40. Amelie
40
AMELIE
I told Henry that I’m not worrying about anything, and that was a lie.
It’s three in the morning, and I haven’t slept a wink. I haven’t felt this riled up since being here, and honestly, the adrenaline is nice. It’s familiar. I’d probably be grateful for it, if I wanted to be awake right now.
But I don’t. So I’m in the attic right now, digging through boxes to find Mom and Dad’s old journals just for something to do.
I don’t really know why it was my first idea. These notebooks have been stashed up here for ages—I’ve only dug through here once, and that was how I found out the truth about my parents’ past. Reading them now sounds like a small bit of comfort, so I’m hoping they’ll be easy to find.
However, it would be a lot easier if my parents weren’t hoarders.
There are boxes on boxes in this attic. Our house in the city doesn’t have as much space, so we just store everything here. It smells like cardboard and dust and pine, and the chances that I’ll sneeze are extremely high. I’m attempting to not do that, given that everyone else is asleep. Dad will come up here with a bat and I’ll have a bruise on my forehead tomorrow.
I tug a blanket off a pile of boxes and start rifling through them. I’m vaguely aware that I could get bitten by a spider or rat up here, but I don’t really care. My brain is wide awake, and I’ve already watched Pride and Prejudice twice tonight. There is literally nowhere else to go.
As I’m trying to move a shoe box full of ornaments, I manage to trip over a crate of Margot’s old paints and slam into the floor at full force. My knees sting as I get back into a sitting position, and I frantically check over the ornaments to make sure none are cracked. Only one is chipped, but I tuck that one to the bottom. To be fair, there should’ve been a lid on the box.
I stay on the ground as I claw through another pile of things. Most of our storage is taped-up shoeboxes, so I set them aside, not at all worried about getting them open. The sealed ones are likely photos or mementos—I can’t see my parents hiding their old journals.
I drag a normal shoebox into my lap and flip the lid off, and instantly, my throat tightens with an emotion I can’t quite identify.
I should’ve recognized it from the outside.
I shouldn’t have opened this.
Photos. All the photos I had of Henry and I. I could’ve sworn I burned these or something, but maybe I never made it that far. Maybe I set the box outside my door, and Mom brought them here so I wouldn’t have to see them again.
The picture on top is the very one that Henry and I were talking about yesterday. The one he based Lover of Mine on. It feels so much like a sick joke that I actually start to laugh.
Suddenly, I’m angrier at him than anyone else.
I don’t understand it. I don’t understand how he can act like he did nothing to me. Like it was my fault. Him having the gall to ask what happened is ridiculous enough on its own, but the fact that he sounded genuine is even worse.
I hate that I’m still thinking about it. That it’s all I’ve thought about for a good while.
“What are you doing?” I hear from the doorway, and I scramble to my feet at the sound.
Henry is standing near the doorframe, studying me with a frown and a wrinkle between his brows. I’m guessing that he heard me slam into the ground, but the snag on my pants is my very last priority right now.
“I fell,” I say flatly. “What do you want?”
“I just—I came to check on you.” His face is flushed, and I know it’s not the truth. I don’t think he’s even been asleep. He’s wearing pajamas—a gray shirt with plaid paints—but his face isn’t remotely clouded with sleep like one would expect. He looks almost as bothered as I feel. “Are you?—”
“Fine, yes. You can go now.” I turn back to the photo box on the ground and kick it aside, praying that he doesn’t see it. He looks a lot more concerned with my state than anything in this attic, and I need him to stay that way.
I don’t need him to know how angry I am. I’m tired of him affecting me.
“Amelie,” Henry says, voice rough, and I close my eyes. “I want to talk to you.”
“ No —”
“Yes.”
I clench my jaw and turn around to see that he’s already moved closer. He’s no further than a foot away now, and under the dim light of the flickering bulb, I can see how quickly his chest is rising and falling. “ Please , Amelie.”
I don’t know what possesses me to do so, but instead of responding, I reach down into Margot’s old box of paints. My hands are trembling as I grab a bottle of indigo blue, squeeze some into my palm, and smear it down the side of Henry’s neck.
He doesn’t exactly look thrilled.
“Why,” he asks, eyes closed.
I give the slightest shrug. “For fun.”
“Amelie, I’m serious?—”
“Me too.” I hand him the bottle and grab another for myself. Bright red, which I’m aware is going to stain, but I don’t have it in me to care. “Fight back.”
