Ambrose catches me. The familiar smell of his hateful cologne washes over my body, but in that moment, I’m thankful.

I don’t realize I’m shaking until he grabs my hands and stills them with his own warm hands, then keeps them there as if to ground me.

“Party’s over for you, bro.” Ambrose continues to hold me tight. I lean into him more than I should and fight the memories of his touch like my own personal demons. “Don’t worry, I won’t say anything. Just don’t forget your joints, I may not be going to an Ivy League school, but I’m pretty sure weed is still illegal here, wouldn’t want to get caught red-handed or anything.” Even though we both know parents no longer exist in this house. “Need me to call you an Uber, or are you able to actually stare at your phone long enough to order one without passing out?”

“Fuck you, Ambrose!” he shouts. “If you tell anyone, I’ll kill you!”

“Cool, I’ll pencil you in after her. She gets dibs.” I think I’m the her he’s referring to. “I’d rather stare at her pretty mouth than a dickface before I die anyway.”

“You’re a dick!”

“Um, thank you?” Ambrose laughs. “We’ll just be outside while you stare at your phone and try to figure out how to use it.”

Ambrose tugs me with him.

I walk numbly behind him.

I expect him to say something cruel.

Instead, he turns me around and pulls me in for a hug. “Nobody’s looking. Are you okay?” His voice is low, it’s hypnotic and deep, and regardless of what he’s done—it’s safe.

“Do you care?” I whisper against his chest, my mouth almost tasting his shirt.

“Does it matter?” He counters. “Do you want me to?”

We both fall silent.

And then I relax a bit, I let my guard down more than I should, and I whisper, “Maybe.”

He stiffens.

His arms brace me even harder, like he’s afraid to let go. “I don’t know what to do anymore.”

Clearly, he’s super drunk if he’s confessing to me.

“That makes two of us,” I say, my arms slowly wrapping around his body. “I still hate you… for hating me, but this is nice…”

“I’m not nice.”

He doesn’t get it. He’ll never see himself the way I see him. “Ambrose, you’re a lot of things, but you have the potential to be nice; it’s just a matter of making that choice rather than wrapping yourself in your hate.”

“The therapist is back, yay…”

I pat him on the back, then turn and elbow him in the gut. “You’re welcome.”

He laughs. “Really?”

“How drunk are you? Should I be worried?”

“Should I get drunker so you worry more?” he asks.

I roll my eyes, typical Ambrose response. He’d probably crack a rib if he wasn’t being sarcastic and flirty all the time, even with people he hates.

Even with me.

“Don’t find out. I mean it.” I point my finger at him and then jab him in the chest. “Go drink some water.”