Chapter 40
“Be not the slave of your own past—plunge into the sublime seas, dive deep, and swim far, so you shall come back with new self-respect, with new power, and with an advanced experience that shall explain and overlook the old.”
—Ralph Waldo Emerson
“Put on something warm and come outside,” Ambrose instructs for the second time today. After our hike earlier, we’ve been suspended in the limbo between his proclamation of love and my absence of reciprocation.
“Is this the point where you finally murder me after lulling me into a false sense of security?” I tease.
“I’m not dignifying that question with a response. I’ll see you out there.” A smile teases at his lips as he goes back outside and shuts the door behind him.
I stand and make my way to the back window, grinning when I see a mountain of orange flames in the middle of the yard. Finally, he’s putting that fire pit to good use.
I shrug on one of Ambrose’s flannel jackets from the hallway closet and pull a beanie over my head before slipping on my boots and eagerly making my way to the bonfire.
Ambrose’s form is silhouetted against the bright flames towering over him as he sets out chairs. He places the two chairs a few feet apart and, after a moment, pulls them closer together. I smile.
He doesn’t notice me until I’m almost within touching distance.
When he sees me, he lifts an eyebrow, though he can’t hide the smile in his eyes. “Nice jacket.”
“I thought so,” I quip, shoving my hands in the pockets and flashing him a sweet smile.
When he gestures to the chairs, I take him up on his offer and sink down into one. The fire warms my skin, though we’re just far enough away that the heat doesn’t overwhelm me.
“I’ve always loved bonfires,” I say as Ambrose sits beside me. “My parents used to make burn piles when I was a kid, and they thought I was crazy for wanting to sit out there by the fire all night. There’s just something so calming about it, though.”
Ambrose nods. “I’m the same way. It feels like magic.”
“Exactly.”
The fire crackles between us, its light dancing in fractured gold across Ambrose’s sharp features.
For a while, we don’t speak. We just sit, both watching the flames stretch and curl upward, chased by tendrils of smoke that vanish into the black sky.
The brightness of the towering flames emanates over the yard, illuminating the edge of the forest only to highlight the depths of the darkness beyond.
A chill crawls down my spine at the sensation—or maybe just paranoia—of being watched.
It feels like we’re both waiting. For what, I’m not sure. We’ve been balancing precariously on the edge of our emotions, and it’ll only take one tiny nudge to send us careening off the edge.
I dig my fingers deeper into the soft lining of his jacket sleeves as the scent of woodsmoke settles into the fabric. I glance over at him, wanting to confess my feelings for him and break this invisible wall between us, even if we’re both pretending it’s not there.
But the question that’s been plaguing me all day slips through my mind again. How could he possibly love me? He’s seen me at my lowest, watched me fall apart over and over again. I’m slowly getting better as the days pass, but…
“I’m scared I’ll always be this broken woman regardless of how much I change,” I admit quietly, surprising myself with the confession.
Ambrose doesn’t look at me right away. He’s still watching the fire deep in thought, though he nods slightly. A minute or two later, when he does turn to face me, he asks, “Have you ever heard the thought experiment of The Ship of Theseus?”
“No, I don’t think so.” I shake my head and wonder where he’s going with this, pulling my knees up into the seat and wrapping my arms around them.
“Imagine that after he returns from his journey, the ship that Theseus sailed on is taken from the water and put in a museum. Over time, though, its wooden boards start to rot or break, so piece by piece, every part is replaced. Eventually, none of the original material remains. So the question is—is it still the same ship?”
My brow furrows as I turn the idea over in my mind. “Well, if everything has changed, wouldn’t that make it a different ship?”
“Maybe,” he says. “But at what point does it become not the Ship of Theseus? When you’ve replaced one board? When you’ve replaced half? When you’ve replaced all of them?”
I hum, contemplating.
“I mean, it would make sense if halfway was the tipping point, right?”
He doesn’t answer my question but instead posits a new scenario.
