Making Faces (34 page)

Yes.

Can I see you?

Yes.
Where are you?

Outside.

Outside my house?

Yep. Are you freaked out? I've been told
I'm scary looking.
I even thought about climbing through
your window, but monsters supposedly live under the bed or in
closets.

Joking about his face was so much easier now.
Fern had made it easier. She didn't respond to his last text, but
her light suddenly went on. A couple of minutes passed and Ambrose
wondered if she was making herself presentable. Maybe she slept
with nothing on. Damn. He should have sneaked through the
window.

Seconds later, her head shot out the window
and she beckoned him to her, giggling as she held the blind out of
the way so he could climb through the narrow opening, standing to
the side as he found his feet and straightened, filling her room
with his shoulders and his height. The covers on her bed were flung
back and a dent in the outline of her head still flattened the
center of her pillow. Fern bounced on her toes like she was
overjoyed to see him and her hair bounced with her, crimson
corkscrews that fell down her back and around her shoulders,
dancing against the bright orange tank top she'd paired with boxer
shorts in mismatched colors that made her look like a carnival
clown in a state of undress.

Carnival clowns had never made him breathless
before, so why was he short on air, desperate to hold her? He
filled his lungs and extended his hand in greeting, looping his
fingers in hers and pulling her toward him.

“I always dreamed a hot guy would come
through my window,” Fern whispered theatrically, snuggling into his
side and wrapping her arms around his waist like she couldn't
believe he was real.

“Bailey told me,” Ambrose whispered back.

“What? That sneak! He broke the best friend's
code not to reveal secret fantasies! Now I'm embarrassed.” Fern
sighed gustily, not really sounding embarrassed at all.

“You could have used the front door,” Fern
murmured after a long silence. She stood on her tiptoes and kissed
his neck and then his chin, which was as far as she could
reach.

“I've been wanting to climb through your
window. I just never had a good enough reason. Plus, I thought it
was a little too late to knock on your door. And I wanted to see
you.”

“You already saw me today, at the lake. I
have a sunburn to show for it.”

“I wanted to see you again,” Ambrose
whispered. “I can't seem to stay away.”

Fern blushed, the pleasure of his words
washing over her like warm rain. She wanted to be with him every
minute, and to think he might feel the same was mind-blowing.

“You should be exhausted,” she said, always
the nurturer and she pulled him toward her bed and urged him to
sit.

“Working nights at the bakery makes it so I
can't sleep, even on my nights off,” Ambrose admitted. He didn’t
elucidate on the bad dreams that made it even harder. After a brief
silence he added, “Care to share any more fantasies while you've
got me here? Maybe tie me to your bed?”

Fern giggled, “Ambrose Young. In my bed. I
don't think my fantasies can top that.”

Ambrose's eyes were warm on her face as he
studied her in the shadows cast by her small bedside lamp. “Why do
you always say my full name? You always call me Ambrose Young.”

Fern thought for a moment, letting her eyes
drift closed as he drew circles on her back with gentle fingers.
“Because you were always Ambrose Young to me . . . not Ambrose, not
Brose, not Brosey. Ambrose Young. Super-star, stud-muffin. Like an
actor. I don't call Tom Cruise by his first name either. I call him
Tom Cruise. Will Smith, Bruce Willis. For me, you have always been
in that league.”

It was the Hercules thing again. Fern looked
at him like he could slay dragons and wrestle lions, and somehow,
even with his pride tattered and his old image torn down like the
toppled statues of Saddam Hussein, she hadn't changed her tune.

“Why did your parents name you Ambrose?” she
asked softly, lulled by his stroking fingers.

“Ambrose is the name of my biological father.
It was my mom's way of trying to make him acknowledge me.”

“The underwear model?” Fern asked
breathlessly.

Ambrose groaned. “I'm never going to live
that down. Yeah. He modeled. And my mother never got over him, even
though she had a man like Elliott who thought she walked on water
and would have done anything to make her happy, even marry her when
she was pregnant with me. Even let her name me after Underwear
Man.”

Fern giggled. “It doesn't seem to bother
you.”

“No. It doesn't. My mother gave me Elliott.
He's been the best father a kid could have.”

“Is that why you stayed when she left?”

“I love my mom, but she's lost. I didn't want
to be lost with her. People like Elliott aren't ever lost. Even
when the world tumbles around his ears he knows exactly who he is.
He's always made me feel safe.” Fern was like Elliott in that way,
Ambrose realized suddenly. She was grounded, solid, a refuge.

“I was named after the little girl in the
book
Charlotte's Web
,” Fern said. “You know the story,
right? The little girl, Fern, saves the little pig from being
killed because he's a runt. Bailey thought my parents should have
called me Wilbur because I was a bit of a runt myself. He even
called me Wilbur when he really wanted to bug me. I told my mom
they should have named me Charlotte after the spider. I thought
Charlotte was a beautiful name. And Charlotte was so wise and kind.
Plus, Charlotte was the name of a Southern Belle in one of my
all-time favorite romances.”

“Grant had a cow named Charlotte. I like the
name Fern.”

Fern smiled. “Bailey was named after George
Bailey, from
It's A Wonderful Life.
Angie loves that movie.
You should hear Bailey's Jimmy Stewart impression. It's
hilarious.”

