Текст книги "For All You Have Left"

Автор книги: Laura Miller

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 13 страниц)

Chapter Twenty-Nine
Sunday

“You wanna come with me, Ada Bear?”

Jorgen’s throwing a little stress ball up into the air, catching it and then throwing it back up again.

“Where?” I ask.

“To the gas station. To get the M&M’s.”

I let go of a smile. “Sure.”

I watch him throw the ball up one more time and then set it onto the coffee table.

“Okay. Let’s go.”

“Now?” I ask.

“Sure.” He stands up and stretches his arms to the ceiling. “Why not?”

“All right,” I say, giggling to myself.

I love days like this – like Sunday – when we can do things like go to the gas station just to get M&M’s.

I find my keys, follow him out the door and lock it behind me. When I turn back around, he’s holding out his hand. And as if it’s second nature, I place my hand in his, and we head down the stairs together.

“So, you always go to the same gas station?”

“Yep,” he says. “At different times though – depending on when or if I work that day.”

I nod my head, and then we walk in comfortable silence for a minute. It’s a beautiful, warm day. It’s cooler than average, so it’s not hot. The sun is out. There’s a breeze. It’s pretty much perfect.

“You look pretty,” he says, suddenly breaking my thoughts.

I look up at him. I want to ask if I look different somehow from any other day, but I don’t because the way he says it sounds so pure – as if there’s nothing more to it than simply: You look pretty.

“Thanks,” I say and then force my eyes to the ground at our feet. I’m sure I’m blushing.

I feel him squeeze my hand, and then I find his eyes again. He’s smiling, and it makes me smile wider as we continue down the sidewalk – the same sidewalk that I’ve walked more times than I can count since I first moved here. It leads from the apartment complex to a little café called The Coffee Cup. I like to sit on the café’s patio when it’s nice outside and write sometimes. And then, about another hundred yards or so after The Coffee Cup is the gas station, nestled at the corner of an intersection. You wouldn’t even know it was a gas station really if you didn’t look closely enough. It’s only two pumps outside a tiny, brick building with a clock tower shooting right out of its center. It looks more like a train station than a gas station.

But along the path to the café and the little gas station, there are big trees that hang over the sidewalk, shading us from all civilization. It’s quiet, peaceful, relaxing.

“What was the Shakespeare quote?”

I look up at Jorgen.

“What?” I ask.

“You said that you decided to be a writer while staring at a quote by Shakespeare.”

“Oh,” I say and then pause.

“There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so,” I recite.

“Hmm,” he says. He seems to be thinking.

“Kinda like, life is what we make of it?” he asks.

I mull it over and then shrug my shoulders.

“Yeah, I guess,” I say.

“You think that’s true?” he asks.

I slowly bob my head. “Yeah, for the most part. I mean, we decide to frown or to smile – even when it hurts sometimes.”

He tilts his face in my direction and narrows his eyes. “You know, I learn something new about you every day, Ada Cross.”

I lower my gaze and laugh softly to myself. “And what did you just learn about me today? Do I want to know?”

He nods. “I learned that you just might be wise beyond your years.”

I laugh out loud this time. “I’m not, I promise,” I assure him. “I’ve only stolen those words. I didn’t make them up.”

“But you believe them,” he says.

I know my face turns a little sad.

“Believe me,” I say, “it’s a work in progress.”

Jorgen squeezes my hand, and all of a sudden, I notice we’re at the door to the gas station. He holds it open for me, and I walk inside.

“It must be Sunday,” the cashier immediately shouts over the counter.

Jorgen looks up, smiles and nods.

“M&M day,” Jorgen confirms to the man.

The casual, ordinary way Jorgen responds to the guy behind the counter makes me laugh to myself. Here’s this attractive guy – tan, muscular, tantalizing blue eyes, the whole bit – and yet he says things like M&M day.

I watch him dart into the candy aisle like clockwork and then go straight to the M&M’s. And I just follow him and think about Hannah. And I think about her philosophy about there being a moment when you just know – like really know – you love someone. I think this is that moment.

He picks up a bag and then gestures toward the rows and rows of chocolate candy. “Do you want anything else?”

I shake my head. “It’s M&M day.”

