Making Faces

Fern covered her eyes, covering her anguish, and her shoulders shook as she cried, unable to muscle the emotion back anymore.

“Bailey needed that, Fern. And you gave him what he needed because you loved him. You think I need you. But you aren't convinced I love you. So you're trying to take care of me.”

“What do you want from me, Ambrose?” Fern cried from behind her hands. He pulled at her wrists, wanting to see her face as he laid it all on the line.

“I want your body. I want your mouth. I want your red hair in my hands. I want your laugh and your funny faces. I want your friendship and your inspirational thoughts. I want Shakespeare and Amber Rose novels and your memories of Bailey. And I want you to come with me when I go.”

Fern's hands had dropped from her face and though her cheeks were still wet with tears, she was smiling, her teeth sunk into her lower lip. The teary eyes and the smiling mouth were a particularly endearing combination, and Ambrose leaned forward and tugged her bottom lip free with his teeth, gently nipping, softly kissing. But then he pulled away again, intent on the subject at hand.

“But the last time I begged someone I loved to come with me when they really didn't want to go, I lost them.” Ambrose wrapped a strand of Fern's red hair around his finger, his brow furrowed, his mouth turned down in a wistful frown.

“You want me to come to school with you?” Fern asked.

“Kind of.”

“Kind of?”

“I love you Fern. And I want you to marry me.”

“You do?” Fern squealed.

“I do. It doesn't get better than Fern Taylor.”

“It doesn't?” Fern squeaked.

“It doesn't.” Ambrose couldn't help laughing at her incredulous little face. “And if you'll have me, I will spend the rest of my life trying to make you happy, and when you get tired of looking at me, I promise I'll sing.”

Fern laughed, a watery, hiccupping sound.

“Yes or no?” Ambrose said seriously, reaching for her hand, the ultimate either/or question hanging in the air between them.

“Yes.”





The stands were packed with blue and white and Fern felt a little lost without a wheelchair to make arrangements for and sit beside, but they had good seats. Ambrose had made sure of that. Her Uncle Mike was on her left, Elliott Young on her right, and beside him, Jamie Kimball, Paulie's mom. Jamie had worked the front counter at the bakery for years, and Elliott had finally gotten the nerve to ask her out. So far, so good. Another silver lining. They needed each other, but more importantly, they deserved each other.

It was the last duel of the season for the Penn State Nittany Lions and Fern was so nervous she had to sit on her hands so she wouldn't resume her bad habit of shredding her fingernails. She felt this way every time she watched Ambrose wrestle, even though he won a whole lot more than he lost. She wondered how Mike Sheen endured this torture year after year. If you loved your wrestler, and Fern did, then wrestling was absolutely agonizing to watch.

Ambrose hadn’t won every match. He’d had an impressive year, especially considering his long absence from the sport and the disadvantages that he started the season with. Fern had made Ambrose promise to enjoy himself and he had genuinely tried. No more trying to be Mr. Universe or Hercules or Iron Man or anything but Ambrose Young, son of Elliott Young, fiance of Fern Taylor. She took a deep breath and tried to take her own advice. She was the daughter of Joshua and Rachel, cousin of Bailey, lover of Ambrose. And she wouldn't trade places with anyone.

She hadn't gone with him when he left for school. They'd both known it wasn't possible right away. Fern had finally scored a three-book deal with a respected romance publisher and had deadlines to meet. Her first novel would be out in the spring. Ambrose had been convinced he had to slay his dragons on his own two feet–no metaphoric shield or minions to keep him company.

Ambrose had been afraid and admitted as much. The discomfort of curious gazes, the whispers behind hands, the explanations that people felt they were owed all grated on him. But it was okay too. He claimed the questions gave him an opportunity to get it all out in the open, and before long the guys on the wrestling team didn't really see the scars. The way Fern never saw Bailey's wheelchair. The way Ambrose finally looked beyond the face of a plain little eighteen-year-old and saw Fern for the first time.

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