“So let’s apply this to people, then. If someone, throughout the course of their life, had every major organ transplant possible—skin, heart, kidney, etcetera.
If more than half of their body parts end up being replacements, are they still the same person? ”
“Well, yeah, but that’s different.”
“How?”
“Because people aren’t sentient objects. They have personalities and thoughts.”
“Okay, so if you take someone’s brain, which holds all their behaviors and personality traits, and transplant that into someone else’s body…” he trails off, letting me continue the line of thinking.
“Ugh, this is confusing.”
“That’s the point,” he chuckles. “It’s the question of what makes something what it is? Its physical parts, or its essence?”
I rest my chin on my knees, watching the fire curl around a half-burned log. “So how does this apply to me?”
“We all go through things, getting hurt and learning from our experiences, but we replace parts of ourselves as we live on—beliefs, behaviors, identities. Some pieces break and don’t come back the same, some get stronger, and some fall away entirely.
Will you always be the same woman, or do those ever-changing parts of yourself mean your identity becomes something new? ”
“So, what’s the answer?”
“That’s the thing,” he says. “There is no right answer. It’s up to you to decide who you are.”
I’m silent for a long time, mulling over the question. I didn’t expect to have so much of a philosophical conversation tonight, but leave it to Ambrose to get me to consider the complexities of identity.
He doesn’t rush me by adding layers to the conversation or asking me what I think. He simply lets me sit with my thoughts and ruminate.
It’s an interesting question, though: what makes me, me?
Finally, I voice my fears. “I just don’t know how I’ll ever be able to see myself as anything other than… this.”
“I don’t mean to overstep,” Ambrose says, “but I think it’s time to stop defining yourself by your past and start deciding who you want to be. Your past will never cease to exist, but there is so much more to you than the pain you’ve experienced.”
I swallow hard as the words sink in. He’s right.
I’ll never be able to forget what it’s like to be in the depths of despair, alone and broken, but I no longer want to be defined by what has caused me pain.
I’ve only just begun to reclaim some of my power, but I can continue to do so until the broken version of me is barely recognizable.
Sparks snap in the fire as a log breaks, and I take a deep breath, coming to terms with whatever epiphany I’ve just had.
“I’ve spent so long surviving,” I say to Ambrose. “Just pushing from one day to the next. It felt like a losing battle, so I told myself I couldn’t afford to dream, or hope, or want too much. I just had to make it through.”
Ambrose doesn’t interrupt, but his eyes bore into me, reflecting the orange flames.
I continue, “But it feels like something is shifting lately. I actually want to do more than simply survive. I want a life that’s wholly, entirely mine.”
Something solemn crosses his features. “And you’ll have that life soon.”
He doesn’t say what both of us are thinking—that as much as I want my freedom, he still holds the keys to my cage. I won’t be free until he allows me to be.
“I’m scared of starting over,” I admit. Now that I’ve opened the floodgates, the confessions won’t stop.
“You don’t have to start over. Just start from where you are, with what you have, and build from there.”
I close my eyes, focusing on the heat of the fire warming my skin and warding off the cold night air. Something profound shifts inside of me, and for the first time, the future doesn’t scare me so much. Whatever happens, wherever I go, I’ll figure it out.
Ambrose stands and pulls his chair back a few feet, gesturing for me to do the same.
I do, and the thin, frigid night air envelops me, the heat from the fire just out of reach.
But Ambrose shifts his chair until his shoulder is touching mine, and points to the night sky.
It’s completely clear tonight, the stars like diamonds strewn across an inky black canvas.
With no light pollution out here, the clarity of the night sky is breathtaking.
For the next hour, Ambrose points out various constellations in the darkness and tells me their stories from mythology. His voice, soft and soothing, calms the chaos in my heart. It’s late when we go back inside once the fire has died down, and my fingers are stiff and pink from the cold.
“Ambrose?” I murmur as we lay in his bed together, both on the edge of sleep.
“Yes?” His voice is heavy with sleep.
“I love you too.”