He just smiles his crooked, sexy grin at me and then makes his way to the cashier and pays for the candy.

“See you next Sunday,” the man says, waving his hand at us.

Jorgen tips his baseball cap at the cashier and then holds the door for me again.

“So, we can’t eat the green ones?” I ask once we’re outside.

He shakes his head and hands me the M&M’s. “Nope, can’t eat those.”

I open the bag and pull out a green one and then throw it back into the bag.

“Does she actually eat these?”

He shrugs his shoulders. “I think so.”

“I hope she doesn’t mind us touching all of them.”

“They’ve got a shell on them; it’s okay,” he says, taking the bag from my hand.

I laugh and scrunch up my brow. “What?”

He just looks at me.

“She doesn’t care,” he assures me, as he picks out a red one and pops it into his mouth. “She ate a grasshopper once. It had dirt on it.”

My wide eyes rush to his. I watch him pour out a handful of the candies and then corral the green ones back into the bag. Then, finally, he looks up and seems to notice my questioning stare.

“I dared her to,” he explains. “But I can assure you that these are cleaner than that grasshopper.” He holds a single green M&M in between two fingers.

I try to stifle my laugh. “How old were you guys?”

“She was nine, I think. I would have been…eleven.”

“That’s awful, Jorgen.”

“What? It was good protein for her.”

I shake my head and grab the bag from his hand.

“Okay,” I say, “so we eat all the colors but green and then…”

“And then we go home, tape the bag back up and put it in a little box and then mail it tomorrow,” he says, proudly.

I feel my shoulders rock forward.

“What?” he asks.

“Nothing,” I say, shaking my head.

“I thought you said it was…” He stops and seems to think about it. “Cute, I think was the word.”

“I said strange but cute.”

He shrugs his shoulders, but his goofy grin doesn’t fade as he confiscates the bag again.

If I didn’t know better, I’d swear I had always known this man and his silly grin. I had no idea that the day I invited him into my little apartment with his little pizza box in hand that I’d be inviting him into my life – for good. I mean, I don’t know what happens after today or even the next day; I’ve learned that lesson the hard way. But I do know that no matter what happens, this man has forever changed me. It hasn’t even been six months and he’s wiggled his way into my heart and has stamped in permanent marker his name right there on the surface. And all the while, I just can’t get over the fact that he’s got this familiar way about him that makes me feel as if I’ve already lived an entire life by his side – as if we’d already experienced life’s best joys, its most mundane moments and its saddest days and made it through them all, together – and for a moment, I almost wonder if we have. The thought makes me smile.

“Want the last one?”

I look up. He’s got an orange M&M pressed between his fingers.

I open my mouth, and he places the M&M on my tongue.

“Now, we’ve got one bag of green M&M’s.” He proudly holds the bag out in front of us. He’s wearing the same face he wore in that old photo with his first catfish. He’s definitely a grown man now – no one would argue that – complete with stubble and a strong, square jaw and dark features – all but his eyes. But somehow, just somehow, he’s managed to keep that same childlike expression that all but warms your heart and makes him so dang irresistible, all at the same time. And the best part is that I don’t even think he knows just how irresistible he can be.

I snatch up the bag, and immediately, I feel my smile widen. “To Connecticut they go,” I cheer, raising the green M&M’s high into the air.

Chapter Thirty
The Message

“Jorgen.”

Jorgen’s phone beeps again, and I send it flying toward him.

“Message,” I say.

He stops rubbing my feet to catch the phone with both hands. I watch him focus on the screen and read over the words. Then, I notice his eyebrows lift a little before he looks back up at me.

“What?”

“Oh, it’s nothing,” he says.

I shoot him a disbelieving look.

“It’s just Kevin. He says he remembers where he’s seen you.”

“Oh,” I say. “Where?”

He doesn’t answer me at first. His eyes are back on the phone’s screen.

“What?” he asks, sounding distracted.

I just stare at him.

“Where has he seen me?” I ask again.

“Oh. He didn’t say.”

His eyes fall from the screen and onto me before he sets the phone down onto the side table and presses his fingers into my feet a little bit more.

