Anywhere With You (19 page)

Amelie

Timing is everything.

The email came in on a random Tuesday. To say that it came out of left field would be an understatement. I read it quickly and then read it again just to make sure I was seeing what my mind believed it had just read. Admittedly, at first it shocked me, and then it pissed me off. I typed Jack’s name into my email and let my fingers do the talking.

To: Jack Harrison

From: Amelie Rose

Subject: What in the hell…

Jack,

What in the hell…

Am I supposed to do with this?

Amelie

He responded right away.

To: Amelie Rose

From: Jack Harrison

Subject: What do you mean?

Dear Amelie,

What a surprise…hearing from you.

Also, I have no idea what you’re talking about?

Enlighten me.

Jack

I read over his email and flung myself backward in the chair in my living room. Seriously? That’s how he’s going to play this?

To: Jack Harrison

From: Amelie Rose

Subject: Your sense of timing.

Jack,

Seriously? You’re going to make me spell it out?

Well, all right then…

Why are you letting me in on your feelings now?

After all of this time?

I don’t understand.

Amelie

Jack didn’t write back for nine hours. I’d gone to bed, but sometime around three in the morning, I awoke, in full sweat. Once I’d gotten up, caught my breath, and recovered a little—I grabbed my phone and checked my email.

To: Amelie Rose

From: Jack Harrison

Subject: I don’t know what else to say…

Dear Amelie,

I don’t know what else to say…

Other than, I’m sorry.

I’m not sure where to start… but here it goes and at this point, anything other than honesty is a waste.

I wrote the email you received four months ago… and I’d never intended to send it. Only—I’m an idiot.

And true to form—I let Max play on my phone. As a token of his appreciation, Max somehow sent out everything that had been sitting in my draft folder. I guess one should have considered that entrusting a three-year-old with something important wouldn’t lead anywhere good.

And yet—here we are.

Basically, back when I wrote it, I just wanted you to know how I felt. Given your recent engagement (by the way, how many does this make now?) I understand that it couldn’t come at a worse time.

For that—I’m sorry. I also apologize for Max. For his chubby little fingers—for him sticking them where he shouldn’t. In some ways, though I think he’s smarter than his old man is. And that I won’t apologize for. I also won’t apologize for my feelings. They haven’t changed. Not in several decades—and certainly not in the last four months.

As for what you’re supposed to do with them… well, I’ll leave that up to you.

Love,

Jack

For three weeks, I walked around in a daze. Jack’s email had thrown me. Suddenly, I found myself quite unexpectedly questioning things that had happened years, even decades ago. Now, I was questioning everything about the current reality of my life.

To make matters worse, Oliver was shooting on location in the UK—which meant he wasn’t home to settle me as he so often did. After receiving Jack’s email, I called in sick and lay in bed for two days straight after Jack’s last email. I hadn’t responded to him, and to tell the truth, I wasn’t sure I planned to. What I also hadn’t planned to do was to get married. But Jack didn’t need to know this. Not now—and maybe not ever. The truth was Oliver and I never intended to actually get married. He simply liked the idea of calling me his fiancée versus his girlfriend. To him, it implied a greater commitment. To me—it didn’t matter one way or the other. I was happy with the way things were. Or so I thought.

Only without being able to discuss my newfound problem with the one person who would understand, I resorted to the only one who had known me longer.

“Mom?”

“Amelie?”

“Hey…” I sighed heavily.

“Is everything ok? It’s early there.”

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

I listened as she audibly exhaled.

And then her voice raised several octaves. “Oh, I’ve been meaning to ask you…did Oliver get the gardening books I sent?”

“Um, I think so—” I said. “Listen… Mom, I need to talk to you about something.”

I could practically see her there in her kitchen, which was where she always took her calls, as she braced herself. “Ok?”

I inhaled sharply. “Jack is in love with me.”

“Jack has always been in love with you, dear.”

