Amber Storms

Heart

Han

I know Ambrose Seo better than anyone on this planet. We’ve been attached at the hip for over a decade and even though he is trying his hardest to fake the calm here before me…this isn’t like normal.

When storms, metaphorical and literal, had come before, he was scared and sad; sometimes angry even, remembering his parent’s accident. I still see that now as he stands in front of me, but with his eyes drawn down, it makes me believe that there is something else there too. I just don't know what or why he’s trying to hide from me.

Worry, maybe?

If I know anything about Ambrose, and I know a lot, it is that whenever he is ready he will open up to me when the time is right. He eventually always talks to me. It may take a few hours or a few days, but I don’t think that he keeps much from me. The one thing that is hard for him to talk about is the accident with his parents, which I completely understand. I will never push him to talk about his feelings, especially asking him to relive that night. Only a psychopath would do that. I will be there for him whenever and wherever he needs me…even to sit in silence if he wants me to. I would be happy just to be there, to be needed by him. I won’t lie, I know that sounds like a weird want - but I think it’s different with Ambrose. It’s comforting to know that I’m needed after all that he’s done for me.

We met when we were in school and I thought he was the coolest. I was exceptionally advanced, skipping a grade, and unsurprisingly was the youngest and tiniest in all of my class. The bigger kids never took a liking to me. I was the “teachers' pet” for most of my school career and the teasing didn’t help when my Umma put me in dance at such a young age, with Mika. I was picked on mercilessly, kids calling me “fairy” because of that and how I also played the piano - it was non-stop in elementary school. But now, all the ladies want me to be their dance partner when we go out and I can sing and play the piano to any parent's hearts' content. I'm actually glad that I have those skills. Those big cavemen-looking bullies who were assholes are the ones on the sidelines now because they can’t even Salsa on beat with their women.

Back then, every time I saw Ambrose, I just became happy and would say hi to him almost every day. I don’t even know why, maybe because he never picked on me, but I wanted to be his friend so badly. He never made fun of me, didn’t really say hi back either, but at least he wasn’t mean like the rest of them. After a few months, he eventually came around and started to wave back and eat lunch at my table when no one else would sit by me. He was still pretty stand-offish until he had a change of heart when we were in fourth grade after seeing me getting beaten to a pulp.

It was right after lunch on a Wednesday. I was running late for gym class due to helping my art teacher carry supplies to the art studio. After assisting, and receiving another gold star to my name for being the helpful student that I was, I sprinted to the detached gymnasium with my ‘late pass’ in hand. The noon sun was high and heavily bearing down on my neck, sweat already forming under my ironed and scotch guarded polo. Rounding the corner to the entrance, my stomach instinctually twisted, being assaulted with the scent of stale cigarettes and dingy denim that I assumed had never been washed in a day of its creation. I had several bullies, but Brent was the worst. If I was the teacher's pet, this kid was the exact opposite and, for some reason unbeknownst to me, he despised me.

With a cruel snarl, his band-aid clad fingers wrapped around my small biceps, scratching my blemish free skin and his scarred knuckles shifted as he squeezed unnecessarily hard. I remember stumbling to find my footing as he dragged me to the side of the building that typically was bustling with students, used as a shortcut to the sports fields behind the gym. Completely barren from the souls that were now in class, he shoved my body, almost half his own size, down on the well-worn path. My eyes itched from the dirt that was kicked up, tasting the earthy mix as my throat clouded with its dust. Without an explanation or even a word to me, he knelt down connecting his fist to my mouth, my head bouncing off the hard ground. He continued with the side of my cheek, forehead and shoulders. When he couldn’t land any more punches to my curled body, he towered over me, rearing back, kicking the s**t out of my ribs. Gritty sand swirled in my mouth alongside some blood, causing a pink drool to seep from my lips. If he didn’t completely break them, they were severely bruised or even cracked. I clenched my eyes and muscles, preparing for another kick, when a collision erupted in front of me.

Swirls of cerulean and hunter green from our school’s gym uniform twist around my bully, their bodies flattening a patch of undisturbed grass as they tackled one another. My savior gets the upper hand, pinning Brent down and that’s when I make out through the small opening of my swelling eyelids that it's Ambrose. Two solid hits and a sickening crunch later, Brent was knocked out with a broken nose.

