“Why me, Bailey?” Ambrose shot back, his voice too loud for the sober setting.
“Why not you, Ambrose?” Bailey bit back immediately, making Ambrose start as if Bailey had convicted him of a crime. “Why me? Why am I in a flipping wheelchair?”
“And why Paulie and Grant? Why Jesse and Beans? Why do terrible things happen to such good people?” Ambrose asked.
“Because terrible things happen to everyone, Brosey. We're all just so caught up in our own crap that we don't see the shit everyone else is wading through.”
Ambrose had no answer for that and Bailey seemed content to let him wrangle with his thoughts for a time. But eventually, Bailey spoke again, unable to sit in silence for too long.
“You like Fern, don't you, Brosey?” Bailey's gaze was apprehensive, his voice grave.
“Yeah. I like Fern.” Ambrose nodded absently, his thoughts still on his friends.
“Why?” Bailey demanded immediately.
“Why what?” Ambrose was confused by Bailey's tone.
“Why do you like Fern?”
Ambrose sputtered a little, not sure what Bailey was getting at, and a little pissed that Bailey thought he was entitled to have it spelled out.
Bailey jumped in. “It's just that she isn't really the kind of girl you used to go for. She and I were talking the other day. She seems to think she's not good enough for you . . . that you are tolerating her because, in her words, 'she's thrown herself at you.' I can't quite imagine Fern throwing herself at anyone. She's always been pretty shy when it comes to guys.”
Ambrose thought of the night of the fireworks when she'd kissed his eyelids, his neck, his mouth and slid her hands beneath his shirt. She hadn't been shy then, but he thought he'd keep that to himself.
Bailey continued: “I think that's why Fern has always liked to read so much. Books allow you to be whoever you want to be, to escape yourself for a while. You know how Fern loves to read those romance novels?”
Ambrose nodded and smiled, remembering how embarrassed Fern had been when he’d read a passage from her book out loud. He wondered briefly if the romance novels were what made Fern so passionate and responsive. Just thinking about her made him long for her, and he tamped down the desire immediately.
“Do you know she writes them too?”
Ambrose jerked his head around to meet Bailey's smirk. “Really?”
“Yep. I think she must be on her sixth novel. She's been sending her books out to publishers since she was sixteen. So far, she hasn't gotten a deal, but she will eventually. They're actually pretty good. A little sappy and sweet for my taste, but that's Fern. She writes under a fake name. Her parents don't even know.”
“A fake name? What is it?”
“Nah. You'll have to get that info from her. She's going to kill me for telling you about the books.”
Ambrose nodded, his attention riveted on exactly how he was going to coax little Fern to tell him all her secrets. The desire for her rose again, and he almost groaned out loud.
“I've always liked to read. But I prefer a little different kind of book. Romance is just torture for me, you know?” Bailey added.
Ambrose nodded, his mind on the fireworks, the way it felt to lay next to Fern as light exploded above them, her sweetness, the smell of her skin and the soft sweep of her hair. He understood torture.
“So let's hear it, man. What's the deal? I can't kick your ass, but I will definitely know if you're lying to me. Is Fern right? Are you just taking what's available?”
“Hell, Bailey! You remind me of Beans–” Ambrose winced at the pain that lanced through him, like he'd pressed his fingers into a fresh wound, the sharp sting silencing him immediately. But his silence only fed Bailey's fears.
“If you are stringing my cousin along and you aren't head over heels in love with her, I will find a way to kick your ass!” Bailey was getting agitated and Ambrose laid a hand on his shoulder, soothing him.
“I do love Fern,” Ambrose admitted, his voice hushed, his gaze heavy with confession, and felt a frisson of shock at the truth. He did love her. “I think about her all the time. When I'm not with her I'm miserable . . . but when I'm with her I'm miserable too, because I know it's Fern that's settling. Look at me, Bailey! Fern could have anyone she wanted. Me? Not so much.”
Bailey laughed and groaned loudly. “Boo, freakin' hoo! Waaa! You big baby! Do you expect me to feel sorry for you, Ambrose? 'Cause I don't. It reminds me of a book I just read for this online English course I'm taking . This guy, Cyrano De Bergerac, was born with a big nose. Who the hell cares? So Cyrano never got with the girl he loved because he was ugly. That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard in my life! He let his big honker keep him away?”
“That Cyrano guy? Wasn't he the one that wrote love notes for the good looking guy? Didn't they make a movie out of that?”
“That's the one. Remind you of anyone? I seem to remember someone writing you love notes and signing them Rita. Just like Cyrano. Kind of ironic, isn't it? Fern didn't think she was good enough for you then, and you don't think you're good enough for her now. And both of you are wrong . . . and so stupid! Stuuupiiiid!” Bailey dragged the word out in disgust. “I'm ugly! I'm not worthy of love, waaa!” Bailey mimicked them in a whiny, high-pitched voice, and then he shook his head as if he was thoroughly disappointed. He paused a moment, gearing up for a new rant.
“Now you're telling me that you are afraid to love Fern because you don't look like a movie star anymore? Shoot, man! You still look like a movie star . . . just one that's been through a war zone is all. Chicks dig that! I keep thinking that maybe you and I could take a road trip and tell all the girls we meet along the way that we're both vets. You've got a messed up face and my war wounds have put me in this chair. You think they'd believe it? Maybe then I could get some action. Problem is, how am I going to get a handful of tit if I can't lift my arms?”