But Ambrose never asked her to dance. He never asked anyone. He stood head and shoulders above most of the crowd, his hair pulled back tightly in a sleek tail at his nape, accentuating the plains and valleys of his handsome face, the wide set of his dark eyes, the straight brows and the strong jaw. The one time he caught Fern looking at him he frowned and looked away and Fern wondered what she'd done.
On the way home, Bailey was unusually quiet. He claimed fatigue, but Fern knew better.
“You okay, B?
Bailey sighed and Fern met his gaze in the rearview mirror. Bailey would never be able to drive, and he never sat in the front seat. Whenever he and Fern cruised around town, Fern would borrow the Sheen's van because it was rigged for wheelchair use. The middle seat of the van was pulled out so Bailey could drive his wheelchair up a ramp and into the body of the vehicle. Then his wheels were locked and he was strapped in with belts that were anchored to the floor so he wouldn't tip over in his chair. Dragging Main Street wasn't much fun with Bailey in the backseat, but Fern and Bailey were used to it, and sometimes Rita would come along so that Fern didn't feel like a chauffeur.
“Nah. Tonight's one of those nights, Fernie.”
“Too much reality?”
“Way too much reality.”
“Me too,” Fern said softly, and felt her throat close against the emotion that rose in her chest. Sometimes life seemed particularly unfair, unduly harsh, and beyond bearing.
“You looked like you were having a good time. Bunch of the guys asked you to dance, right?”
“Did you ask them to dance with me, Bailey?” The realization slammed into her.
“Yeah . . . I did. Is that okay?” Bailey looked stricken and Fern sighed and forgave him instantly.
“Sure. It was fun.”
“Ambrose didn't ask though, did he?”
“Nope.”
“I'm sorry, Fern.” Bailey was well-aware of Fern's feelings for Ambrose Young and her despair after the debacle with the love letters.
“Do you think there's any way someone like Ambrose could fall in love with someone like me?” Fern caught Bailey's gaze in the mirror again, knowing he would understand.
“Only if he's lucky.”
“Oh, Bailey.” Fern shook her head, but loved him for saying it . . . and even more for meaning it. She and Bailey had agreed they weren't ready to go home, so they cruised up and down the dark Main Street, the darkened windows of the businesses reflecting the bright headlights of the old blue van and the dim prospects of the lonely pair inside. After a while, Fern turned off the main drag and headed for home, suddenly tired and ready for the uncomplicated comfort of her own bed.
“It's hard to come to terms with sometimes,” Bailey said abruptly.
Fern waited for him to continue.
“It's hard to come to terms with the fact that you aren't ever going to be loved the way you want to be loved.”
For a moment, Fern thought he was talking about her and Ambrose. But then she realized he wasn't talking about unrequited love . . . not really. He was talking about his illness. He was talking about Rita. He was talking about the things he could never give her and the things she would never want from him. Because he was sick. And he wouldn't be getting better.
“There are times when I think I just can't take it anymore.” Bailey's voice cracked, and he stopped talking as suddenly as he had begun.
Fern's eyes filled with sympathetic tears, and she wiped at them as she pulled the van into the Sheen's dark garage, the automatic light flickering on in sleepy welcome overhead. She slid the car into park, unlatched her seat belt, and turned in her seat, looking at her cousin. Bailey's face looked haggard in the shadows, and Fern felt a flash of fear, reminded that he wouldn't be beside her forever–he wouldn't even be beside her for long. She reached out and grabbed his hand.
“There are times like that, Bailey. Times you don't think you can take it anymore. But then you discover that you can. You always do. You're tough. You'll take a deep breath, swallow just a little bit more, endure just a little longer, and eventually you'll get your second wind,” Fern said, her smile wobbly and her teary eyes contradicting her encouraging words.
Bailey nodded, agreeing with her, but there were tears in his eyes too. “But there are times when you just need to acknowledge the shit, Fern, you know?”
Fern nodded, squeezing his hand a little tighter. “Yep. And that's okay, too.”
“You just need to acknowledge it. Face the shit.” Bailey's voice grew stronger, strident even. “Accept the truth in it. Own it, wallow in it, become one with the shit.” Bailey sighed, the heavy mood lifting with his insistence on profanity. Swearing could be very therapeutic.
Fern smiled wanly. “Become one with the shit?”
“Yes! If that's what it takes.”
“I've got Rocky Road ice cream. It looks a little like poop. Can we become one with the Rocky Road instead?”
“It does look a little like shit. Nuts and everything. Count me in.”
“Sick, Bailey!”
Bailey cackled as Fern climbed in the back, unhooked the belts that secured his chair and shoved the sliding door open.
“Bailey?”
“Yeah?”
“I love you.”
“I love you too, Fern.”
That night, after her shimmery dress was put away, her curls unpinned from the complicated twist, and her face scrubbed free of makeup, Fern stood naked in front of her mirror and looked at herself in frank appraisal. She'd grown up some, hadn't she? She was almost 5'2. Not that small. She was still on the scrawny side, but at least she didn't look twelve anymore.