“Speaking of names and all-time favorite
romances, Bailey told me you write under a pen name. I've been
really curious about that.”

Fern groaned loudly. She shook her fist
toward Bailey's house. “Curse your big mouth, Bailey Sheen.” She
looked at Ambrose with trepidation. “You are going to think I'm
some stalker chick. That I'm totally obsessed. But you have to
remember that I came up with this alter ego when I was sixteen and
I
was
a bit obsessed. Okay, I'm still a bit obsessed.”

“With what?” Ambrose was confused.

“With you,” Fern's response was muffled as
she buried her forehead in his chest, but Ambrose still heard her.
He laughed and forced her chin up so he could see her face. “I
still don't understand what that has to do with your pen name.”

Fern sighed. “It's Amber Rose.”

“Ambrose?”

“Amber Rose,” Fern corrected.

“Amber Rose?” Ambrose sputtered.

“Yes,” Fern said in a very, very small voice.
And Ambrose laughed for a very, very long time. And when his
laughter rumbled to a stop, he pressed Fern back against her
pillows and kissed her mouth gently, waiting for her to respond,
not wanting to take what she didn't want to give, not wanting to
move faster than she was ready. But Fern pressed back ardently,
opening her mouth to his, small hands sliding beneath his shirt to
trace the contours of his abdomen, making him groan and wish for a
bigger bed. His groan fired her own response, and she tugged his
shirt over his head without missing a beat, eager as she always was
to be as close to him as possible. Her ardor had Ambrose losing
himself in her scent, her soft lips and softer sighs, until he
smacked his head against her headboard, knocking a bit of sense
back into his love-drunk brain. He scrambled to his feet, grabbing
his shirt from the floor.

“I have to go, Fern. I don't want your dad to
catch me in his daughter's room, in his daughter's bed, with my
shirt on the floor. He will kill me. And your uncle and my former
coach would help him. I am still afraid of Coach Sheen, even though
I'm twice his size.”

Fern mewled in protest and reached for him,
snagging him by the belt loops to pull him back. He laughed and
stumbled, reaching out to steady himself on her bedroom wall, and
his hand brushed a thumbtack, the kind that has a peg, knocking it
loose. The pushpin fell somewhere behind Fern's bed and Ambrose
grabbed at the paper so it wouldn’t fall too. He glanced at the
sheet and his mind gobbled up the words before he had a chance to
wonder if it was something he shouldn't see.

If God makes all our faces, did he laugh
when he made me?

Does he make the legs that cannot walk and
eyes that cannot see?

Does he curl the hair upon my head 'til it
rebels in wild defiance?

Does he close the ears of the deaf man to
make him more reliant?

Is the way I look coincidence or just a
twist of fate?

If he made me this way, is it okay, to blame
him for the things I hate?

For the flaws that seem to worsen every time
I see a mirror,

For the ugliness I see in me, for the
loathing and the fear.

Does he sculpt us for his pleasure, for a
reason I can't see?

If God makes all our faces, did he laugh
when he made me?

Ambrose read the words again silently, and he
felt a wave rise in him. It was a wave of understanding and of
being understood. These words were his feelings. He’d never known
they were hers too. And his heart ached for her.

“Ambrose?”

“What is this, Fern?” he whispered, holding
the poem out to her.

She eyed it nervously, uncomfortably, her
expression troubled.

“I wrote it. A long time ago.”

“When?”

“After the Prom. Do you remember that night?
I was there with Bailey. He asked all of you to dance with me. One
of the more embarrassing moments of my life, but his heart was in
the right place.” A wan smile lifted the corners of Fern's
mouth.

Ambrose remembered. Fern had looked pretty–on
the verge of beautiful–and it had confused him. He hadn't asked her
to dance. He'd refused to ask her to dance. He’d even walked away
from Bailey when Bailey had made the request.

“I hurt you, didn't I Fern?”

Fern shrugged her slim shoulders and smiled,
but the smile was wobbly and her eyes had grown bright. Still,
after more than three years, it was easy to see the memory pained
her.

“I hurt you,” he repeated, remorse and
realization coloring his voice with regret.

Fern reached out and touched his scarred
cheek. “You just didn't see me, that's all,”

“I was so blind then.” He fingered a curl
that coiled against her brow.

“Actually . . . you're kind of blind now,”
Fern teased quietly, seeking to ease his guilt with jest. “Maybe
that's why you like me.”

She was right. He was partially blind, but in
spite of that, maybe because of that, he was seeing things more
clearly than he ever had before.

Iraq

“
Let me see your tat, Jess,” Beans
wheedled, looping his arm around his buddy's neck and squeezing a
little harder than could be deemed affectionate. Jesse had spent
some of his downtime that morning with a medic who dabbled in
tattoos, but he'd been quiet about the results and more morose than
usual.

“
Shut up, Beans. Why you gotta know every
damn thing? You're always in my business,” Jesse said, pushing at
his pesky friend who was intent on seeing what was inked on Jesse's
chest.

“
It's because I love you. That's why. I
just gotta make sure you didn't get something stupid that you'll
regret. Is it a unicorn? Or a butterfly? You didn't get Marley's
name wrapped around a rose, did you? She might not be interested
when you get home, man. She might be hanging on some other stud.
Better not put her name on your skin.”