Текст книги "For All You Have Left"

Автор книги: Laura Miller

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Chapter Four
Bells

“Logan.”

I open my eyes to a shadowy figure hovering over me, blocking out the sun.

“You look beautiful.” Andrew leans down and kisses me on the cheek.

I smile and sit up.

“You like it,” I ask. “I have another one if you don’t like it.”

He shakes his head. “I love it.”

My stomach fills with butterflies. I’m glad he likes it. After four long days of deciding what to wear today, I came to the conclusion that this one was the one; this one was perfect. It’s simple – no lace, no crazy cut-outs, just a simple, white sundress. I would have been crushed if he had showed even the slightest sign that he didn’t like it. I wanted to look perfect today. I wanted to look perfect for him.

“The dress is new, and the earrings are my mom’s, so they’re old.” I pull on one of the earrings. “And these shoes are Hannah’s.” I point to the little, white boat shoes on my feet. “She won’t miss them – today anyway.” I send Andrew a mischievous grin, but then it slowly fades. “But I don’t have anything blue.”

Andrew stares at me for a second, then falls into the hammock beside me, puts his elbows on his knees and his fists under his chin and just sits there quietly.

“I got it,” he says, after another second. And I watch him pull his baseball state championship ring off his finger. “It’s blue.”

He takes my hand and slides the ring onto my thumb. There’s a spark in his eyes. He looks so happy.

I hold my hand out in front of me and fixate on the dancing sparkles in the blue jewel.

“It’s perfect,” I say, as I look up at Andrew. And for some reason, it’s as if I were looking at him for the first time because I notice him – like really notice him – as being a man and not just a boy. He’s wearing dark slacks, a light blue collared shirt and a gray vest with his black motorcycle boots. It just might be the most dressed up I’ve ever seen him.

“You look really good,” I say.

He looks down at himself.

“You think so?”

It’s cute the way he seems so unsure of himself all of a sudden. I rarely see this side of him.

“Mm hmm,” I say, nodding my head. “You look perfect…ly sexy.”

He flashes me a wide grin.

“Now, save that thought for later, my dear,” he says, giving me a wink.

His confidence is back now.

I laugh softly and try to smooth the wrinkles, which the little eyelets in the hammock made, out of my dress.

“I don’t think you’re supposed to see me before,” I say. “It’s bad luck.”

Not even a second goes by before I feel the tip of Andrew’s finger touch my chin and then start to lift my face.

“Who believes in luck?” I watch his lips light up his handsome features. “You?” he asks.

I shake my head.

“Me neither,” he says.

I start to smile too, but then it slowly fades.

“Andrew.”

His soft eyes catch mine.

“When we get married, you’ll still love me like you do now, right?” I lower my eyes. “It won’t change us, right?”

I peek through my eyelashes and notice Andrew’s face turning serious – not scared or anything – just as if he had thought about it too maybe.

“It more than likely won’t change you,” he says.

My gaze quickly darts up toward his again.

“But you?” I ask it as if I’m scared to hear his answer.

He nods his head.

“You’ll change me all right, Logan.”

I stare at him with questioning eyes. I don’t want him to change, and I sure don’t want to be the reason he changes.

“You’ll make me a better man,” he says, before I can say anything.

I suck in a deep breath and command my heart to beat again. I love him so much. It scares me sometimes when I think about how lucky…blessed…I am to have found the love of my life the first time around. I never had to cry the tears that my best friend Sara had to when she broke up with her first boyfriend our sophomore year. And I never had to experience the indecision or the what ifs that my sister Hannah talked about every time she climbed into my bed and said she just needed me to listen. There was always some boy whom she wanted to date and always another one whom she had second thoughts about letting go. I got them all confused, but like I said, it didn’t matter; I just needed to listen. But I did always wish that Sara and Hannah could have found someone like Andrew when they were nine too. Then, maybe they could have saved some of their tears. Life was a whole lot less dramatic for me. I liked it that way. But more than I loved a simple existence, I loved Andrew Amsel.

“You ready to get married?”

I force my eyes to his.

“More than ready,” I say.

He stands up and holds out his hand. I rest mine – the one with the little diamond on my ring finger and the big blue jewel on my thumb – in his. He helps me to my feet, and we start off toward his bike in the driveway. But we only get a few yards before I hear his soft voice again.

“You tell your parents?”

I feel my lips instinctively push to one side as I shake my head.

He doesn’t say anything; he doesn’t ask why. He already knows why.

“You?” I ask.

“Nah.”

I slowly nod my head. I already knew his answer too. And it’s not that I didn’t want to tell my parents. I did. I really did. And it’s not that they don’t love Andrew because they do. And it’s not even that I don’t think they would understand because they will. My mom and my dad got married when they were eighteen too. And they were nineteen when they had Hannah. My mom was a freshman in college, but after she had Hannah, she never went back to school. I think that everyone might have that one what if in their life, and I think a college degree is my mom’s. And I know she wants that for Hannah and me. I know she wants us to become teachers or doctors or something like that. And I wish I could tell her that I can still do something like that – get some degree that will make both of my parents happy—and be married to Andrew and have them believe me, but I know they’ve got good reason not to. That’s why I didn’t tell them though. And I’d ask Andrew why he didn’t tell his parents, but I already know the why to that too. He was afraid they’d tell mine.

“You still want to do this?” His voice is timid and almost broken.

