Making Faces(65)

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.”

“You already saw me today, at the lake. I have a sunburn to show for it.”

“I wanted to see you again,” Ambrose whispered. “I can't seem to stay away.”

Fern blushed, the pleasure of his words washing over her like warm rain. She wanted to be with him every minute, and to think he might feel the same was mind-blowing.

“You should be exhausted,” she said, always the nurturer and she pulled him toward her bed and urged him to sit.

“Working nights at the bakery makes it so I can't sleep, even on my nights off,” Ambrose admitted. He didn’t elucidate on the bad dreams that made it even harder. After a brief silence he added, “Care to share any more fantasies while you've got me here? Maybe tie me to your bed?”

Fern giggled, “Ambrose Young. In my bed. I don't think my fantasies can top that.”

Ambrose's eyes were warm on her face as he studied her in the shadows cast by her small bedside lamp. “Why do you always say my full name? You always call me Ambrose Young.”