“Brose?” Bailey's voice cut through his reverie.
“Yeah?”
“I have to go to the bathroom,” Bailey informed him.
Ambrose froze, the implications clear.
“So you can either take me home pronto, or you can accompany me to yon forest.” Bailey nodded toward the trees surrounding Hannah Lake. “I hope you brought toilet paper. But either way, you're going to have to quit looking at Fern like you want to gobble her up, because it's making me hungry, and I can't be responsible for my behavior when I'm hungry and I need to use the can.”
And just like that the mood was broken.
26: Invent a Time Machine
November 22, 2003
Dear Marley,
I've never written you a love note, have I? Did you know Ambrose wrote love letters back and forth senior year with Rita Marsden only to find out Rita wasn't writing them? It was Fern Taylor, the little redhead who hangs out with Coach's son, Bailey. In the beginning, Paulie gave Ambrose the idea to use poetry, but I actually think Ambrose was really enjoying himself until Rita dumped him and told him it had been Fern all along. Ambrose doesn't show a lot of emotion, but he was pretty pissed. We teased him about Fern Taylor for the rest of the year. The thought of Ambrose with Fern is pretty funny. He didn't think so. He still gets real quiet if we even mention her name. It got me thinking that I've never been very good at communicating, and it reminded how far some people will go to get a message across.
We've been on a rotation guarding some prisoners before they are transferred out of Baghdad. Sometimes it takes a few weeks before we have a place to send them. It's amazing the lengths the Iraqi prisoners go to to communicate with each other. They make clay by mixing their chai (tea) with dirt and sand. Then they write little messages on pieces of napkin or cloth and put them inside the clay ball (we call them chai rocks) and let it dry out. Then they toss the chai rocks they’ve made into different cells when the guards aren't looking. I couldn't think of anything to write today, and that got me wondering if I only had a little slip of paper to tell you how I feel, what would I say? I love you seems kind of unoriginal. But I do. I love you, and I love little Jesse even though I haven't met him. I can't wait to come home and be a better man, because I think I can be, and I promise I'm gonna try. So here's your first official love note. Hope you like it. Grant made sure I used good grammar and spelled everything right. It pays to have smart friends.
Love,
Jesse
Ambrose stood outside Fern's house and wondered how he was going to get inside. He could throw rocks at her window–hers was the one on the ground floor on the back left side. He could serenade her and wake up the neighborhood . . . and her parents, which wouldn't help him get inside either. And he really wanted to get inside. It was one a.m., and unfortunately, his baker’s hours had screwed up his sleep schedule, making rest impossible on the nights he didn't work. He didn’t sleep well anyway – ever. Hadn’t since Iraq. His shrink told him bad dreams were normal. She told him he had Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. No shit, Sherlock.
But it was the need to see Fern that was messing with his ability to sleep tonight. It had been hours since she'd dropped him off and taken Bailey home. Only hours. But he missed her.
He pulled out his phone, a much more logical option than communicating by throwing rocks or playing musical Romeo.
Are you awake? he texted, hoping, praying her phone was by her bed.
He waited only twenty seconds before his phone vibrated in response.
Yes.
Can I see you?
Yes. Where are you?
Outside.
Outside my house?
Yep. Are you freaked out? I've been told I'm scary looking. I even thought about climbing through your window, but monsters supposedly live under the bed or in closets.
Joking about his face was so much easier now. Fern had made it easier. She didn't respond to his last text, but her light suddenly went on. A couple of minutes passed and Ambrose wondered if she was making herself presentable. Maybe she slept with nothing on. Damn. He should have sneaked through the window.
Seconds later, her head shot out the window and she beckoned him to her, giggling as she held the blind out of the way so he could climb through the narrow opening, standing to the side as he found his feet and straightened, filling her room with his shoulders and his height. The covers on her bed were flung back and a dent in the outline of her head still flattened the center of her pillow. Fern bounced on her toes like she was overjoyed to see him and her hair bounced with her, crimson corkscrews that fell down her back and around her shoulders, dancing against the bright orange tank top she'd paired with boxer shorts in mismatched colors that made her look like a carnival clown in a state of undress.
Carnival clowns had never made him breathless before, so why was he short on air, desperate to hold her? He filled his lungs and extended his hand in greeting, looping his fingers in hers and pulling her toward him.
“I always dreamed a hot guy would come through my window,” Fern whispered theatrically, snuggling into his side and wrapping her arms around his waist like she couldn't believe he was real.
“Bailey told me,” Ambrose whispered back.
“What? That sneak! He broke the best friend's code not to reveal secret fantasies! Now I'm embarrassed.” Fern sighed gustily, not really sounding embarrassed at all.
“You could have used the front door,” Fern murmured after a long silence. She stood on her tiptoes and kissed his neck and then his chin, which was as far as she could reach.
“I've been wanting to climb through your window. I just never had a good enough reason. Plus, I thought it was a little too late to knock on your door. And I wanted to see you.”