“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.