Chapter Text
Laurie knows he shouldn’t, and he does feel guilty, but he has been resisting for hours, and he can no longer, not when his smartphone has been vibrating with texts for the past 10 minutes begging him to check it.
His hand hovers over his suit pocket, ready to take out his phone, when a hand suddenly grabs his.
“Honey, look! The Bouvier’s, let’s go salute them; we haven’t seen them in months.”
All dreams of checking his phone -which vibrates for the umpteenth time against his chest as if to tease him- evaporates as he is pulled out of his chair and onto his feet by Maria.
“I heard Oriane has lost yet another baby.” She says with a grimace as they navigate their way between people and tables. “The poor thing can’t catch a break. Oh!” she exclaims, suddenly halting their steps a few meters away from the Bouvier’s.
“Do you think we should offer our condolences?” She whispers to him.
This is Laurie’s turn to grimace. She is trying to be subtle but the quick glances she steals at the couple are anything but, and he is pretty sure they have spotted them already.
“Better not, this is quite a delicate subject. We’ll tell them only if she brings it up.” He answers.
“Yeah you’re right, she may not want to talk about it.” Maria bites her lip before plastering a wide smile on her face to greet Oriane and Xavier Bouvier.
They are a French couple who are both in their thirties and are always present at every gala and charity there is in Paris. Unfortunately, rumors about Oriane miscarriages have been spreading for the past few years. Laurie is only aware of it because this is all everyone talks about at those kinds of events. Including Maria, no matter how insensitive he tells her it is to gossip about.
The conversation is pleasant enough that Laurie forgets about his irrepressible want to check his phone. He relaxes next to his girlfriend, intently listening to her speaking in perfect French, rolling her “R” and even adding unnecessary “euh” in between words. She once told him she took years to master the language by spending the summers of her childhood at her grandparents’ house in the French countryside. Unlike her, Laurie’s French isn’t good enough for him to hold an entire conversation, so he mainly remains silent and makes his presence known with a nod or a word here and there.
But annoyance starts to creep up soon after Maria initiates a discussion about politics, a topic that Xavier takes great pleasure in debating.
As if on cue, his phone vibrates after minutes of staying silent, and Laurie counts it to last 20 seconds before he can’t take it anymore and decides to slip away.
He brings his hand up to Maria’s back to get her attention, thus halting the conversation as she turns her face to look at him.
“I’m sorry to interrupt, but I have a phone call to make before the dinner starts.” The lie spills easily from his mouth, an innocent smile giving weight to his excuse.
“Honey, you never stops working!” Maria admonishes, but her tone suggests otherwise, if not for the proud smile enhancing her lips.
“N’est-ce pas là le rôle d’un homme ?” Xavier says, causing the laughter of the women and a tight smile from Laurie.
(Isn’t that a man’s role?)
“Oriane, Xavier se fut un plaisir de vous revoir. Passez une agréable soirée.”
(Oriane, Xavier, it was a pleasure to see you again. Have a wonderful evening.)
With a firm handshake to the couple and a kiss on the cheek to Maria, Laurie leaves the group and then the room to find himself into the quiet hallway. There, he lets out a heavy sigh and hastily takes out his phone.
On a Friday night, there are so many things he could be doing rather than attending a gala he doesn’t really care about. Like watching the soccer tournament with his friends, for example, especially when his favorite team is playing.
“5-2? I can’t believe I missed that!” He whines lowly, resting his back against a wall and scrolling down through his friends texts.
Unaware of the other presence in the hallway with him, Laurie listens to the audio messages sent by his friends, a mixture of frustration and bliss growing into his chest at hearing their cheers as they watched the game he couldn’t catch.
The hallway is quiet, and the stifled voices coming from the main room sound more like a background melody than an actual disturbance; therefore, Amy’s voice is the only thing he can hear when she appears next to him. Before even looking at her, he knows it’s her. Her silvery voice has always been one of his favorite features about her. The way she utters each of her words carefully, low, and steady.
“Hello stranger.” She greets him with a small smile.
The only word that Laurie can pronounce is Amy, as she stands before him after so many years.
The last time he saw her, she was standing on the porch at Orchard House, dressed in black and with tears streaming down her face.
“Amy.” He had said in a pained voice. He was holding back tears himself, his heart heavy with grief and resignation.
With glassy eyes, she looked at him, another tear making an escape down her cheek and joining the others on her chin.
“Laurie…” she started but quickly stopped because her voice came out hoarse. He waited patiently as she cleared her voice and dropped her eyes to the floor.
“Would you be my friend just for tonight?” Her shaky voice, her request... Laurie almost broke down right in front of her.
“Of course, Amy.” He quickly took a step towards her, opening his arms for her to fall into them.
“I miss her, so much.” Her sobs broke his heart.
“I know.”
They stood there for hours, Amy sobbing against his chest, and Laurie silencing his own tears to better comfort her.
The next day, she had already left for London when he got to Orchard House.
“She left early this morning with Fred Vaughn.” Jo had told him, shaking her head in disapproval of her sister’s poor decisions.
For months, he resented her. Not only did she leave with her ex-boyfriend for Europe, but she left him with this broken image of her. This distorted version of Amy, crying for her sister with red eyes and black clothes, was what he saw for months, whenever he would think of her. And he hated it. He hated her. Because she rejected him. Because she married Fred Vaughn. Because she was Amy. Because he loved her.
No. It took him years, but he finally admitted to himself he could never hate her. Precisely because she is Amy.
“Laurie?”
Her hand is on your arm; his brain alerts him; say something!
