Chapter 36
We’ve gone back to pretending that things are normal between us—in whatever twisted definition we have of “normal”—after I had woken up in Ambrose’s bed late in the afternoon a few days ago.
Neither of us has mentioned it, likely because neither of us knows how to approach the topic.
Something has shifted between us, and it seems as if neither of us knows what to make of it.
It’s almost better that way, though. It’s easier to ignore the intimate thing that happened between us rather than risk naming it and discovering it meant something different to each of us.
Regardless of the awkwardness lingering between us, it seems we’ve come to a sort of truce despite our circumstances.
After the events of the last week or two, it feels unnecessary to continue pretending to hate him.
He’s grown on me, which I hate to admit, but I find myself seeking him out more often than not, content to spend time with him as we read or watch movies or go for walks through the woods.
The angels never show up when he’s with me, thankfully.
This evening, I’m curled up on the couch trying to read, but my eyes have glazed over the same page for the third time without really taking any of the words in.
It’s a book about a serial killer, which I thought might inspire me for my own future plans, but nothing is holding my attention right now.
Ambrose is across the room with his leather-bound notebook in his lap, lost in thought as he writes.
I wish he’d leave the notebook out on the table sometime rather than locking it away, because my curiosity about what’s inside those pages grows every day.
I sigh loudly, closing the book in my hand and dropping it on the coffee table with a heavy thud.
Ambrose looks up from the armchair across the room. “Something wrong?”
“I’m bored,” I announce. “I’ve read three books this week. I’ve plotted multiple potential murders. I think my brain is starting to melt.”
“That didn’t take long.”
I glare at him. “I’m serious.”
“Are you saying you want me to entertain you?”
I ignore the innuendo that’s made evident by his smirk and answer, “Yeah, maybe.”
He stares at me for a moment before closing the notebook in his lap, standing, and reaching high on the bookshelf to secure his notebook in the locking case, alongside the dozens already inside.
“Come with me, then, before you implode” he says, walking toward the door without checking to see if I follow.
“Where are we going?” I ask as I hurry to catch up to him.
“To the garage. I’m going to teach you how to make something. Maybe then you’ll be able to satiate your boredom on your own for a while.”
“Make something?”
“You’ll see.”
Ambrose flicks on the workshop lights, illuminating the large space that’s filled with the scent of sawdust and metal, and turns on the garage heater in the corner of the room.
“Sit,” he commands, gesturing to a stool beside a table.
I follow his instructions and watch him from the stool while he gathers materials and places them on the table. Once he’s collected everything he needs, he stands beside me.
“I’m going to teach you how to carve an animal,” he says. I picture all the intricately carved figurines lining his shelves and am immediately intimidated. I’ll be lucky not to chop a finger off.
He sets a block of wood about the size of a brick in front of me then plucks up a few of the tools from the middle of the table.
He explains how to sketch out the lines on the top and sides of the wood, demonstrating on his own block before I attempt my own.
I decide to carve a rabbit. I carefully sketch my lines while Ambrose watches, and he gives me an approving nod once I finish.
Next, he shows me how to use the chisel and the smaller whittling knife, again demonstrating on his own block of wood.
His fingers brush mine when he shows me how to angle my hand, and my skin heats from that one simple touch.
Once I’m somewhat confident in my actions, he takes a seat at the table across from me and begins to work on his own figure.
The first few cuts I make are rough and uneven. I curse under my breath as an uneven curl of wood springs off and lands in my lap. Ambrose doesn’t laugh, though. He just sits there, watching me with quiet patience and encouraging me to continue.
“So, you do this a lot, don’t you?” I ask.
“Yes. I like to keep an array of hobbies to keep my mind and body active. This one is a nice little way to challenge myself.”
“I imagine it’s probably good to have multiple things to keep you entertained, especially out here in the middle of nowhere.”
“Maybe you should find a hobby of your own,” he teases. “You know, since you’re already so terribly bored.”
“I do have a hobby. I both plan and commit murders,” I deadpan.
His lips twitch with a smile. “That’s a start.”
We fall into silence after that, broken only by the rasp of metal against wood. My block slowly but surely takes shape. It’s lumpy and uneven, but each stroke of the knife takes away another layer until it somewhat resembles the shape of a rabbit.
I use the smaller knife to attempt some details, but it’s more difficult than I imagined. Finally, I figure that’s as good as it’s going to get.
“Voila!” I hold the awkward little figure up to show Ambrose, and he looks up from the much more intricate figure he’s carving and smiles.
“I love it,” he says.
As I turn it over in my hand, feeling all the awkwardly carved ridges and bumps, I realize that I don’t even mind that it’s not perfect. The satisfaction of having created something is enough to make me proud, even if it does look like a nine-year-old made it.
“Do you want to make another one?” Ambrose asks, studying my expression.
My hands are sore from gripping the wood too tightly, so I answer, “No, but I might try again tomorrow if that’s alright.
” I have to admit, the idea of having a hobby that doesn’t involve torture or murder is becoming increasingly more appealing.
And reading is fun, but I can only do it for so long before the words blur together.