He looks down at the tube in his hand, then at me, then at the tube once more. Slowly, hesitantly, he flips the cap off. I hold my breath as he squeezes some onto his hand. “This is your most pointless idea yet.”
I ignore him. “You want to talk. We can talk.”
“I’d prefer a genuine conversation.”
“This is close enough.” I don’t know why I’m pushing this. I’m so intent on not getting into a full-blown argument with him tonight, which will probably happen if we try to talk through things, but this solution is hardly better. “Come on. It’s not that big of a deal. Just?—”
He smears paint down the side of my cheek, looking thoroughly annoyed at the situation.
Good . Me too.
“You like this shirt, don’t you?” He mumbles, dragging paint over my collarbone. The color runs right over the strap of my tank top, pushing the fabric off my shoulder.
“Yes,” I say hoarsely, fixing my shirt. “Yes, it’s my favorite.”
Satisfaction flashes across his face for a moment. He holds my gaze as he says, “I’ll buy you another. Now let’s talk.”
I scoff and drag paint over his nose. He exhales, and I feel his breath against my palm. “You don’t get to just decide when we talk, Henry. You don’t make that decision.” I go to trail paint over his jaw, but he grabs my wrist and holds it to my side. So I keep talking. “If I had it my way, this would’ve been dealt with years ago. I didn’t get to talk about it. I didn’t get to scream at you and tell you how I felt.”
“Scream at me, then.” His voice is slightly louder than normal. “Yell at me. Be as angry as you want, but do not ignore me. Don’t give me your silence. That’s never what I want from you. But this , Amelie—” He motions to his face, at the paint I’ve smeared over his skin. “—isn’t doing anything. Tell me what’s wrong.”
My lips part, and I feel my heart in my throat. “Okay.”
“Okay.” He nods. “Tell me why you’re so angry.”
“Tell you why ?” I bark a laugh, drop the tube of paint in my hand. “Is it really so much of a secret, Henry? You left me. The only person that I never thought I’d lose forgot about me, and he didn’t even seem sorry about it.”
“No,” he whispers. “ No, Amelie. I didn’t?—”
“And now you’re back.” I cut him off, because if I’m talking, I can ignore the stinging in my eyes. “You’re back, and you’re using me, and as soon as my help means nothing to you, you’ll leave again. And I’m tired, Henry. I’m so tired of you looking at me like I mean something to you. So stop it. Stop with the games and the lies. The second we’re home, the second I get your piece, this is over.”
“No.” His voice is firm again. “Listen to me, Amelie.”
I shake my head. “I said stop ?—”
“ Listen to me. ”
I snap my mouth shut, solely at the emotion that floods his voice.
“I didn’t leave you. I didn’t forget about you.”
“You ignored my calls.”
“ You ignored mine!”
My face turns hot. He’s lying. After all of this, after everything we’ve done, he lies to me.
“I called you,” he says again, and I squeeze my eyes shut. “And there wasn’t a time that you answered. I wrote you letters ?—”
“You what?”
“I wrote to you!” His face is red now, flushed with emotion. “You never wrote me back. You are the one who ended things, Amelie. You are the one who left me .”
“Stop,” I whisper.
“It’s the truth. You ended things. You ignored me.”
“You’re a liar.”
“ Why would I lie to you?” He isn’t yelling. His voice is filled with frustration, anger, but he still isn’t yelling. “I loved you, Amelie. Do you understand what it did to me, waiting every day for your response? Do you know how I felt when it never came?”
“Yes!” I’m shouting now, not at all worried about my family asleep downstairs. “Because I felt the same thing. You broke me. You hurt me then, and you’re hurting me now.”
Henry’s chest is heaving. He takes a few steps back and nearly falls into a cardboard box, just like I did. I turn away and press my fingers into my eyes, disgusted with the fact that I’m crying. I should’ve let my tears out alone. I shouldn’t have to relive this in front of him.
“Leave,” I say through a shuddering breath. “ Leave , Henry?—”
“My letters,” he whispers.
I laugh dryly. “Yeah, I know. You already tried?—”
“Amelie.” His voice is heady. Confusing. I open my eyes and turn back to him, only to find him knelt on the ground in front of the cardboard box.
He’s holding a stack of envelopes. All with the addresses marked out in black ink.
“What is that?” I whisper, my stomach turning. “Henry, what?—”
“These are my letters.”