Could you belong to someone who didn't want you? Fern decided it was possible, because her heart was his, and whether or not he wanted it didn't seem to make much difference. When she was done writing she would tuck the letter away in a drawer. Fern wondered what Ambrose would think if she suddenly sent one. He would probably think she was a psycho and regret that apology wrapped in a kiss. He would worry that Fern thought the kiss meant more than it had. He would think she was delusional.
Fern wasn't delusional, she was simply imaginative. But even with her gift for daydreaming and storytelling, she couldn't make herself believe he would ever return her feelings.
She had asked him if she could write–she'd even said she would. But deep down, she didn't really think he wanted her to, and her pride was too fragile to endure another hit. The letters piled up, and she couldn't make herself send them.
Iraq
“Fern Taylor been writing you any more love notes, Brosey?” Beans said in the darkness of the sleeping tent.
“I think Fern's pretty,” Paulie said from his cot. “She looked good at the Prom. Did you see her? She can write me letters anytime she wants.”
“Fern's not pretty!” Beans said. “She looks like Pippi Longstocking.”
“Who the hell is Pippi Longbottom?” Jesse groaned, trying to sleep.
“My sister used to watch a show called Pippi Longstocking. She borrowed it from the library and never took it back. Pippi had buck teeth and red hair that stuck out from her head in two braids. She was skinny and awkward and stupid. Just like Fern.” Beans was over-exaggerating, poking at Ambrose.
“Fern isn't stupid,” Ambrose said. He was surprised how much it bugged him, Beans making fun of Fern.
“Okaaaay,” Beans laughed. “Like that makes a difference.”
“It does.” Grant had to get his two cents in. “Who wants a girl you can't talk to?”
“I do!” Beans laughed. “Don't talk, just take off your clothes.”
“You're kind of a pig, Beans.” Paulie sighed. “It's a good thing we all like ham.”
“I hate ham,” Jesse growled. “And I hate it when you guys get all chatty-Cathy when it's time to sleep. Shut the hell up.”
“Jesse, you really are The Wicked Witch of East.” Paulie laughed. “The Wicked Witch of the Middle East.” Paulie had written a funny song about Iraq being like the Land of Oz and before long everyone in their unit had a Wizard of Oz nickname.
“And you're The Scarecrow, dumbass. Wasn't he the one who didn't have a brain?”
“Yep. Scarecrow sounds badass, don't you think, Grant?”
“It's better than Dorothy,” Grant laughed. He'd made the mistake of wearing his red wrestling shoes to the gym one day and the rest was history. When they weren't on patrol or sleeping, they were working out. There just wasn't much else to do in their down time.
“Why don't you click your heels together, Dorothy, and get us back home?” Paulie said. “Hey, and how come you didn't get a nickname, Beans?”
“Um . . . my name is Connor. I think you just contradicted yourself.” Beans was beginning to doze off.
“We should call him Munchkin . . . or maybe Toto. After all he's just a little dog with a big bark,” Jesse said.
Beans was alert immediately. “Try it, Jess, and I'll tell Marley about the time you made out with Lori Stringham in the wrestling room.” Beans had always been sensitive about his stature. It made for a great 125 pound wrestler, but wasn't especially helpful anywhere else.
“Brosey's The Tin Man because he doesn't have a heart. Poor little Fern Taylor found that out the hard way.” Beans tried to turn the attention back to Ambrose, ribbing him once more.
“Brosey's The Tin Man because he's made of metal. Damn, how much did you put up on your bench today, Brosey?” another member of the unit butted into the conversation. “You are a freaking monster! We should call you Iron Man.”
“Here we go again,” Jesse moaned. “Hercules and now Iron Man.” He resented the attention Ambrose always garnered and didn't pretend otherwise.
Ambrose laughed. “I'll let you beat me in an arm wrestle tomorrow, Witchy Poo, okay?”
Jesse chuckled, his irritability more an act than he cared to admit.
The tent quieted down until the occasional snore and sigh was all that was heard in the darkness. But Ambrose couldn't sleep. He kept thinking about what Beans had said. Rita Marsden was beautiful. She'd taken his breath away. He’d thought he was in love with her until he’d figured out he really didn't know her at all. Rita wasn't smart. Not in the way he wanted her to be. He hadn’t been able to figure out why she was so appealing in her little notes and then when they were together she was so different. She was beautiful, but after a while, she really wasn't very attractive to him at all. Ambrose wanted the girl in the letters.
His eyes shot open in the dark. The girl in the letters was Fern Taylor. Did he really want Fern Taylor? He laughed a little. Fern was a little bitty thing. They would look ridiculous together. And she wasn't hot. Although she had looked pretty good at the prom. Seeing her there in her gold dress, dancing with his stupid friends, had surprised him and ticked him off. Guess he hadn't forgiven her completely for the stunt she and Rita pulled.
He had tried not to think about Fern, about that night at the lake, and he'd all but convinced himself it was just temporary insanity, a last desperate act before leaving home. And she hadn't written like she’d said she would. He couldn't blame her after everything that had happened. But he would have liked to get a letter. She wrote good letters.