Ambrose didn't know what to say. After a tense silence, Fern put the car into drive and eased it back onto the wet road.
Ambrose thought about what Bailey had said, how Fern had Ugly-Girl Syndrome. UGS. Maybe Fern was only hitting on him because he was ugly and she thought, because of her UGS, that he was the best she could do. Maybe he had developed Ugly Guy Syndrome and was willing to peck up any crumbs a pretty girl tossed his way. But Fern hadn't tossed him a crumb. She'd tossed him an entire cookie and was waiting for him to take a bite.
“Why?” he whispered, his eyes locked straight ahead.
“Why what?” her voice was light, but he sensed a little embarrassment. She obviously wasn't used to tossing cookies to men, ugly or otherwise.
“Why do you act like I'm the old Ambrose? You act like you want me to kiss you. Like nothing's changed since high school.”
“Some things haven't changed,” Fern said quietly.
“News flash, Fern Taylor!” Ambrose barked, slamming his hand against the dashboard, making Fern jump. “Everything has changed! You are beautiful, I am hideous, you don't need me anymore, but I sure as hell need you!”
“You act like beauty is the only thing that makes us worthy of love,” Fern snapped. “I didn't just l-love you because you were beautiful!” She'd said the L word, right out loud, though she'd tripped over it.
She swung the car in front of Ambrose’s house and slammed it into park before it had come to a complete stop, making the car jerk and sputter.
Ambrose shook his head like he didn't believe her. He searched for the door handle and Fern's temper broke, the rush of anger obviously giving her the courage to reveal the things she would otherwise never say. She grabbed Ambrose's arm and demanded that he meet her gaze.
“I've been in love with you since you helped me bury that spider in my garden, and you sang with me like we were singing “Amazing Grace” instead of “The Itsy, Bitsy Spider.” I've loved you since you quoted Hamlet like you understood him, since you said you loved ferris wheels more than roller coasters because life shouldn't be lived at full speed, but in anticipation and appreciation. I read and re-read your letters to Rita because I felt like you'd opened up a little window into your soul, and the light was pouring out with every word. They weren't even for me, but it didn't matter. I loved every word, every thought, and I loved you . . . so much.”
Ambrose had been holding his breath, and he released it in a hiss, his eyes locked on Fern's. She continued, her voice dropping to a whisper.
“When we heard the news . . . about the IED in Iraq . . . did you know they called my dad first? He went with the officers to inform the families.”
Ambrose shook his head. He hadn't known. He'd never let himself think about that day, the day the families had heard the news.
“All I could think about was you.” Fern was holding back tears and her sorrow made the grief well up inside his own chest. “I was heartbroken for the others . . . especially Paulie. But all I could think about was you. We didn't know immediately what had happened to you. I promised myself that if you came home I wouldn't be afraid to tell you how I felt. But I'm still afraid. Because I can't make you love me back.”
Ambrose reached for her then and pulled her into his arms. The embrace was awkward, the gear shift sticking up between them, but Fern laid her head on his shoulder and Ambrose smoothed her hair, amazed at how much better if felt to give comfort than receive it. He'd been on the receiving end of care and comfort from Elliott and his mother, as well as his hospital staff for many long months. But since the attack, he had never given comfort, never offered a shoulder to cry on, never burdened the weight of someone else's grief.
After a while, Fern pulled away, wiping her eyes. Ambrose hadn't spoken, hadn't revealed his own feelings or responded to her professions of love. He hoped she didn't expect it. He had no idea how he felt. Right now, he was tied up in a million knots, and he couldn't say things he didn't mean, just to make the moment easier. But he marveled at her courage to speak, and beneath his confusion and despair, he believed her. He believed she did love him. And that humbled him. Maybe someday, as the knots became unraveled, this moment would wrap around him, tying him to her. Or maybe her love would simply loosen the strings, freeing him to walk away.
Strangely, with Fern's confession, a new peace settled between them. Ambrose didn't constantly try to hide his face or cower in the kitchen. He smiled more. He laughed. And Fern found that he was a bit of a tease. There were even some nights, after the store closed, when he would seek her out. One night he found her still at her register, immersed in a love scene.
Fern had been reading romances since she was thirteen years old. She had fallen in love with Gilbert Blythe from Anne of Green Gables and was hungry to fall in love like that over and over again. And then she discovered Harlequin. Her mother would have croaked face first into her herbal mint tea if she’d known how many forbidden romances Fern consumed the summer before eighth grade, and Fern had had a million book boyfriends since then.
Ambrose grabbed Fern's book from her hands and immediately opened it to where Fern was reading. She grabbed at him, mortification flooding her, not wanting him to see what had so captured her attention. He just held the book up in front of his face and wrapped one arm around her, effectively pinning her as if she were five years old. He was like a big ox, immovable and brawny, and all Fern's squirming to free her arms and retrieve the book was entirely useless. Fern gave up and hung her head in dejection. The heat from her cheeks radiated out around her face and she held her breath, waiting for him to howl in laughter. Ambrose read in silence for several minutes