Rushing to me, Ambrose quickly crouched down to the ground, looping his forearm under my knees, the other around my back and gingerly lifted me, carrying me close to his chest. His jaw pulsed against my forehead, not from the strain of my weight, as I was incredibly light, but from what I assumed was worry. He held me like I was a precious porcelain vase to the nurse's office, so careful not to hurt my already bruising body. I swear he didn’t even take a step, it felt like I was floating. In all actuality, I was probably quite concussed at the time, but I was lucky he came when he did.

Brent, thankfully, only got one kick to my ribs, albeit a very hard and pointed one. I'd probably have multiple broken ones if Ambrose had been a second later. After gliding me across the school, he refused to leave me alone and held my hand while the nurse dug out tiny pieces of rock and dirt out of the cuts and scrapes from my face, arms, and legs. He let me squeeze his hand as hard as I needed to when it got too painful and held my cup and straw so I could soothe my thirsty throat with the cool water while the nurse finished wrapping and bandaging me up. He never laughed or said anything mean, especially when he saw a few tears slip down my dirty cheeks.

From then on, we were inseparable.

We refused to hear the word “no” from our parents and wore them down to the point that it became a known fact that we would be alternating staying at each other's houses over the weekends. During major holidays or when one of us went on vacation, the other was there - even if there was a family get together, we were both in tow. It was a good trade off for our parents though. I helped Ambrose with school work and he defended off the bullies when he could. He rarely left my side when we were at school because he never wanted to see me in that broken state again. Our parents became just as close to one another as we did and that year and a half we were all together was glorious.

But now, the persistent thunder, currently steadfast and on beat with Ambrose’s barely detachable flinches has me racking my brain, begging for a solution to whatever he is thinking about. “I’m guessing you’re all finished up with your client paperwork?” He nods. “Do you want to watch some tv with me?” I ask him.

I will never make him feel uncomfortable or less than because of his fear. It’s kind of like PTSD honestly, but he’s so stubborn and won’t go talk to a professional about it. “Yeah. I could use a break from work. I uh, didn’t realize what time it was.” he says. “Want to pick up where we left off in Golden Girls?” I ask. He quietly responds, seemingly relieved, with a smile.

We may be two grown-ass men, but Sophia Petrillo is the baddest b***h on television, new or old. I dare someone to test me on that..Ambrose would back me up.

The cooler air in my bedroom raise goosebumps to my bare chest as I tread over to my bed, silently inviting Ambrose to do the same. I perch on top of the charcoal colored duvet, grabbing the remote beside my custom Walnut headboard. Enzo Skoger, our roommate, hand made it just for me. He is the best woodworker on this side of town and has made several pieces of furniture in our house. He was also instrumental in helping us renovate - it pays to have friends with trades.

As the room illuminates a green hue with me selecting Hulu on the TV, Ambrose moseys over to the bed, sitting straight up, mirroring my stance. I can tell he is struggling, but is still being tight lipped. I wonder to myself if I were a little closer, if he would be able to relax more. I want to help him, but I can’t be too obvious about it - I have to have a strategy. Crawling over to his side, I lean over him to turn off the gold lamp on the nightstand; he stiffens, then inhales.

Did he sniff me?

The thought dissipates as quickly as it appeared when I settle back down against the mountain of pillows. Now much closer, the warmth from his skin sinks into mine as our arms lay still beside one another. His shoulders relax down and his face releases its tense stare.

“I’ll text Enzo I’ll give him $20 to make us some kettle corn popcorn.” I say.

“Tell him to add m&ms to it and I’ll pitch in $5”.

10 minutes later, I’m a Jackson short, but am enjoying the sweet and salty midnight snack with my favorite person.

We must have been quite invested in Blanche Devereaux’s shenanigans or induced into a sugar coma to notice the storm much. But right before the credits can roll, the whole house shakes when an ungodly crack of thunder pierces through the violin number playing on the TV, almost as if a transformer blew. I shuffle over Ambrose once more, reaching the window and try to piece together what happened outside. In the dark, I can make out during the brief flashes of lightning that our beautiful, huge oak tree was struck and one of the large limbs is now hanging, dangling at the mercy of the wind.

I turn to face Ambrose and his eyes are empty, void of any form of emotion.

O no.

Ruffling the covers, I scramble back to my spot on the bed. I mumble something about comforting him like when we were kids and before he has time to answer, I quickly grab his firm arms and pull him against my chest, wrapping both of my arms around his hard body. I rub my hand up and down his tan bicep while my other mindlessly draws small circles into his back.