“But this is different. I mean this time—he…” I tried to go on, but for the life of me couldn’t find the right words.

There was a long pause. “Amelie. I’m not sure I’m following… maybe you just need to get some sleep, sweetheart. You sound tired.”

“I’m not tired… well, I am tired—but that’s not the point. I just don’t know what to do.”

“What to do about what?”

I felt my cheeks grow hot. “Have you not been listening this entire time?” I screeched into the phone. “I’M TALKING ABOUT WHAT TO DO ABOUT JACK?’

Her voice remained calm. “But you just got engaged to Oliver, honey.”

I sighed again, exasperated. “That’s my point!”

“You do love him, don’t you?”

I pinched the bridge of my nose and squeezed my eyes shut. “Of course, I do. It’s just that—”

There was another long pause. And then my mother spoke softly, carefully, “Look, honey, I know that Oliver is away and you’re probably missing… him, but I really think you just need to get some sleep. Engagements can be tough. It’s a change. Change has always been a bit unsettling for you.”

“We’re not getting married, Mom.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean—that the two of us have no intention of ever tying the knot. Oliver knew that when he popped the question.”

“Oh,” she said, clearly taken aback. “Well, he obviously loves you.”

“Yes—” I answered my tone flat. “But he also seems to be well aware that I’m in love with someone else. I’m afraid that maybe he knows me better than I know myself…”

“What are you saying, Amelie?” Her voice had grown colder.

“I’m saying that I don’t think there’s anything that I’ve ever put my whole self into. Nothing. Not one thing—”

“That’s not true. What about your work?”

“Maybe,” I told her. “But lately, I’ve begun to wonder whether or not that’s enough.”

Three weeks later, I was sitting on a bench in the park. I’d just finished a shoot. It was a magazine shoot—and not the one I’d come to Australia for. Thanks to Jack’s freelance idea, I’d renegotiated my contract, which allowed for much more flexibility in jobs I was able to take on outside of the travel world. Initially, I enjoyed the freedom it provided. But lately, the gigs all seemed to be the same—just another up and coming twenty-something-year-old star who was to be featured in a major publication whose photos would be so retouched it mattered not whether my work was any good at all. I figured, in the end, neither the photos nor the subject ever resembled the original anyhow.

This is what I was contemplating when the little girl suddenly caught my eye. She was young—maybe four, or so, and as I watched her, I noticed her mother watching me. The little girl rounded the playground once more. She’d been running in circles, chasing after a little boy, her long blonde hair swaying behind her, struggling to keep up. On the third round, she stopped just shy of the bench and stared at me intently, her hands on her hips.

“What’s your name, lady?” she demanded, panting. Up close, I couldn’t help but think she looked at lot like me at that age.

I cocked my head to the side and cleared my throat. “I’m Amelie.”

She looked around, whipping her hair around her. “Where’s your kid?”

My hand flew to my throat, and suddenly, I felt her mother’s eyes on me. “Oh—I—I don’t have any kids?” I said, with a slight shake of my head.

She jutted one hip out and furrowed her brow. “Why not?” she asked with conviction, as though it were the most logical question in the world.

“Um…well, not everyone has kids.”

“But you’re old.”

I snorted. She’d caught me off guard. Then I laughed. “And you’re quite cute,” I told her.

“Evie,” her mother called after her rather sternly. I watched as she crossed the playground, reaching the bench in three short strides. She placed her hand on her daughter’s shoulder and didn’t meet my eye. Evie must look like her father, I considered as I studied the woman’s face. She crossed her arms, still looking down at the little girl. “What did I tell you about talking to strangers?”

Evie’s face fell. But she recovered quickly. “She’s Amelie. She’s not a stranger and she doesn’t have any kids…”

The woman didn’t say anything. She looked at me briefly before looking away as though she were searching for a way out.

“No, not yet I don’t,” I told the little girl with a smile. “But if I ever do. I hope she’s exactly like you.”

Her face lit up and it changed my life forever.