“I want to.”
And he wanted her to, simply because he liked the way her hands felt on his skin, how her form felt between his thighs, how her scent made him weak. But he wasn't Bailey, and Fern needed to remember that.
“It's going to be hard for you . . . not to try to take care of me,” Ambrose said gently. “That's what you do. You took care of Bailey.”
Fern stopped blotting and her hands fell to her sides.
“But I don't want you to take care of me, Fern. Okay? Caring about someone doesn't mean taking care of them. Do you understand?”
“Sometimes it does,” she whispered, protesting.
“Yeah. Sometimes it does. But not this time. Not with me.”
Fern looked lost and avoided his gaze as if she were being reprimanded. Ambrose tipped her chin toward him and leaned in, kissing her softly, reassuring her. Her hands crept back to his face and he forgot for a minute what he needed to say with her pink mouth moving against his. And he let the subject rest for the time being, knowing she needed time, knowing her pain was too sharp.
32: Wrestle
There was a hush in the church as Ambrose rose and walked to the pulpit. Fern couldn't breath. Ambrose hated being stared at, and here he was the center of attention. So many of the people sitting in the packed church were seeing him for the first time. Light filtered down through the stained glass windows and created patterns around the pulpit, making Ambrose look as if his appearance was marked by a special grace.
Ambrose looked out over the audience, and the silence was so deafening he must have questioned whether his hearing had left him in both ears. He was so handsome, Fern thought. And to her he was. Not in the traditional sense . . . not anymore, but because he stood straight, and his chin was held high. He looked fit and strong in his navy suit, his body a testament to his tenacity and the time he spent with Coach Sheen in the wrestling room. His gaze was steady and his voice was strong as he began to speak.
“When I was eleven years old, Bailey Sheen challenged me to a wrestle off.” Chuckles erupted around the room, but Ambrose didn't smile. “I knew Bailey because we went to school together, obviously, but Bailey was Coach Sheen's kid. The wrestling coach. The coach I hoped to impress. I'd been to every one of Coach Sheen's wrestling camps since I was seven years old. And so had Bailey. But Bailey never wrestled at the camps. He rolled around on the mats and was always in the thick of things, but he never wrestled. I just thought it was because he didn't want to or something. I had no idea he had a disease.
“So when Bailey challenged me to a match, I really didn't know what to think. I had noticed some things, though. I had noticed that he had started walking on his toes and his legs weren't straight and strong. He wobbled and his balance was way off. He would fall down randomly. I thought he was just a spaz.”
More chuckles, this time more tentative.
“Sometimes my friends and I would make jokes about Bailey. We didn't know.” Ambrose's voice was almost a whisper, and he stopped to compose himself.
“So here we were, Bailey Sheen and me. Bailey had cornered me at the end of camp one day and asked me if I'd wrestle him. I knew I could easily beat him. But I wondered if I should . . . maybe it would make Coach Sheen mad, and I was a lot bigger than Bailey. I was a lot bigger than all the kids.” Ambrose smiled a little at that, and the room relaxed with his self-deprecation. “I don't know why I agreed to it. Maybe it was the way he looked at me. He was so hopeful, and he kept glancing over to where his dad was standing, talking with some of the high school kids that were helping with the camp.
“I decided I would just kind of roll around with him, you know, let him shoot a few moves on me the way the biggest high school kids let me do with them. But before I knew it, Bailey had shot in on me, a very sweet single leg, and he attached himself to my leg. It caught me by surprise, but I knew what to do. I sprawled immediately, but he followed me down, spinning around behind me, just like you're supposed to do, riding me. If there had been a ref he would have scored a takedown–two points, Sheen. It embarrassed me a little, and I scrambled out, trying a little harder than I had before.
We were facing each other again, and I could tell from Bailey's face he was excited. He shot in again, but I was ready for him this time. I hit an inside trip and Bailey hit the mat hard. I followed him down and proceeded to try and pin him. He was squirming and bridging, and I was laughing because the kid was actually pretty damn good, and I remember thinking, right before his dad pulled me off him, ‘why doesn't Bailey wrestle?’” Ambrose swallowed and his eyes shot to the end of the bench where Mike Sheen sat with tears running down his face. Angie Sheen had her arm wrapped around his and her head was on his shoulder. She was crying too.
“I've never seen Coach Sheen look so pissed and afraid. Not before and not since. Coach started yelling at me, a high school kid pushed me, and I was scared to death. But Bailey was just sitting there on the mat breathing hard and smiling.” The audience burst into laughter then, and the tears that had started to flow ebbed with the much-needed humor.
“Coach Sheen picked Bailey up off the mat and was running his hands up and down Bailey's body, I guess making sure I hadn't done any damage. Bailey just ignored him and looked at me and said, 'Were you really trying, Ambrose? You didn't just let me get that takedown, did you?'“ More smiles, more laughter. But Ambrose seemed to be struggling with emotion, and the crowd quieted immediately.
“Bailey just wanted to wrestle. He wanted a chance to prove himself. And that day in the gym, when he took me down, was a big moment for him. Bailey loved wrestling. Bailey would have been an amazing wrestler if life had just handed him a different set of cards. But that's not the way it worked out. But Bailey wasn't bitter. And he wasn't mean. And he didn't feel sorry for himself.