“Moberly’s not too far from here,” he says. “He probably had a crush on you when he was younger or something stupid like that, knowing Kevin. And I’m sure there’s a long, dramatic, drawn-out story that goes with it too.”

He looks back up at me, then scoots closer to me on the couch, puts his arm around my shoulders and kisses me softly.

“You want something to drink?” he asks, after our kiss breaks.

“Uh, sure,” I say.

He pushes up from the couch and makes his way into the kitchen. My eyes travel to the television, but my mind travels back to the message. I glance up into the kitchen. Jorgen is searching in the refrigerator. I look at the phone, then back at the television and then back at Jorgen. He’s still looking inside the fridge. I think about it for a second and almost hesitate before curiosity claims me and I lunge toward his phone and then quickly press the message icon. I feel a little like a stalker right about now. I mean, we share pretty much everything now – even our food and cars sometimes – so I trust him, but there’s something else in that message that he isn’t telling me.

Instantly, the screen lights up, and the message comes into plain view. I quickly force my eyes over the last sentence of the text: I need to talk to you about her. ASAP.

“Found it,” I hear Jorgen say from the kitchen.

I quickly set the phone back down onto the table and slide back to my side of the couch.

“It was all the way in the back,” he says.

I look up at him and catch him holding out the glass pitcher.

“Good,” I say, forcing a smile.

I watch him turn away from me again and start pouring our drinks. As Soon As Possible? My heart is racing. My thoughts are in overdrive, and all of a sudden, Jorgen is standing over me.

“Your tea, sweetheart.” He holds out a glass.

Sweetheart. He has never called me sweetheart before. The word kind of sticks to me in a way that feels strangely comforting, almost familiar. It almost kind of warms me somehow.

“Thank you,” I say.

I watch him sit down and take a swig from his glass. He’s in a tee shirt with Truman Hospital stretched across his chest in white letters. It’s a fitted shirt; though, I’m not so sure it would be fitted on just anyone. And it’s humid today, so his hair is extra curly, and his cheeks are a little sunburned, just like mine. We spent the rest of Sunday outside riding his bike and stopping at parks. God, I never thought I’d ever say that again. Though, I guess there are a lot of things I never thought I would say again, much less do. There were a lot of things, until this curly-haired, sunburned former football-player-slash-farm-boy came into my life and stole my heart without me looking.

“You know I love you, right?” I ask him.

I watch his gaze slowly travel back toward me before he rests his eyes in mine and then nods his head.

“You know I love you too, right?” he asks.

I lower my eyes before I meet his gentle stare again.

“Mm hmm,” I say.

His smile widens. “What are you doing all the way over there?” he asks, waving me toward him. “Get your cute butt over here.”

I shoot him a playful smirk. Then, I collide gently into his side and feel his muscular arm wrap tightly around me.

I feel safe here in his arms, and it makes my heart happy because the truth is that it’s been a long time since I’ve felt safe in the arms of someone I could call mine.

Chapter Thirty-One
The Ring

“Hey,” I say, setting my bag onto the wooden slats of the patio.

It’s beautiful outside. There’s a cool breeze in the air, but the sun is warm – a sign autumn will soon be here. I’m convinced that early afternoons like this were made for having coffee on The Coffee Cup patio.

“I got you your drink,” Amsel says, eyeing a cup of coffee sitting on the table. “Extra cream. It’s already in there.”

“Thanks,” I say, shooting him a happy smile.

“Well, it’s not every day I get to steal you away – and on a Sunday,” he adds.

He lets go of a wide grin, and it seems to take over the handsome features on his face. I get lost in it for a moment, remembering a different time, before I sit down and reach for the drink.

“How was your week?” I ask, taking a sip.

“Great, actually. We landed another client Wednesday.”

My eyebrows instinctively lift. “Anyone I know?”

“Probably.”

I start to smile again.

“Federhoffer’s Deli,” he says, before I even have a chance to guess.

“Wow! So, I can expect them to go national soon?”

“Honey, I can only hope,” he says, flashing me another wide grin.

I just watch him for a second then. The way his smile is so clever, as if it holds a million thoughts; the way his starry eyes light up; and even the way he seems to always be so confident, it’s so familiar, so comforting.

“I’m really proud of you,” I say.

