I Should Die

look.
    “Listen, baby.” He rubs his thumb nervously up and down the back of her hand. “You guys are walking straight into one of the most dangerous fights we’ve seen. It could be the Fight. Besides being extremely upset that I can’t have a piece of that, it’s going to make me crazy knowing you are there, possibly getting yourself killed. Possibly getting yourself destroyed.”
    “Vincent and I will . . . ,” Charlotte begins to argue.
    “I’m not worried about Vincent,” Ambrose says, cutting her off. “I’m worried about you.”
    Here it comes , I think, and grinning, I inch slowly backward toward the door so neither of them notice I’m fleeing the scene. Not that they would anyway; they’re totally wrapped up in each other.
    “I can fight as well as the rest of you,” Charlotte retorts, pulling her hand away from him and pushing her fists to her hips.
    “I never said you couldn’t,” Ambrose insists.
    “Then why—”
    He interrupts her again. “I will stay without complaining . . .”
    “You have no choice!”
    “. . . if you’ll do two things.” The teasing has long left his face. He is dead serious.
    I should leave but I can’t. I know I’m about to witness a historic event, and I lurk next to the door, my eyes glued to Charlotte and Ambrose.
    “Okay,” Charlotte says, matching his gravity.
    “Promise me you’ll come back.”
    Charlotte is silent.
    “And give me a kiss good-bye.”
    “What?” Charlotte blurts.
    “You heard me.”
    She stands stock-still for a good couple of seconds before raising her fingertips to her mouth. Her eyes glitter with tears as she sits back down on the side of his bed. And taking his good hand in hers, she leans forward and kisses him. It is a slow kiss. It is a lingering kiss. It’s the kiss she’s been waiting for for years.

FORTY-EIGHT
    GEORGIA IS WAITING IN THE HALLWAY AS I CREEP out of Ambrose’s room. “What’s up?” she asks, making me leap a foot into the air.
    “I didn’t see you there,” I say, holding my hand to my racing heart.
    “So, where’s the party?” She folds her arms across her chest.
    “Why are you even awake?” I ask.
    “Couldn’t sleep. And then I look out my window and see the Sex Pistols parking their cars in the drive. So I figure something’s up.”
    I look at Georgia, the bed-tossed condition of her short strawberry-blond hair making her more beautiful than ever. I realize there’s a chance that after tonight I might not see her again. Throwing my arms around her neck, I squeeze her to me.
    She pats my back. “What, Katie-Bean? What’s wrong? I mean, besides the fact that you are supposedly the undead Wonder Woman or something . . . I mean, is that why you’re crying?”
    “I’m not crying,” I say, sniffing and surreptitiously wiping my eyes before letting her go. “I just want you to know that I love you.”
    Georgia’s eyes narrow and she stares at me suspiciously before pointing her finger at me. “You guys are going to do something dangerous. What is it?”
    “It’s nothing you need to worry about, Georgia.”
    She makes a disgusted noise and says, “Oh, don’t give me that. You wouldn’t be acting like this unless you were worried you weren’t going to come back. It’s why Jeanne’s here in the middle of the night and half of punk Berlin is hopping around the house like it’s some kind of zombie mosh pit? Right?”
    I just look at her and bite my tongue.
    “Fine, I’ll go ask Arthur,” she says, and stalks off.
    Charlotte steps out of Ambrose’s room and closes the door behind her. Her face glows and her naturally rosy cheeks are flushed scarlet. She takes my hand and we make our way down the stairs. “Did you know?” she asks me.
    “Yes,” I admit. “But just recently. I think Ambrose only loved Geneviève when she wasn’t available. Once it was actually possible, I think he realized she wasn’t the one he wanted.”
    She smiles like a girl whose five-decade wish has finally been granted and, skipping down the rest of the stairs, heads toward the armory.
    Back in my room, I throw some water on my face and brush my hair back into a long ponytail. Then, fishing a piece of paper and a pen out of the desk, I sit down to write a note to Mamie and Papy. My pen hovers above the page as I agonize over what to say. But before I can write anything, there is a knock at my door.
    Mamie sticks her head in and asks, “Can we talk with you?”
    “Yes,” I say,