Foreman was sure that the worst--whatever it was--would be over soon. Amber would calm down, and they'd talk again. He didn't know what was upsetting her so much, because at this point it had to be something more than a name that he did or didn't call her. But they'd figure it out, even if it took some time to get to the point where they could.

He was taken completely by surprise when Amber shoved him back, wrestling out of his arms. He let her go, confusion warring with all the rest of what she'd left him with. Why wouldn't it be okay? Why was everything he tried to make it better the wrong damn thing? He'd pushed Amber into accepting his hug, he knew that, and he couldn't approach her again without making her feel stifled. He took a step back and sat down on the bed, watching Amber's shadow as much as her face; it was all he could really see. She yanked on a sweater, rubbing her face dry on the sleeve, and Foreman could feel the moist patch on his shoulder where she'd cried on him at first. He didn't try to wipe it away.

"Tell me what's wrong," he said. It felt like nothing at all; he'd missed something. Maybe he'd been oblivious to whatever it was. But for God's sake, he wasn't going to stop screwing up if he didn't know what the hell was going on in Amber's head. If it wasn't over an endearment, if it was more than that, then she needed to tell him.