
Margot, to my complete and utter surprise, is gazing at the handbag with the softest expression I’ve ever seen her wear.
“It’s not much,” I mumble, because it’s the truth. It was the first thing I saw that I thought she might like.
“Thank you,” she says, meeting my eyes. For the first time in a very long time, neither of us scowl or look away. “I love it. Really. It matches most of my clothes.”
Most of her clothes are neutral, so I can see why this is the case.
I give her the faintest nod before grabbing a knife out of the block behind me and cutting the tape on my box. The clinking noise only gets louder as I rip the top, and my jaw drops open when I pull out the plastic carton inside.
Teacups.
Four teacups with saucers. They’re floral—pink—with gold detailing around the rim and base.
“I love them,” I say, my voice filled with more emotion than I’ve mustered all week. “They’re perfect, Margot. Thank you. And I also just broke one of my teacups, so this is perfect timing.”
She makes a noise that sounds like a laugh. “I figured.”
I don’t say anything after that, because this is the most civil we’ve been in ages. The silence isn’t prolonged, though, because moments later, Dad’s loud voice carries through the house.
“WE HAVE WINGS,” he shouts, holding up the large plastic bag.
“Cupcakes just went in.” Mom waves him over to the counter. “Bring ‘em on over.”
Normally I’d have my tongue hanging out of my mouth at the mention of chicken wings, but after what Mom said earlier, I can only look at Henry. At the way he’s already staring at me when I glance at him.
His face isn’t pleasant, though. He’s upset, or angry, or sad, or something . I can’t tell, but he isn’t happy.
“We were just talking about you, Henry,” Mom says, getting five plates out of the cabinet.
He chuckles, suddenly appearing behind me, and I don’t realize how close he is at first. But then he slides his arms around my waist, hands flat against my stomach, and pulls me back against his chest. I hold my breath when he rests his chin on the top of my head and says, “Badmouthing me, I assume?”
I swear on everything in this life, I’m about to die.
“Obviously,” I mutter, at the same time Mom says, “Nonsense!”
Dad laughs as he removes the to-go boxes from the bag. I should probably grab a box before he eats everything, but I don’t exactly feel capable of moving right now.
Henry kisses my cheek before walking to the counter. I know my face is burning red, but I try to regulate my expression before even daring to look away from the ground. He hasn’t so much as looked at me all day, and now this ? He’s playing at something. I’ve known it all along, and I let myself forget. I let my guard down.
Not anymore.
Once I’m confident in my legs’ ability to move again, I grab a plate and about twenty hot wings. There’s a chance I won’t eat them all, but I need to distract myself from Henry, who is currently being more of a distraction than usual.
Dad turns Happy Gilmore on TV. Marg and I sit at the bar. Mom stands by the oven—she thinks leaving its side is bad luck for the turnout of the food—and Henry talks with her. Probably wise. I can’t talk with a chicken wing shoved in my mouth anyways.
“So, you two are leaving in the morning?” Mom asks, removing her chicken off the bone with a fork. I’ve never understood this method. I may be somewhat dainty, but if you don’t finish the meal with sauce up your nose, you’re doing it wrong. “I can have Arnie scrape your windshield if you’ll give us a time.”
Henry shrugs and looks at me. I do indeed have sauce up my nose, and he looks amused at the sight. “When do you want to leave, Ames?”
“Don’t care,” I mumble, wiping my mouth with a napkin. “Whenever is fine, but Dad doesn’t need to go outside. It’s cold and his knees are bad.”
“That’s not nice,” he says from the living room.
Mom sighs. “Yes, but it is true, Arnie.”
He gives a little wave over the back of the couch, signaling for us to be quiet.
“I’d like these to hurry up!” Mom says, peeking into the oven. “They need to cool so we can ice them.”
“We have at least two dozen on the counter,” Margot tells her. “I think they’ll have time to cool before we run out.”
“Your dad will eat all the icing.”
“Heard that,” Dad says. “But that reminds me, Mel, we need to go to the car dealer this weekend. My vehicle is near shot. Might get a trade-in on the old thing.”
Mom starts arguing, probably about how his vehicle will get absolutely nothing for a trade-in, but my mind is only focused on one of his words.
Dealer.
I still haven’t told Meg about the card I saw on Nautical Abyss. It hasn’t crossed my mind all week.
This is why I don’t take breaks. I get used to doing nothing, and then something like this happens. I’ve been so focused on everything else, I forgot the one thing that might actually cause me trouble after this trip.
“Excuse me,” I say, wiping my nasty fingers on a paper towel. “Nobody eat my food. I’ll be right back.”
“You okay?” Henry asks as I go for the stairs.
It actually gives me a moment to pause. To think. I’m not okay, but I don’t say that. Instead, I remember that security photo of Jensen—his twin or whatever, you know—and that Henry hasn’t said a word about it in days.
“Follow me,” I tell him, going toward my room.
I don’t look over my shoulder to see if he is, but I hear his footsteps as I walk down the hall.