Page 102 of Rewriting the Story

“They correspond with your book covers.” She smiles. “I figured they could sit in your office.”

“That’s the perfect spot for them,” I reassure her before I press a kiss to her forehead. “Shall we?” I say as I open her door for her, Ames sliding into the seat. I have no idea where we’re headed, but the butterflies in my stomach make me feel like an idiot in love again.

“Ames,whycan’tyoujust tell me where we’re going?”

“Because that’s the thing about surprises, Henry.” She looks over at me while we’re at a stoplight. “You don't know what we’re doing until we get there.”

“Fine,” I concede. “You look beautiful, by the way.”

“You’ve said that already,” she reminds me, moving her free hand back and forth on her sweater dress.

“There is no limit on telling you how beautiful you are, Amelia.” I run my hand through my hair before I grab hers on her lap.

“You look amazing as well, Hen,” she says. “Especially since I only gave you fifteen minutes to get ready.”

“Thanks,” I say, shifting in my seat as Ames turns into a lot and parks.

By the time we get in, the surprise is over, but I’m very excited. I should have known this was some sort of art thing when she mentioned taking Hads if I couldn't go—it’s an immersive experience for Van Gogh. I’ve seen these on the internet sometimes, but I didn't know it was coming to Virginia any time soon.

We head into the exhibit, the first area with a bunch of smaller paintings and quote projections, Ames and I stopping to read each of them. Neither of us speaks, just enjoying one another's company.

It is a full immersive experience, and as I reach for her hand while she’s reading a quote, fully invested in what it says, she doesn't pull away. Her hand slides firmly into mine, and I see her lips turn up as it does. I can tell she’s trying not to make a big deal out of it.

Amelia isn't the biggest fan of physical touch, so her grabbing my hand feels like a decent step in the right direction.

I don’t try to guide her anywhere; instead, the two of us float through each room, as if we’re on the same path through this exhibit. We don’t need words. Just one look is all it takes for us to read what the other one is thinking.

When we get to the last room, it’s a large open space, a few people walking all around as the paintings move on the walls, the floor, the ceilings. His art iseverywhere, and as a creative myself, it’s easy for me to appreciate every single brush stroke, every color used, all of it.

Stunning doesn't even begin to describe the work he put out, and one day, I hope to inspire someone with my writing how I’m sure he’s inspired millions of artists. That’s the dream of most creatives, right? To inspire someone with the work they put out like other work has inspired us?

“Do you ever look at something and ask yourself if other people see it the same way you do?”

Her question throws me off as I lead her over to a small bench off to the side. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know,” she says as her gaze flows throughout the room. “I look at these pieces, and I’m filled with a longing I’ve never felt before. It almost feels like I can float through the room like the brush strokes do.”

“When I look around, all I feel is respect,” I tell her. “His work is so influential to have carried him throughout the ever-changing time periods. I guess I hope my work could have even just a fraction of that.”

“It will,” she says immediately. “I know I’m biased having read them so many times, but your books are special, Henry, and I’m excited to see what you’re going to tackle next.”

“Thank you,” I say as I press a kiss to our joined hands. “It means a lot knowing you’ve read them.”

“It was purely selfish,” she says. “I was lonely in England, and I saw them in a bookstore. I grabbed them because you were familiar to me. Even though I was terrible to you, I was selfish because I was clinging to any semblance of the past I could get.”

“That is a little selfish,” I joke with her, and she shoves me. “But it’s okay to be selfish sometimes when it’s not hurting anybody else.”

“Well…” She trails off, her head hanging low, before I grab her chin with my hand.

“We should make a rule,” I tell her as she stares into my eyes. “Let’s not talk about the past unless it’s about how we’re learning from our mistakes.”

She nods her head in my hand.

“I want to hear you say it, Amelia. I want to hear you say you’re not who you were before.”

“I’m not who I was before,” she whispers to me.

“Good,” I say as I release her face. “Because our story isn't over, Ames. Not on my watch.”

---