41. Henry
41
HENRY
My letters.
The letters that I wrote to Amelie. The ones she’s claiming to have never seen. They’re sitting in her parent’s dusty attic, staring back and laughing in my face. “Amelie, these are my letters .”
“No,” she rasps. “I don’t believe you.”
Frustration washes over me, more at the situation than at Amelie’s disbelief. I don’t know what more I can do to convince her when the proof is right in front of us.
I know these envelopes. I know that I addressed each of these directly to her house and waited months for a reply. I know that it’s my handwriting covered by scribbled ink, blacked out in an attempt to…
To what ? Why would someone do this?
“Here.” I pick one up and hold it out to her. “Open it.”
She stares at it like it’s poisonous. “No.”
“Take it,” I urge, my voice rising the slightest bit. “Please.”
With a shuddered breath, Amelie takes it and rips open the top. Carefully, she removes the sheet of paper, holding it up so she can read it under the bulb. Her eyes trail quickly over the page, and the further down they go, the more she chews on her bottom lip. I watch the tears build against her lashes, watch her fingers tighten on the page until it wrinkles.
By the time she reaches the end, full tears are rolling down her face.
“I wrote these to you,” I whisper, motioning to the box in front of me. “All of them. And you—you accused me?—”
“I didn’t know about them,” she argues, rubbing her eyes. “I’ve never—Henry, I’ve never seen those before. But why did you stop calling if you sent these?”
I exhale. “I didn’t. I called you every day until I finally assumed you were trying to give me a hint. You never?—”
“Stop. Just—stop.” Amelie’s skin is fully flushed now. “You could’ve tried my family’s phones if you were so desperate. When I didn’t answer, they might’ve.”
I laugh dryly. “What good would that have done? For all I knew, my luck would’ve been worse with them.” I have the urge to point out that she didn’t try my family, either. Liz would have answered her in seconds, and she had to have known that.
“This…no.” Amelie starts pacing, gnawing on her thumbnail in the process. “This doesn’t explain anything. I’m not lying, and you claim to not be lying, so what’s the reason? Why did our calls just stop? Why —” She kneels down in front of the box and knocks into it with her elbow. “—didn’t I get these?”
I stare at the envelopes. “I don’t know about the calls, but I’m going to assume that someone in your family didn’t want you to receive these.”
She closes her eyes as the words leave my mouth, and guilt washes over me. It’s an accusation that I can’t take back, but what other explanation is there? Why else would they be hidden with both our names blacked out? It’s not as though this was accidental, or even meant to be a temporary thing. Each one is sealed. Each one is defaced.
Amelie exhales a shaky breath, and I watch another tear skate down her cheek. It rolls down her neck and soaks into the paint-covered strap of her shirt. She doesn’t seem to care that she’s crying, but I do. The sight of her in tears over something that should never have even happened is enough to gut me.
Despite myself, I lift my hand and brush my fingers under her eyes, trying to dry her tears. She doesn’t allow me to, though; she moves her head away from me, ridding her skin from my touch, and it makes my throat tighten. I drop my arm and turn away from her, and when she covers her face with her hands, I can finally identify the feeling in my chest.
Anger.
I’ve never felt such a clear, sharp sense of indignation before.
Someone ruined Amelie and I. Purposefully tore us apart. Every day of these past four years, I’ve wondered what I did wrong. I’ve wondered what I could’ve done differently. I’ve blamed myself, regardless of how much I tried to blame Amelie.
But it wasn’t us. None of it was our fault.
I lift another envelope out of the box, but before I can even tear the edge, Amelie takes it from me. Within a second, she’s got the letter in her lap, chest heaving as she skims its contents. I don’t even remember what these letters hold, and if I’m honest, I don’t care to know. Part of me is tempted to tell her to stop reading them, to ignore anything I said, but I can’t. It’s her right to see what’s inside.
“I should’ve tried harder.” I close my eyes, hardly shocked by the throbbing behind my temples. “I should’ve found you when I came back, or?—”
“You still wanted me?”
I open my eyes. Confusion washes over me as I realize that she’s truly asking. She’s lived these past years thinking that I didn’t want her. Thinking that I forgot her and took the first chance I had to leave.
“Yes,” I breathe. “I’m sorry that was ever in question.”
Amelie takes a deep breath and pushes her hair behind her ears. Her eyes are red and swollen, lips bloody from how much she’s torn at the skin. She gets to her feet and tosses the envelope back into the box before leaving the attic, not sparing me another glance as she does.