Making Faces(67)

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.

“Actually . . . you're kind of blind now,” Fern teased quietly, seeking to ease his guilt with jest. “Maybe that's why you like me.”

She was right. He was partially blind, but in spite of that, maybe because of that, he was seeing things more clearly than he ever had before.





Iraq





“Let me see your tat, Jess,” Beans wheedled, looping his arm around his buddy's neck and squeezing a little harder than could be deemed affectionate. Jesse had spent some of his downtime that morning with a medic who dabbled in tattoos, but he'd been quiet about the results and more morose than usual.

“Shut up, Beans. Why you gotta know every damn thing? You're always in my business,” Jesse said, pushing at his pesky friend who was intent on seeing what was inked on Jesse's chest.

“It's because I love you. That's why. I just gotta make sure you didn't get something stupid that you'll regret. Is it a unicorn? Or a butterfly? You didn't get Marley's name wrapped around a rose, did you? She might not be interested when you get home, man. She might be hanging on some other stud. Better not put her name on your skin.”

Jesse swore and shoved Beans hard, knocking the smaller soldier to the ground. Beans was up in a flash, his temper hot, his string of obscenities hotter, and Grant, Ambrose and Paulie rushed to get between the two. The heat was making them all crazy. Add that to the tension that never eased, and it was amazing they hadn't turned on each other before.

“I have a kid! I have a little boy! A new baby boy, who I've never seen, and Marley is his mother! So don't you talk shit about my baby's mother, *, or I will beat the livin' hell outta you and spit on your sorry ass when I'm done.”

Beans immediately stopped trying to take a swipe at Jesse, and the anger drained from his face as quickly as it had come. Ambrose immediately let him go, recognizing the danger had passed.

“Jess, man. I'm sorry. I was just messin'.” Beans rested his locked hands on his head and turned away, cursing himself this time. He turned back, his expression heavy with remorse. “It sucks, man. Being here when you got that goin' on at home. I'm sorry. I just talk too damn much.”

Jesse shrugged, but his throat worked rapidly like he was trying to swallow an especially bitter pill, and if he hadn't been wearing eye protection, just like they all were, he might not have been able to hide the moisture in his eyes that threatened to spill out and make the situation even tougher for all of them. Without a word, he began removing his body armor, his fingers sure and swift. It was something they did several times a day, something they wore every time they left base, and it was as familiar to his fingers as tying his shoes.

He lifted his body armor from his chest and tossed it to the ground. Then he loosened the Velcro flap on his shirt and unzipped it, leaving it hanging open as he pulled his undershirt out of his waistband and pushed it up, exposing his chiseled, black, abdomen and well-developed chest. Jesse was every bit as beautiful as Ambrose, which he pointed out continually. There, on his left pec, written across his heart in careful black stencil, were the words:





My Son

Jesse Davis Jordan

May 8, 2003





He held his khaki undershirt bunched in his fist just below his chin for several seconds, letting his friends stare at the new tattoo he'd been reluctant to share. Then, without commenting, he pulled his undershirt down, closed his shirt, tucked it in, and pulled his body armor back on.