Making Faces

by Amy Harmon

“Everybody is a main character to someone,” Bailey theorized, winding his way through the busy hall and out the nearest exit into the November afternoon. “There are no minor characters.

Tonight’s one of those nights, Fernie.” “Too much reality?” “Way too much reality.”

“There are times like that, Bailey. Times you don’t think you can take it anymore. But then you discover that you can. You always do. You’re tough. You’ll take a deep breath, swallow just a little bit more, endure just a little longer, and eventually you’ll get your second wind,”

“You’re kind of a strange girl, Fern Taylor,” Ambrose said softly, his eyes on hers, his right eye sightless, his left eye trying to see beneath the surface. “I’ve seen those books you read. The ones with the girls on the front with their boobs falling out and the guys with the torn shirts. You read smutty romance novels and quote scripture. I’m not quite sure I have you figured out.”

“I think that statement is more a reflection of your beauty than mine,” Ambrose said eventually, turning his head so he could look down at her.

But I would really like it if, just for once, I could be beautiful to you on the outside.”