Page 64 of The Two of Us

“Mara!” comes the small voice again, closer this time.

Matty bounds across the street, running for no good reason. The way little kids always do. His flushed cheeks match his hair and he reminds me of a little fox chasing a rabbit with haste. Ambrose follows behind and the nervous energy has me bouncing on the soles of my feet. The sunset medley in the sky encases his body. He’s orange and red and pink, but his eyes… still green. Always that green.

“Hey, Matty.” I smile, redirecting my eyes to the little fox.

He bends down, burying his face in Otso’s fur and giggles when he’s drowned in his saliva.

“What are you up to?” I ask. I keep my eyes on him even though I feel Ambrose’s heat a few inches away now. Every part of my body reacts to his closeness and I internally chide myself for being so affected by his presence.

Matty responds in between the kisses he plants on Otso’s head. “We’re on an expedition!”

I grin. “An expedition?”

When he’s too distracted to respond, I force myself to face Ambrose. His eyes are on me, intense and heavy as always.

“Hi,” I say, lifting a hand in a small wave.

His eyes sink into me. “Hi.”

“Expedition?”

He purses his lips and my gaze shamelessly latches on to his mouth. “Matty here doesn’t believe that the Mourning Dove is the most widespread backyard bird in North America. Says he has to ‘see it to believe it.’”

I kick a rock near my shoe. “I might be with you on this one, Matty. I’ve never seen a Moring Dove either.”

“Mourning Dove,” Ambrose corrects. “And just because you haven’t seen it doesn’t mean it’s not there.”

I study him. Physically, the man standing in front of me is the opposite of the boy I grew up with. But there, behind his eyes, lives the same brainy kid who remains obstinate about living creatures.

Matty and I smile at each other, secretly reveling in the fact that we both know how to get under Ambrose’s skin. This kid is really growing on me. Otso pulls on the leash, sniffing in the direction of a squirrel and Matty asks if he can walk him for a minute. When I hand the leash over, Ambrose says, “Stay close.”

We’re alone and thankfully, Ambrose speaks first.

“How are you feeling?”

I know the real question behind the question. How am I feeling after getting pathetically hammered and attempting to fall asleep on the cold, hard floor?

I cringe at the memory. “Better. I’m sorry I put you in that situation.” I rub the back of my neck. “I’m embarrassed.”

“Don’t be. It happens.”

I snort. “I doubt you’ve gotten so drunk someone’s had to carry you to bed.” My face burns at the mention of my bed and suddenly I smell fresh linen again.

His mouth twitches as he shrugs. “I’ve gotten close.”

We watch Matty as he runs around the bushes with Otso. It’s never crossed my mind that Otso might need more attention and physical exercise now that my dad is incapacitated. I make a mental note to take him out more, even if it means being pulled around like a rag doll.

“So listen, I’m going to stop by tomorrow night. I finally found a sliding door that will fit in the back of the house, and I want to leave the parts in the garage.”

I nod. “Sure. I’ll text you the garage code.”

“I already have it.”

Of course. Because we used to be close. Because he and Cat used to spend just as much time in my house as a kid as I did.

“Right,” I whisper.

Matty skips back to us, Otso galloping in tow like the happiest dog in Speck Lake. Matty’s hair is drenched in sweat, but he doesn’t seem bothered in the least.

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