I set my cup down and rest my hand on his.

He stops and finds my eyes. There’s still a smile hanging on his lips, but now it’s more of a knowing smile – one that understands.

“I know we were just kids back then, but the moment I met you, I knew you were a fighter – like you’d always make it through anything that life threw at you,” I say.

He laughs. “I had to be.”

I lower my eyes and softly smile. “True,” I say, eventually lifting my gaze to his again.

He holds his stare in mine for a little longer before he speaks.

“But no kidding?” he asks.

“No, really,” I assure him, nodding my head. “I always believed you were a fighter.”

“Really? Because I’ve always thought that about you, Logan – Ada,” he quickly corrects.

My smile fades a little but ultimately stays.

“It’s fine,” I say. “I don’t mind the name so much coming from you.”

He squeezes my hand before I notice his gaze fall to my ring finger.

“The ring,” he says.

I’m not sure if his statement is a question or just an observation. I pretend it’s a question, though.

“I wear it sometimes,” I say softly, lowering my eyes. “That doesn’t make me crazy, does it?”

After a moment, I slowly lift my gaze to his and catch him shaking his head.

“Deep down, we’re all some kind of crazy, Ada.”

I laugh to myself. “Good answer.”

He laughs too, but then the soothing hitches in his voice start to fade, and his familiar eyes spear mine.

“Someday, you won’t feel the need to wear it anymore,” he says.

I let go of a soft sigh. “It’s still hard sometimes to imagine a day like that,” I admit, looking at him now through hooded eyes.

I feel his hand squeeze mine a little tighter.

“Ada?”

Suddenly, there’s a familiar voice cutting through our conversation, and immediately, it stops me cold.

My breath catches, and I look up to see a man holding a bag of M&M’s. And behind him, I can see the little gas station sign, glaring at me. And then it hits me – it’s Sunday.

I’m frozen. I watch Jorgen’s eyes fall to my hand, cradled in Amsel’s. And in plain sight, is the ring on my finger.

“I think we’ve met before,” Jorgen says, turning his attention to Amsel.

I quickly take back my hand from Amsel.

“Jorgen,” I manage to get out. “This is Amsel. He’s… uh…”

I stop. I can’t say it. I just can’t get the words out.

Jorgen glances at me and then looks back at Amsel. “Jorgen,” he says, extending his hand.

Amsel looks slightly confused, but he offers his hand and forces a smile nonetheless. Jorgen, however, doesn’t even make an effort to smile.

“I’m Ada’s next door neighbor,” Jorgen says.

I cringe on the inside by the reference. I’m more than his next door neighbor.

“Oh,” Amsel says, nodding his head.

It seems as though it just clicks for Amsel. His eyes widen and then quickly snap back to mine.

I try to smile, but there are too many thoughts running together in my mind. Jorgen’s here, and Amsel’s here, and I’m wearing a wedding ring, and two seconds ago, my hand was in Amsel’s. I don’t even know where to begin.

“I’ll…uh,” Amsel starts. His eyes trail back to Jorgen. “I’ll just call you later. Okay, Logan?”

I manage a nod. And then, Amsel’s gone.

I close my eyes. I want to open them and realize that this was all a dream – one big, awful nightmare. I feel the tears building. I try to push them back. I have to be a big girl. I have to face this. I have to finally face this.

I open my eyes to Jorgen’s blue gaze. He hasn’t moved an inch, and now his piercing stare is leaving a trail of hurt in my own.

“Jorgen,” I start to explain. “I know what this must look like.”

He’s shaking his head, and I don’t think I can fight back the tears anymore.

“Who are you…Logan?”

His words – my own name – hit my ears so coldly.

I close my eyes again to try and force back the tears. Then, suddenly, I feel him brush past me, and I quickly open my eyes and turn to see him walking swiftly away.

“Jorgen,” I call after him.

He doesn’t even slow down.

Fear courses through my veins until I’m literally shaking as my next thought battles to the forefront of my mind and my heart slams hard against my chest.

I know it’s time. It’s time to tell him everything – everything I’ve been too afraid to face, everything I’ve been too afraid to say, everything I’ve been too afraid to let go of. He deserves more than only half of me. He deserves to know all of me.

