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“Yep. This is where Matty and I create messes together.”
Matty proudly says, “I love this room. Since the accident, I’ve been learning to use my right hand. I’m left-handed, see? So when I can use my left hand again, I’ll be, um, ambi… ambidisastrous.”
I smother a laugh. For its hilarity, and for the cuteness of its inventor, that word should be added to theOxford Dictionary. Although I hope it isn’t an omen of things to come tonight.
“Ambidextrous,” I correct him.
“Yeah. That.”
She kneels next to Matty, smiling. “How’s your left arm now?”
“Better.” He shows Amber his arm. “The doctor took the stitches out the other day. It still shakes sometimes.”
“Matty still needs more therapy,” I explain.
“Good for you, Matty,” she says. Her dimples lurch up above her grin. “I’m sure you’ll get there.”
“The arm therapy is okay. But I don’t like the talking parts. I don’t want to remember the accident.” My baby brother bows his head, rubbing his finger on his scar.
Amber-Rose glances at me. Then she holds his hand and says attentively, “Do you see this scar?” She points at the corner of her lips.
“What happened?” Matty asks.
“I hurt myself when I fell down. It was really bad, and for years, I was scared to go to places that reminded me of that accident. Then I started talking to someone. It wasn’t easy. I cried a lot, but after a while, I felt better.”
What could she have been scared of? Whatever it is, it looks like Matty understands it—because he’s hugging her now.
I never planned for this to happen, but the deepest part of my heart tells me Amber-Rose might just be that impossibly extraordinary woman I’ve been holding out for—even though the skies of Beverly Hills haven’t seen any unusual astronomical activities.
I’d told myself Lina was different when I met her. I was right, in a catastrophic way. But with Amber-Rose, there’s an unknown force that blankets me, giving me a clean slate. With her, I become human in the very simplest sense—to want, and to be wanted.
“Keep trying,” she says, patting his shoulder. In response, the boy nods resolutely.
Amber-Rose angles her face to me, as if telling me everything will be okay. I mouth ‘thank you’ to her, and she rises from her kneeling position, striding back to my side.
Matty might be calm, but now I’m struggling with the yearning inside me. What should I do? Should I rein it in? Should I act on it?
“Should we go back? I think the fish might just be about ready.” That’s the best response I can manage.
“Of course.” On the way back, she takes one last look at the rose garden.
“Wait,” I say, trotting toward the garden shed to pick up a pair of clippers. Then I run back to the garden. “What color, Matty?” I hand over the decision-making to him. Meanwhile, Amber-Rose grins wide, watching me with anticipation.
Matty smiles warmly, approving my idea of giving one to the lady. “Yellow.”
“Yellow it is, then.” I cut one of the Henry Fonda blooms—a variety given to me by a California rose farmer.
“How did you know it was my favorite?” Amber asks Matty.
“You stood there a while,” he says.
I hand the flower to Matty. “Go on, give it to Amber.”
“Thank you,” she says, accepting the rose with a hand on her heart. Then she glances at me.
In this whole garden, there’s only one rose that blooms brightly: Amber-Rose.
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