“Of course it’s alright. You’re welcome in here anytime, whether I’m here or not.”
“Thank you.”
Ambrose turns his attention back to the carving he’s working on, and I take a moment to really look around the room. The garage is filled with various tools, from wrenches and screwdrivers hanging neatly on the walls to a large table saw standing in the corner.
Scattered about the massive garage are pieces of wooden furniture in various states of finish.
A dresser that’s been sanded down and needs to be re-stained, a coffee table that’s missing the handles for the drawers, a rocking chair that looks like it may fall apart at any moment. Clearly Ambrose keeps himself busy.
I stand and wander around the room, careful to keep a wide berth of the half-finished furniture and power tools.
When I lean down to take a closer look at the array of brass knobs and handles that have been organized in a tray, my hair falls over my shoulder, and I brush it back behind my ear. I wish I had a hair tie, I think, followed by a disappointed, I wish I could just chop it all off.
The thought makes me stop in my tracks. Why can’t I just chop it all off?
I don’t have Joel around anymore to guilt trip me out of a haircut by telling me how I “look so much better with long hair.” It’s been years since I’ve gotten more than a trim for that reason—it wasn’t worth the fight before. But there will be no fight now.
“Hey, Ambrose?”
“Yes?”
“Do you have a pair of scissors I can use?”
His eyebrows knit together in confusion, but he doesn’t ask questions. “Yes, if you turn around there should be a pair hanging on the wall to your left.”
I search the wall until I spot the scissors hanging there.
Standing on my tiptoes, I reach up and snag them.
My back is to Ambrose now, and I can feel his eyes on me, but I pay no attention to his gaze as I set the scissors on the counter and use my fingers to part my hair down the middle.
I pull each half to the side over my shoulder and take a deep breath.
Why am I so nervous all of the sudden? It’s just hair. It grows back, and it’s not exactly like I have anyone to impress.
I should probably at least brush it first, but I have to do this now or I’ll chicken out.
Grabbing the first chunk of hair in the fist of my left hand, I pick up the scissors with my right.
The snipping sound cuts through the silence of the garage as I cut just above where my hair meets my shoulder.
Thick, brown locks slip through my fingers and fall to the concrete floor, and once every piece of hair on that side has been cut, I repeat the process on the other side.
With each snip of the scissors, it feels like I’m cutting away a part of my old self. Maybe it’s cliche that a haircut feels symbolic of my newfound freedom and identity, but I don’t care. I finally have the power to be the woman I choose to be.
I don’t even realize tears are rolling down my cheeks until I look down to see the pile of hair at my feet and a teardrop drips off the tip of my nose.
Then, I smile, shifting my head side to side in appreciation of how light everything feels.
It’s then that the full weight of Ambrose’s gaze boring into my back hits me again. Oops. He probably thinks I’m having some kind of breakdown.
I turn to face him, fully expecting judgment (or at least a sarcastic quip), but I find none of that. Curiosity, sure, but beyond that is a softer expression—one of understanding.
I flash him a weak smile and wipe away the remaining tears. “I think I needed that.”
He nods. “I get that.”
“Do you like it?” I don’t know why I ask; it’s not like I need his approval.
Maybe there’s still a small, lingering part of me afraid of getting in trouble for doing something so brash to my appearance, even though I know I’m not in that environment anymore.
I’m learning that it takes a long time to heal from abuse, and even the smallest things are still enough to send me reeling.
The body reacts long after the threat is over, hardwired to protect itself after learning the patterns of what might become dangerous.
“I do. It suits you,” he answers with an affectionate grin. He nods toward the scissors. “Bring those over here.”
I do as he requests, wondering where he’s going with this, though I secretly hope he doesn’t try to cut his own hair in some weird show of solidarity. I’ve become partial to the way his dark hair frames his face, falling over his forehead and curling slightly.
Ambrose stands and gestures for me to sit on the stool, and I realize what he’s doing.
Gently, he runs his fingers through my hair in an attempt to comb it down, though the touch sends shivers down my spine. His fingernails graze my scalp with each stroke, and my stomach flip-flops. I would let him do this forever, it feels so good.
Even though he takes much more time than he needs to brushing his fingers through my hair, it still feels like too soon when he stops. I feel his fingers grip a small strand of hair, followed by the sound of the scissors snipping away at the ends.
I’m not sure why this feels so intimate, but it does. I just had a weird sort of epiphany and chopped off most of my waist-length hair, and his only reaction is to calmly help me fix the uneven ends.
His hands brush across my neck, raising goosebumps on my skin and making me all too aware of every simple movement, and I close my eyes. There’s a heavy silence between us, loaded with everything we’re feeling and not saying.
When he finally finishes, he steps back and sets the scissors on his work table with a dull thud.
I stay seated, the weight of the moment still heavy on my heart.
Ambrose’s steps echo against the concrete as he walks around me and stops at my front.
The heat of his body radiates from where he stands only inches before me, and I stare up into his dark eyes.
“Brielle,” he whispers, just before he leans down and kisses me with burning, desperate intensity.
I melt into his touch as he wraps his arms around my waist, knowing it’s impossible to fight this pull between us any longer.