Chapter 12 The Door Between Us
The Door Between Us
— T ODAY —
“What the hell was all that about?” Barb asks, closing the door of our room behind her. Once she notices my crouched position and the tears on my face, she frowns. “Oh, Ames.”
She sits beside me, her hand rubbing up and down my arm. “I don’t understand. What happened between the two of you? I thought—”
“He hates me,” I whisper as his eyes, normally warm and loving, flash before me. Today, they were filled with enough poison to kill. “No, more than hates me—despises me. Is that more than hate?”
“I’m not sure.” Barb bites her lip—probably on account of the many questions she’s dying to ask. Lots of questions she asked before but I never truly answered. How could I, when I couldn’t even explain it myself?
“He’s a Roberts,” I say, facing the ceiling. At the very least, this bed is far more comfortable than my own ragged mattress. “How is he a Roberts?”
“I was going to ask you the same thing. Did you really not know?”
My temples throb with pain as I wrap my mind around the huge mess I’m in. “I knew William had a son. I never knew his name, though. I never cared about the Marguerite and Dad’s stupid feud, so I didn’t bother learning anything about them.”
She nods, knowing all of this as well as I do. “Yeah. I knew he had a son, too, but he’s not a chef, so…”
So we never truly gave him a second thought.
She presses a hand to her bump, and sighs. “What… what did he say?”
Thinking back to our conversation, I sit up, my gaze falling to the fluffy-red-carpeted floor. “That I’m arrogant. And a doormat. And unassertive, and a lot of other things. That I led him on.”
“Did you?”
I cup my cheek. “Not with my words. But maybe… maybe I did with my actions.”
“Okay, well, at least Ian’s here. That’s what you wanted. Maybe he isn’t as thrilled as you pictured him being, but you have a whole week. You’ll change his mind, right?”
But now I know he’s a Roberts. William Roberts’s son. And… well, this changes nothing about my feelings, but it complicates the situation considerably.
Barb must be clued in by my expression, because her shoulders shrink inward. “Oh, come on. I know your fathers have a whole Capulets-and-Montagues thing going on, but you always hated your dad’s war against the Marguerite.”
I did; she’s right. But Barb has been gone for most of this year. Between the honeymoon and the pregnancy and simply being a newlywed, she’s missed a lot. She doesn’t know anything of the shitstorm Ian’s dad threw my way.
I stand and enter the bathroom, then come out with my toothbrush in my hand. “Barb, things changed a lot in the past year. I didn’t care; you’re right. But I never told you that… well, William Roberts is responsible for a lot of what resulted in the article.”
“The article?”
When I nod, there’s a knock on the door. It’s him. It must be Ian. Who else would show up at our room this late at night?
With my heart beating its way out of my chest, I scurry to the bathroom and shut the door behind me, then cringe. I don’t want him to see me looking like this; he’ll know I cried. I wait for a few seconds, then flinch at the sound of the door opening.
“Hi,” Barb says.
It’s him. I can tell by her greeting—the same sad, hesitant “Hi” you’d say at a funeral.
“Hi, Barbara, right? Sorry to barge in at this hour. Is Amelie…”
God, his voice. It breaks my heart and glues the pieces back together with every word. I’ve been thinking about him every single day since the last time I saw him, but I’ve only just fully realized how much I’ve missed him.
“She’s—um…”
“Amelie? Can we talk?” I hear him call in a louder voice.
I stand by the door, silent. What can I say? Ian knows every nook and cranny of me; he actually knows me. If he thinks I’m all those horrible things, then how can I face him?
When there’s a knock on the bathroom door, I jump back.
“Hey,” he says from the other side. His tone is much gentler now, but I press my lips together and wait, as if he’ll hear it if I breathe, if I move. It’s not like he doesn’t know I’m in here. This makes no sense. “I’m here to apologize.”
The lump in my throat is as fiercely stuck as before.
“I shouldn’t have said those things. You’re not any of that… well, you’re not most of that.” His smile penetrates the door, and I can’t help a small one too. “And I’m sorry about—uh, the thing I said about… The ‘yes’ thing.”
Oh, thank God he’s not saying anything more in front of Barbara, because I wouldn’t be able to take the questions. Although it’s true that, technically, we’ve never shared so much as a kiss, I’m not ready to talk about that specific situation.
Leaning against the sink, I stare at the door.
“I was insensitive. You—what happened was my fault.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” I rush to say.
There’re a few beats of silence, then: “You know, you always answer when I think you won’t.”
I smile down at my shoes. “And you never give up when I think you might.”
The wood of the door creaks as he leans against it. “Well, I’ve been told I’m relentless.”
“That you are.” I approach the door, the tips of my fingers touching the glossy wood.
“How come we always end up talking without looking at each other’s face.”
A rush of memories surge through me, each one tugging at my heart, as I clasp my necklace. “At least it feels familiar, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah. Like old times.”
My smile weakens. Old times. As crazy as it sounds, I miss those times. Though my life was otherwise miserable, he was part of it. I’d kill for a version of our future in which we’re part of each other’s life again.
The yearning grips me so tight, it’s almost smothering as I say, “A little woebegone .”
“Woebegone, huh?” His chuckle is muffled, but sweet as honey to my ears. “I thought we’d banned that word.”
We did. All W-words.
Be assertive, Amelie. Take what you want, say what you think, express what you feel. Do it now, before the closed door between you won’t be as easy to open.
“Look, things are different now,” he says. “We can be friends.”
My stomach clenches. “Friends” is something we’ve always tried to be but never quite managed. “Friends?”
His voice reaches me again. “Yeah, friends. This time I’m not letting it turn into anything more.”