Page 71 of The Two of Us

“I don’t.”

“You could have fooled me.” I glance down at my phone again. Time is up. I turn on my heels. When I reach the end of the hall, I turn back and Ambrose is still standing in front of my locker, seething.

“I’m sorry, Ambrose,” I say and he stills. “For whatever happened that made you this way. But I don’t have time for this. I don’t have time to mull over all the things you do and don’t say anymore. Brandon sees me. He—”

“You think I don’t see you?” his voice is low but has an edge to it.

I shake my head. “I hope you don’t. I really hope you don’t, Ambrose, because if this is what being seen by you is like? I don’t want it.”

I push through the doors of the lunchroom, still swaying with the heightened emotions Ambrose and I shared in the hallway. It’s unclear where his anger ends and mine begins.

I almost forget to smile as Brandon walks to the center of the cafeteria with a bouquet of flowers in hand, surrounded by freshmen holding up posters that read, “1 Word, 3 Letters, Say It and I’m Yours at Prom.”

From the corner of my eye, I see Ambrose enter the cafeteria, arms crossed over his chest, glaring from me to Brandon.

“Yes,” I call out.

The masses erupt in cheers.

***

“So,” I say as Cat and I exit the dress shop. “Should we get Cinnabon like old times? I’m still full from lunch but I think I can fit one in. Or three. I believe in myself.”

Cat looks visibly uncomfortable as she unfolds and refolds the receipt in her hands. “Actually, there’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”

I stop walking. “What?”

Cat’s eyes land everywhere except on me. She hates conflict. “My brother.”

“Yes?”

“Ambrose.”

“I’m aware that’s his name, go on.”

“Well,” she says. “I told him to reserve the remaining seats at our dinner table for prom.”

“You what?” My volume is high for someone who never raises their volume.

“Mara, it’s his senior year, and he wanted to experience prom together.”

“And it’ll just be him?”

She cringes. “And the rest of them.” She doesn’t have to spell out who them refer to.

“Cat!”

“I couldn’t tell him no, he’s my brother!”

I scoff. “A sad excuse for one, if you ask me.”

Her face falls and I’m instantly ashamed that I’ve said something so grotesque. Something I don’t even mean. How is it that we can do that so easily? Say things we don’t mean? “Why would you say that?” she whispers.

“I don’t know.” I swallow. “I think I wanted to hurt you.”

“Well, congratulations. You’ve succeeded. How does it feel?”

“Terrible. Like, so terrible, I think I could actually vomit right here, right now.”

---