“Hi.”
“Hi.” She smiles brightly.
Her hand finds its way back along her body, but the feeling of her warm touch lingers on his arm.
Laurie still can’t believe she is standing right in front of him. He almost pinches his thigh.
She is everything Amy, from her shiny blonde hair up in an intricate bun to the blue dress she is wearing and the white heels dressing her feet. His mind goes back to that day in that park, when she jumped in his arms in a flash of blue and white, giggling, and happy to see him. He told her how beautiful he found her, so grown up he barely recognized her. He wishes he could flatter her the same way tonight, and wonders if she would blush and dismiss his compliment like she did that day. Maybe her response would change. Maybe she would thank him with a smile. Or maybe she would tell him how inappropriate it is because she is married.
Laurie’s eyes flick to her left hand, which is hidden between the creases of her dress.
Amy bites her lip, a nervous laugh falling from her mouth. “This is awkward.” She clears her throat. “Well, I guess what I should ask is: how are you?”
“Just tonight?”
“Oh, I would love to know more, Laurie.” She says earnestly while looking at him in the eyes. “But let’s not rush into things tonight.” She adds, the last word implies enough for Laurie to wonder if she did it on purpose.
Although there are obvious discussions to be had, Laurie decides to follow her request. He has never been good with confrontations, especially when the person in front of him is one of the March sisters. Therefore, even if it makes him look like a coward, he plays along, pretending not to feel the Sword of Damocles above their heads.
“Well, I’m good, tonight.” He insists with an exaggerated tilt of his head, earning a small laugh from Amy, and with that, the tension between them feels less heavy.
“What about you?”
“I’m okay.” She answers vaguely.
“I didn’t see you at all in the main room; how long have you been here?”
“Yeah, I’ve been hiding here for most of the night, enjoying the paintings and the silence.” She explains, gesturing to the walls of painting farther in the hallway.
Are you here with Fred? Laurie almost asks, but the question gets stuck in his throat.
“Let’s not rush into things tonight”
Ignoring his discomfort, Laurie walks to the paintings, hiding his sweaty hands into his pants pockets. She doesn’t follow him right away, but he can feel her staring at him from behind, so much that he has to rub an invisible itch on his neck when the thin skin starts to burn him. After a couple of minutes, her heels echo loudly in the silent room as she appears next to him in a swirl of vanilla perfume that he shamefully resists inhaling.
They stand quietly beside each other, with Laurie pretending to enjoy the paintings and Amy playing with the necklaces around her neck.
“Something that-” His voice breaks mid-sentence, and he clears his throat, embarrassed “-hasn’t changed, then.”
“What?”
“Your love for art.”
From the corner of his eye, he sees her biting her lip as she clearly hesitates on her answer: “It hasn’t changed, no. I still love it dearly.” She finally says, and Laurie can’t help his mouth from curving into a smile.
He turns his body towards her to better see her face, but she keeps her eyes on the wall, feigning indifference.
He hopes she knows how sincere he is as he speaks softly: “I’m glad, Amy. You’ve always been so talented.”
He would think she didn’t hear him at all if she wasn’t torturing that poor lip of hers, nervously biting on it despite it already being swollen and red from her attacks. It’s a good thing she doesn’t wear lipstick, Laurie notes.
“Laurie, I don’t paint anymore. I quit when I moved to London.” She confesses in a low voice, her head down like a little girl scared to be scolded.
“Why?” He tries to keep his voice neutral, but he can’t hide the shock he feels.
“It reminded me too much of my old life. It was too hard, and I didn’t take pleasure in it after what happened with Beth and-" Her mouth snaps shut.
And you.
“I’m sorry.” She murmurs, her eyes as wide as those of a deer caught in headlights.
He won’t scold her, it is not his role anymore. He lost that privilege the day he tried to dissuade her from dating Fred Vaughn, with that pathetic confession.
Don’t go out with him.
Why? You know why.
Laurie shakes his head. “Do not apologize, Amy. One of us had to slip-up at least once.”
“I know there are so many things we need to discuss. But tonight I-”
“Let’s not rush into things.” He interrupts her, using her words from earlier.
His words seem to calm her.
“I’m just glad I get to talk to you again.” She admits sincerely, brave enough to look at him in the eyes and take a step towards him.
He smiles softly, “Me too, Ames.” He purposefully uses her nickname and witnesses her face morphing into raw emotions.
Her eyes that were already brimming with tears, let some tears escape to trail down her cheeks.
“I’m sorry.” She chuckles in between sobs, trying and failing to wipe away her tears.
Laurie ticks. “I told you not to apologize.” He gently scolds her, bringing her against his chest.
Amy gladly accepts his embrace and buries her face against his shoulder.
It is funny how life is made. When Laurie would have rather stayed home tonight to watch the game, his girlfriend forced him out of bed and into a tailored suit without knowing that she was leading him to the girl he would most likely be married to had he not been an idiot five years ago.
He relishes the warmth and weight of her body against his after so long, rubbing her covered back in soothing motions. He stays good, though, and resists the urge to kiss the crown of her head or even touch any patch of skin uncovered by her dress. However, he fails at inhaling her perfume this time, and his eyes flutter close on their own accord when he smells the strawberry shampoo she has been using for years.
He discreetly pinches his arm.
“It’s a shame, though.” He says, after she has calmed herself enough that her body isn’t shaken by sobs.
She doesn’t move away from him.
“What is?” she asks, so close to him that her hot breath caresses his skin.
“That you quit painting. You still owe me that portrait.” He murmurs next to her ear, like a secret.