Epilogue
EPILOGUE
AMELIE (SIX MONTHS LATER)
The alarms stop blaring as soon as I pry the canvas’s edge off the wall.
A strange turn of events, really. From the few times I’ve tripped an alarm, I know that they don’t just go off. Though it isn’t usually my fault. Jensen would deny that, but it’s the truth.
The piece I’m working with is hideous. Art is subjective, yes, but this one truly has no appeal. It’s got every color of the rainbow, and they’re all mixed in a contrasting manner. Splotches of red, green, and purple pool on one end; blue, yellow, and brown take up the other. It’s disgusting. Tearing it off the wall is going to be so therapeutic.
After everything happened with Roman and Margot, I gained a newfound appreciation for the rush I get when working. A sense of revenge, though it isn’t heavy. This is still what I love, and it’s still for me , but it doesn’t hurt to have an extra layer of respect for the job.
Even though it’s been months, I still haven’t spoken with Margot. Neither of us have broken our no-contact streak, and my parents no longer push us to talk. I didn’t tell them what happened, so I guess she did. Quite frankly, I don’t want to imagine how the conversation went.
So I simply don’t.
With a sigh, I slip the file back under the canvas. Doing this by myself is much more annoying than I’d expected. I’ve done it alone before, but it’s been a while. I didn’t realize how much I actually relied on Jensen and his annoying man strength.
He and Meg left me to my own devices. They disappeared last night, basically out of nowhere, by leaving a note on the counter that read GONE FISHING. I haven’t heard from them since. I presume they’re having an impromptu Vegas wedding. They’re probably at the altar right now, wearing denim outfits and cowboy boots. An Elvis impersonator will officiate. The ring bearer will wear a phantom mask. It’s so perfect, I’m tearing up just thinking about it.
No, wait. I’ve got drywall in my eye.
“Why are you crying?” Henry asks, appearing behind me. He sounds rather amused for the question he’s asking. “Is this piece too ugly for you to lay eyes on?”
“Yes,” I say, rubbing my eye with embarrassing vigor. “It’s horrible.”
He laughs quietly and takes the file out of my hand, prying the last bit off the wall that I couldn’t get. Carefully, he lowers the canvas to the ground, and when he’s done, he stands in front of me.
“This is strange for me, as you can imagine,” he says, passing me the file. He’s wearing a faint look of enjoyment, one he’s trying to hide, but it doesn’t fool me. Nothing fools me with him anymore.
“I think you’re having fun,” I say. “Just a little.”
He crosses his arms, and I swear on everything I possess, I will never get tired of that sight. “Even if I were, I’d never admit it.”
He totally wouldn’t, but I know him well enough to know that he is , in fact, enjoying himself. It might be because we’re at The Gallery, taking a piece that’s labeled with an anonymous artist tag. According to Henry, these unlabeled pieces are ones that Roman made himself as fillers for the empty spaces.
Which explains why it’s so ugly.
I really don’t understand who’s buying these.
All in all, though, this whole thing isn’t so out of sorts. I didn’t force Henry into this, or even ask for his help.
He volunteered.
Apparently, I’ve been complaining about my inbox being too full for too long. I told him that I can’t work without Meg and Jensen, but he told me to take up a job for The Gallery. So I did.
I broke in the south window, and Henry took care of the ‘security’ side of things.
It’s a story for the books, in my humble opinion.
Things are going great for him—Henry, I mean. He pulled his pieces from The Gallery just weeks after the auction, and he got an offer for another museum in no time. Now, he’s their main attraction, and he isn’t always on the verge of running out of pieces. He works at his own pace and creates whatever he wants.
Which is likely why most of his works are centered around me .
I can’t say that I don’t love it.
“We should go,” I say suddenly, pushing myself off the wall. “The alarms being off really kills the suspense, you know?”
“You don’t need the added anxiety,” Henry says, leaning over to pick up the canvas. I took a job for a smaller piece tonight, mainly because we don’t have the van. That’s probably what Meg and Jensen took to Vegas.
Neither of us speak as we walk toward the window I shattered. I follow behind Henry, unabashedly staring at the way his arms look while he’s carrying the painting. It’s allowed. Expected, even.
“I can feel you staring at me,” he says knowingly.
I step in front of him and climb out the window before he does, then watch to make sure he doesn’t cut himself on the glass. The break isn’t clean, though I tried my hardest. “I don’t know why you always act shocked.”
“I’m not,” he says, walking to the car. I start to follow, then gasp and bolt right back to the window. How on earth could I forget ?
Holding my breath, I crouch down beside the pane and dig the cassette tape out of my pocket. With shaking hands, I balance it against the windowsill, hoping it’ll stay there until morning.
The label on the front reads ‘ The Dealer’ , and I hope that he’s the one to find it.
It’s not a calling card. I’m not stupid enough to leave one of those. It’s just…a reminder. To let Roman know that I still have the upper hand.
Henry starts the car engine, so I sprint down the alley and hop in the front seat without hesitation. He’s already got the canvas loaded, propped against our seats, covered with a blanket. Before Henry even reaches for the gearshift, he stares at me with a heavily concentrated expression.
I blink in confusion. “What?”
He lifts his hand and brushes it through my hair, frowning at whatever he sees. “You’ve got drywall in your hair.”
I laugh as I grab his face and kiss his jaw, leaving a perfect, red lipstick stain on his skin. He catches sight of it in the rearview and grins. “Every single time.”
“You’d hate if I stopped.”
“I know.” He puts the car in drive. “Don’t.”
I grab his hand, tangle his fingers with mine. “I never plan to.”
He’s the only promise I’ve ever been sure that I’ll keep.