Coalescence ➳ H.S.

Twelve: Reunion

Bria's POV

I took a long, lazy drag of my cigarette, letting it swirl in my lungs and my throat before letting it escape into the air. I snapped my fingers and my guard of nearly three years, Henri Hergé, turned on the lights. I dropped the cigarette to the ground and crushed it with my foot, clad with a holographic heel.

I didn't believe Hergé when he told me that Harry was seen in the building—let alone that he was sitting in the second row with a female accomplice—but here he was, a little dazed, completely confused, and groaning on the ground, clutching his ribs from the impact of his fall.

"Aidez-le, Hergé," I instructed. Hergé bent down and extended his arm towards Harry, but he swatted his hand away. Hergé's hand, out of reflex, curled up into a fist, but before he could strike, I said, "Arrêtez."

"Mais Madame—"

"Hergé, fermez votre bouche," I snapped. He pursed his lips and silenced himself.

"What the fuck, Bria?" Harry growled, picking himself up and staggering to his feet. I crossed my arms and watched him—my old flame—as he scowled and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.

"That's not the hello I was expecting," I frowned.

"Neither was this," he spat. "Look, I don't want anything to do with you anymore."

"Is that why you broke out of jail?" I challenged with a thick tone of sarcasm. "Because you don't want anything to do with me?"

"I...well things have changed. Circumstances have changed and I'm not just going to sit around and watch you run away from me again."

I could hear the hurt in his voice. His eyebrows knit into a grimace, his eyes darting around to observe his surroundings before raining them on me. It came back to me in technicolour—the image of him and me, aged twenty-two and twenty-three, on the run again after a very successful con in Salem, when he got down on one knee, his hands slightly shaking, his lips parched and his vocal chords trembling, and pulled out a very impressive diamond ring and asked me what every girl wanted to hear.

Well, almost every girl.

There was no way I could stop and settle. This was who I was. I wasn't going to just give it up for Harry regardless of how much I cared about him. 

"I still love you, Harry. I've thought about you every single day since I left."

He kept quiet. I didn't feel angry as much as I felt jealous. We were the mightiest lovers, bearing a likeness to Antony and Cleopatra, Bonnie and Clyde, Rose and Jack—he was my Casanova—but now it seemed that the tables had turned, and I was no longer his Henriette. Harry's featured softened and gave me a bit of sympathy.

"I care about you," he replied, his head hanging slightly, "I really do. I've missed you a lot."

"But you don't...you only care?"

"Things have changed, Bria. You can't run away from someone after they propose to you, with no reason at all, and expect them to be the same person," he sighed and explained calmly. I always liked that about him; he was always so collected and rarely lost his temper. "I...I kept the ring. Didn't return it or sell it or anything. It's...well it's at the prison, but—"

"Would you propose to me again?" I asked.

He paused for a moment, deciding upon truth or honesty, then let out a feeble, "I don't know."

I felt my anger boil in my stomach. Harry could hold his composure; I could not.

"Cherchez-le," I demanded. Hergé pushed Harry into the door and felt around his body for a gun, a wire—anything that could be of use—until he retrieved his cellphone and wallet.