“Thank you,” I mumble in reply. “You didn’t have to.”
She lets out a grunt of breath through her nose and silences the stovetop. She ambles over to me. I brace for her touch and wince when it never comes. Ambrosia remains at arm’s length, her posture rigid as she studies me up and down. Her stoic mask breaks into melancholy.
“Can I hug you?”
“Yes. Please.”
Her arms wrap around mine, and we’re chest to chest, so close that I can feel her pulsing heart. It’s fast, scurrying like a mouse. She’s trembling. She shudders, and the noise that escapes her mouth sounds like a suppressed choke.
My best friend doesn’t cry. She’s strong, unlike me. She’s a force to be reckoned with, a leader when people need her, but she’s undeniably crying. There’s a breaking point for everyone, and Ambrosia has crossed the threshold.
Her sobs are torturing and frail, a result of a lifetime of unfair treatment and living. Her nails dig in, then let go, as she cycles through grasping my shirt. It flashes me back to the day we were waiting for the results that would later diagnose her with autism.
“I knew it,” she said.
“You know nothing’s wrong with you, right?”
She smiled weakly and tugged at a blue dread.
“I know. It’s a relief . . . having an answer for what this is.”
Her fingers raked in, then receded. I knew all about wanting answers.
“Can I tell you something about me?” I asked.
She nodded and laced her fingers through mine. I gripped hers tightly and held it against my chest, right where she could feel my heart.
“I’m queer,” I said.
“I fucking knew it!” She guffawed.
My mouth was torn between scolding her and smiling giddily. Of course, she wouldn’t care.
“And you know what?” she said.
“What?”
“There’s nothing wrong with you, either.”
Ambrosia clenches the fabric. She cycles through a few more tics before resting her chin in the crook of my neck.
“Sorry,” she sighs.
“For what?”
“You’re hurting, and I sprung this on you.”
“Shut up. It’s fine. What’s troubling you?”
“This,” she replies immediately. “I shouldn’t have made him come. It wasn’t fair. I knew better, and I knew the risks of bringing someone without special abilities. And now he’s . . .”
Dying,though neither of us says it.
“It’s not your fault. You know that, right?” I say.
“You weren’t there,” she replies.
“Sure, but I know Conin wanted to be a guard. You were taking a chance on him, and not one of you could’ve known it was a trap. These are . . . unpredictable, scary times we live in. There’s only so much we can do.”