Chapter Thirty-Two
Secrets

I knock on his door and wait a couple seconds.

“Jorgen.”

I knock again. I know he’s here. His truck and his bike are still in the parking lot, and anyway, it didn’t take me that long to grab my stuff and run after him.

“Jorgen, we need to talk.”

I wait another minute, but still he doesn’t come to the door.

“I’m sorry,” I say, into the wooden frame.

I wait there for a few more agonizing moments.

“Jorgen,” I plead one last time.

After another minute, I sadly realize he’s not coming to the door. So I quickly venture back into my apartment and grab an index card and a pen. I go back to Jorgen’s door, scribble the words I love you onto the card and then slide it in between the frame and the door until it sticks.

I step back then and stare at the little piece of paper with my honest words written on it. I might not have any other words together, but I do have those.

And a few more heartbeats later, I find myself slowly turning and inching my way back into my apartment. But I only make it to the couch before I just collapse and fall straight into the leather. All of a sudden, I feel weak and scared, as if I’m on the verge of losing everything – again. My eyes travel to a blank spot on the wall and fall quickly into a trance. I love Jorgen. I might be in love with another man – or the ghost of one – as well, but I love Jorgen. I love him with everything I am. In such a short time, he’s become my world. And he’s helped me to live again – to get back on the bike again, to do things I never thought I would ever do again. I can’t imagine life without him. But it’s also just hard to let go – so hard.

Suddenly, there’s a knock at the door. The few thuds make me jump. I sit up and force my eyes to the sound. And within the next second, I’m jumping up and running over to it. I don’t even bother looking through the peep hole before I throw the door open.

“Jorgen,” I exhale when I see him.

He doesn’t say anything. He just steps past me and plants his feet in the middle of my living room floor.

“Tell me it’s not what it looks like,” he demands flatly.

I slowly shake my head. “It’s not.”

His expression doesn’t change.

“Will you sit with me?” I ask in a timid voice. “I’ll explain everything.”

I watch his chest rise and then fall. Then, he looks at the couch, takes a step toward it and sits down.

I try to smile, but smiling just doesn’t seem right. So instead, I just make my way over to the couch and sit next to him.

“Jorgen,” I say and then stop.

I take a deep breath and then force a steady stream of air over my dry lips. Somehow I know once I say it all, it will all finally be real.

I clear my throat and swallow hard.

“I was married.”

His blue eyes rush to mine.

“Was?” he questions.

I pause and bite my bottom lip.

“The guy I saw you with,” he starts. “He’s the same guy. He’s been here before.”

He stops and turns his face away from me. I can see his jaw tighten.

“God, am I really that stupid?” he asks, rubbing his temples with his fingers, then balling his hands into fists. “You have this whole, other life, and I was too blind to see it.”

It takes a second for it all to click.

“Amsel?” I ask.

He looks at me, and his eyes seem eerily cold now.

“Yeah, whatever his name is,” he says, turning his face away from me again.

“Jorgen, it’s not at all what you think.”

His head snaps back toward me.

“Really, Ada? Because it looks pretty damn bad.”

I lower my eyes and gather up my courage.

“Amsel is James – James Amsel,” I say. “He’s my husband’s brother. He was…is my husband’s brother. He’s…he’s Andrew’s brother.”

Everything just stumbles out of my mouth. I’ve never had to explain who James is. I’ve never even had to explain who Andrew was. And now, I can’t seem to get the words out and put it all in the right tense. I look up at Jorgen. He seems to be processing everything.

“I just need a minute,” he states, standing up.

I close my eyes and take a breath. When I open my eyes, he’s staring at my hand.

“I just need some time, Ada,” he says, as he makes his way to the door.

His words come out so soft, almost broken.

I look down at my hand and the ring still on my finger.

“Jorgen,” I call out after him.

I try to say more before he escapes back into the hallway, but I can’t. I can’t say it all to his back. I can’t say everything I need to say to him as he’s walking away.

I stop and feel the tears freely cascading down my cheeks as I realize that even if he had stopped – even if he had stopped and turned around – I’m not so sure I would have had the courage to say: My husband left me, but not on his own time.