Page 81 of The Two of Us

I grip her as she stuffs the photos in her bra. The smoke billows around us and I hack into my arm. I grab a shirt from Matty’s drawer and bring it to Anya’s face. I’m worried about how the smoke will affect her with all the drugs currently in her system. She needs to get out.

“Go! I’ll grab the rest of the photos.”

She hesitates as if she might protest, but I shove her toward the balcony. “Climb down the trellis. Matty’s down there, he needs you.”

At the mention of Matty, she nods and runs out. I return to the drawer, seizing the remaining photos. Matty on a merry-go-round. Matty at the beach. Matty and Anya looking happier than ever before. My throat begins to burn and my eyes feel like someone’s taken a hot poker to them. Once I snag the last four-by-six photo, I stumble outside, gasping for fresh oxygen between coughs. Sirens blare below.

Through squinted eyes, I begin my descent. My foot snags between a handful of branches and I plummet the remaining five feet to the ground. I exhale with relief when I see firemen running up the driveway toward the three of us.

I’m curious what it says about me that I’ve experienced two life-threatening situations in a matter of seventy-two hours. It’s the opposite of a lucky streak. I won’t be buying scratch-offs anytime soon. Luckily, the smoke inhalation is minimal and none of us has to go to the hospital.

The EMTs are the same ones from two nights ago and before they leave, they say, “Hopefully we don’t see you again anytime soon.”

I agree wholeheartedly.

When Laura picks up Anya and Matty, she’s tight lipped and stoic. She doesn’t apologize this time and it’s more devastating than when she does. She’s the kind of sad that even words can’t even express.

I’ve just showered the grime and soot off my skin when I hear a banging at the front door. Dashing down the stairs before Otso has a chance to wake my dad again, I swing the door open to find an out-of-breath Ambrose.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” he growls.

“Not any more than usual. Ambrose, what was I supposed to—”

“You have to be the dumbest, stupidest, most—”

“I’m not going to just stand here while you insult me. I had to—”

“Shut up, Mara!”

I clamp my mouth shut.

Ambrose grabs my shoulders and shakes me, his eyes wild. Terrified. “Do you know what I would have done if something happened to you?”

My heart splits in two. “Ambrose,” I whisper.

“If I lost you? If I fucking lost you, Mara?” His voice cracks. “I wouldn’t survive it. I just got you back.”

I wrap my hands around his wrists. “I know. I’m okay.”

He’s trembling and I rub my hands up and down his arms. “I’m okay.”

His heavy breathing makes the wheeze sounds like a whistle in his chest. Tiny beads of sweat culminate above his eyebrow.

“Just do it,” I say softly.

He doesn’t move.

“Do it,” I urge.

He reaches into his pocket and brings his inhaler to his lips, keeping his eyes locked on mine as the albuterol expands his lungs. Suddenly, I’m ten years old and I fall in love all over again and I start to smile, but I don’t get to finish because Ambrose’s lips are on mine. His eyes, once filled with hot rage have turned to molten heat as he pushes me back against the wall, the door closing with a soft click behind him.

His mouth is hard on mine and I gasp at the delicious pressure. The desperation. Our movements are frantic and impatient as our bodies collide. We’re the perfect fit and it’s as satisfying as setting the last puzzle piece in its place. Because Ambrose kissing me like this? I can finally see the big picture.

Ambrose pulls my body closer, like I’m not already close enough. Like he wants us to inhabit the same body and breathe as one. He molds me to him like I’m clay and he’s the potter. His hands are firm, but not painful as he lifts my arms over my head, caging me in place. His tongue opens the seam of my mouth and I finally let go, allowing a small moan to escape my throat.

“That’s my girl,” he coos, his voice breathy.

Heat pools at my core as he wraps my legs around his waist and hoists me up with ease. I’ve seen his hands carry many things. Cinder blocks. Sheets of wood. Boxes of tools. And now they’re carrying me. Our jerky movements knock a picture frame off the wall and it crashes on the floor, but we ignore it. Ambrose grunts as I pull his hair, nipping at the skin exposed under his collarbone. He doesn’t just smell like mint, he tastes like it too.

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