Page 57 of Across Time

I sigh. I was about to insist I wasn’t going to read to Madame Perot again but I see Marie’s point. She can’t afford to piss people off, and I only have a few more weeks here, so I’m certainly not going to piss anyone off on their behalf. It’s not as if André actually did anything. He just acted like my opinion didn’t matter the first moment he had the option to ignore it. What is it Henri said? Don’t judge a man until you’ve seen him without an audience. I suppose now I understand what he meant.

“Where are we going, anyway?” I ask. “I need to get my crutches.”

“To the front,” she says, worrying her lip. “Henri has your crutches.”

“So he sent you after me like I was a child on the loose,” I reply. “I guess that gave him some extra time with Claudette.”

Her lips twitch. “Actually I was the one who demanded he wait, because I was worried he would wind up killing André if he went out there and saw the wrong thing.”

I groan. “Jesus, Marie! What did you think we were doing out there?”

She lifts a shoulder. “There’s only one reason to go on a balcony with a man alone.”

Henri is pacing in front like a caged tiger, and he rounds on me the second we emerge, “Had fun out there, did you?”

“Fuck you, Henri,” I hiss. “I didn’t even know we were going onto a balcony. He said he was worried about my cast and we were going somewhere with more room.”

His eyes remain narrowed. “Are women really so naïve in your time that you didn’t understand what that meant?”

I move toward the exit. “Maybe men in my time just aren’t so underhanded about their motives.”

His hand wraps around my bicep to stop me. “Did he try something?”

I glance at Marie, who’s looking extremely worried. Her eyes plead with me not to make things worse. “We danced for all of two seconds and he asked me why you don’t like him,” I snap. “Satisfied? You were so determined all night to make sure I didn’t have any fun, and rest assured, I didn’t.”

We don’t say another word to each other the entire way home. He drives, his jaw locked tight, while I sit beside him, my hands clenched in my lap. Only Marie-Therese speaks, chattering on in back about the band and the clothes and the drinks, as if it was the most spectacular night ever, when I know for a fact she didn’t enjoy it as much as she wants to pretend.

“And wasn’t Amelie lovely tonight, Henri?” she asks as we pull up to the house. “Not a man in the room could take his eyes off her.”

I wait. I wait for one kind word and I know he’s not going to give it to me.

“Perhaps if her dress was less bright,” he replies, “it wouldn’t have been an issue.”

It hurts. All I wanted from the night was for him to notice me. I’ve got no business wanting that, but I did want it, badly, and he never gave an inch. Instead, he acted like I was a burden, and it reminds me very much of my childhood. Of feeling desperate for a single word of approval or praise or love and only getting a list of what I’d done wrong instead.

Marie climbs from the car without waiting for him, calling him several choice words in French as she slams her door, and I try to follow, pushing my door open and climbing out less steadily.

“Just wait,” he grumbles, turning off the car.

I ignore him, hobbling slowly toward the house over uneven ground.

“Amelie,” he shouts, “just wait. You’re not supposed to be walking out here without your crutches, especially in the dark.”

I round on him. “Don’t worry. My dress is so bright and garish and attention-grabbing I’m sure it’ll provide sufficient light.”

He walks toward me, contrition replacing some of the anger that’s been on his face since we left the dance. “I’m sorry,” he says. “Your dress wasn’t too bright. I shouldn’t have said it.”

I begin to walk away again. “Come on,” he calls. “I said I was sorry. What’s the matter?”

I take a deep breath. I refuse to cry over this. I’ve suffered far worse and I don’t need his approval. I’m never even going to see him again in a few weeks anyway.

“When Marie asked you, not once but twice, if you thought I looked nice, all you had to say was yes,” I hiss. “Don’t worry. I’d never in a million years believe you meant it. But you couldn’t even do that much. And it wouldn’t hurt if you were an asshole to everyone, or maybe it wouldn’t hurt as much…but I saw you tonight and you’re not. You were only an asshole to me.”

He looks uncertain for the first time all night. “Of course you look nice,” he offers.

I slowly raise my eyes to his. Every hope I had for the evening is gone, and it leaves me feeling hollowed out inside, emptied. Even replying to him takes energy I no longer to seem to have. “It would already have been meaningless if you’d said it the first two times Marie asked. For you to say it now because you think I’m upset means even less. I don’t give a shit what you think anyway. It’s just time for me to go home.”

I take the crutches from him and walk inside the house, certain I’ll hear something about my unladylike mouth before I reach my door, but it doesn’t come. Instead he walks up behind me in the kitchen, where not a single light flickers, and places a hand on my shoulder.