Ambrose felt sick. Fern gasped beside him, and her eyes shot to his, the darkness and the dancing flames making them look black in her pale face.
“Time to go home, Fern.” Ambrose stood and pulled Fern up beside him. “We're out. See you losers in six months. Don't miss me too much.” Ambrose turned, clasping Fern's hand in his, pulling her along behind him. Without turning his head, he raised his left hand, hanging a big, ugly bird at his friend. He could hear laughter behind him. Beans was going down. Ambrose didn't know when, he didn't know how, but he was going down.
When the trees closed around them, hiding them from view of the beach, Fern yanked her hand out of his and ran ahead.
“Fern! Wait.”
She kept on running toward the parked cars, and Ambrose wondered why she wouldn't slow, just for a minute. He ran to catch up, reaching her as she clasped the handle on the door of the Sheen's blue van.
“Fern!” He grabbed her arm and she fought free. He grabbed both of her arms and pulled her against him angrily, wanting her to look at him. Her shoulders were shaking, and he realized she was crying. She'd been rushing to get away so he wouldn't see her cry.
“Fern,” he breathed, helpless.
“Just let me go! I can't believe you told them. I feel so stupid.”
“I told Beans that night, the night he saw us talking in the hallway. I shouldn't have. I'm the stupid one.”
“It doesn't matter. High school's over. You're leaving. Beans is leaving. I don't care if I ever see either of you again.” Fern wiped at the tears streaming down her face. Ambrose took a step back, shocked by the vehemence in her voice, at the finality in her eyes. And it scared him.
So he kissed her.
It was rough, and it definitely wasn't consensual. He gripped Fern's face between his hands and pressed her back against the door of the old, blue van that she drove to shuttle Bailey around. She was the kind of girl who didn't care about pulling up to a party in a mini-van rigged for a wheelchair. The kind of girl who had been giddy to just be asked to play a stupid game. The kind of girl who had come back to say goodbye to him, a boy who had treated her like dirt. And he wished, more desperately than he had ever wished for anything before, that he could change it.
He tried to soften his mouth against hers, tried to tell her he was sorry, but she stayed frozen in his arms, as if she couldn't believe, after everything that had happened, that he thought he could break her heart and take a kiss too.
“I'm so sorry, Fern,” Ambrose whispered against her mouth. “I'm so sorry.”
Somehow, those words melted the ice that his kiss could not, and Ambrose felt her surrendering sigh against his lips. Fern's hands crept up to his biceps, holding him as he held her, and she opened her mouth beneath his, allowing him in. Gently, afraid he would crush the fragile second chance she'd extended, he moved his lips against hers, touching his tongue to hers softly, letting her seek him. He had never tread so carefully or tried so hard to do it right. And when she pulled away, he let her go. Her eyes were closed, but there were tear-stains on her cheeks and her lips looked bruised where he'd initially pressed too hard, desperate to erase his shame.
Then she opened her eyes. Hurt and confusion flitted across her face for just an instant as she stared him down. Then her jaw tightened and she turned her back on him. Without a word, she climbed into the van and drove away.
The doorbell chimed its song-song tune at eight Saturday morning, and the sound meshed so perfectly with Fern's dream that she smiled in her sleep, lifting her face to the handsome man in uniform who had just said, “I do.” He lifted her veil and pressed his lips to hers.
“I'm so sorry, Fern,” he whispered, just like he had at the lake. “I'm so sorry,” he said again.
Fern kissed him frantically, not wanting apologies. She wanted kisses. Lots of them, and hugs too, and somewhere in her subconscious she knew it was all a dream and she would be waking up momentarily, and all opportunities for kissing would melt away into Never-Never-Gonna-Happen Land.
“I'm so sorry, Fern!”
Fern sighed, impatience blurring the fact that it wasn't Ambrose’s voice anymore.
“I'm so sorry to wake you up, Fern, but I need to show you something. Are you awake?”
Fern opened her eyes blearily, mournfully accepting the fact that she was not in a church, that no wedding bells had chimed, and Ambrose was hundreds of miles away at Fort Sill.
“Fern?” Rita was standing about a foot from her bed, and without warning she unzipped her pants and wiggled them around her hips, then she lifted her shirt and tucked it in the elastic of her bra so her mid-section was exposed. Rita stood akimbo and cried, “See?”