I immediately stop walking and narrow in on his face. He’s looking at me through hooded eyes now. And even though I can’t tell if he looks more nervous or sad, I just want to comfort him.

“Andrew, I love you so much. I just can’t wait another day. And plus, I imagined myself probably a million times in the last few days standing with you in front of that judge in this dress on this exact day. It already feels so real; I can’t even imagine not actually living it.”

I make sure to look deep into his soft, brown eyes. “I want to spend forever with you, Andrew.”

A moment passes between us in silence before I instinctively squeeze his hand.

“Wait, you’re not having second thoughts, are you?” I ask.

Andrew looks down at the ground and then back up at me. There’s a second where I think I might have stopped breathing, but then I spot a soft, sexy grin returning to his face.

“You’re kidding, right?” he asks. “If it weren’t for parents and high school and a dumb, unspoken rule that says you have to be a certain age to marry the girl you’ve loved since you were a kid, I would have already married you, Logan. You know that.”

I let go of a thankful breath as I rest my head on his arm and start walking again. I do – know that.

“I just don’t want you to have any regrets, that’s all,” he adds, kissing my forehead.

I lift my eyes to his again because I know what he’s not saying. He doesn’t have to say that he worries I’ll regret not telling my parents. And he doesn’t have to tell me that he worries how I would feel if they disowned me or us if we go through with this today. He doesn’t have to say any of it because I can read it all on his face.

“Andrew, my parents love you. And they know how much I love you. And they’ll still love us both after today too. I know that.”

I stop walking and rest a hand on either side of his face. “And I’m marrying you today no matter what. Nothing else matters. Nothing else means more to me. I promise you that anything that I could ever regret about today will never mean more to me than you.”

I lower my hands and shrug my shoulders.

“So, the way I see it, the worse thing that comes out of today is having to decide who gets to drive the Hoveround when we’re eighty.”

Andrew holds a long, fixed look on me. I can tell he wants to smile, but he’s not quite sure yet.

“You know I get to drive it, right?” he asks.

“Who says?”

“The mailbox you drove my bike into last weekend.”

“I scuffed it,” I correct him. “I scuffed the mailbox, and there wasn’t even a scratch on the bike. And if you wouldn’t have been distracting me with all that gears and clutch mumbo jumbo, I would have had it all under control.”

There’s a second where he’s glaring at me with his mischievous boy-grin, then in the next second, he scoops me into his arms, and I feel a high-pitched squeal push past my lips.

“Babe, all that gears and clutch mumbo jumbo was what you needed to actually drive the bike,” he says, laughing softly into my ear.

I flash him a confident glance. “Well, maybe you should have been telling me more about the brakes mumbo jumbo, sweetie.”

He slowly nods his head. “Touché,” he says, before planting a wet kiss on my lips. And soon, a grin returns to his face. “Well, babe, you look as sexy as hell behind the handlebars of my bike.” He sets me down onto the part of the leather behind the driver’s seat and swings his leg over the bike. “But you look even sexier behind me behind the bars.”

There’s a smirk on my face now; I can feel it.

“Sexier and a whole lot safer, you mean?”

“Exactly,” he says, handing me the pink helmet he bought for me the day he got his motorcycle license almost a year ago. “Sexier and a whole lot safer,” he confirms.

I squeeze the helmet on over my thick hair, and then he hands me a backpack, and I throw that on too. And after he kicks up the kickstand and starts the bike, he twists around and catches my gaze.

“Now, let’s go get married,” he says.

* * *

“Give me your hand.”

He looks at me for a moment and smiles, then holds out his left hand.

I position my hand on top of his and snap a photo of the new rings resting at the bottom of our ring fingers.

“Are you happy, Logan?” he asks me after I lower the camera from my face.

I look up at him.

“It’s just another day with you – the best day of my life,” I say.

He searches my eyes for a moment, then kisses the top of my forehead and presses his lips hard against mine. And when our kiss breaks, he smiles at me. And it’s not just any smile. It’s his smile – that one that holds a lifetime of promises that I know he won’t break, that one that says: I’ll never leave you. I’ll never let you go. I’m here forever. I love you. I love that smile.

“You ready?” he asks.

I nod my head, and he lifts me up and sets me onto the little backseat. Then, he swings his leg over the bike and straddles it, while I make sure my sundress is positioned just right.

“You know they’re going to kill us,” I whisper into his ear, as I hand him the camera.

He’s quiet for a moment – but only for a moment.

“Babe, if I die tomorrow, I die a happy man – with your ring on my finger.”

He reaches back and squeezes my leg.

“Your helmet, Wife.” He hands me the pink helmet.

“Thank you, Husband.”

I take the helmet and squeeze it over my head.

“Husband,” I say again, just to feel it on my tongue.

I hear the click of the helmet’s strap under my chin and watch as Andrew slides the marriage license and the camera inside the backpack and zips it closed.

“Guard this with your life,” he says, angling back toward me.

I force my arms through the bag until it’s resting on my back.

“Oh, and I put my sweatshirt in there too just in case you get cold on the way back,” he says. “Let me know if we need to stop, so you can put it on.”

I nod my head, and the big, pink helmet moves with it.

“I love you, Logan Amsel. Forever and a day.” He reaches back and squeezes my leg again.

I adjust the backpack, then tighten my arms around his waist.

“I love you too, Andrew Amsel.”

There’s a moment, and then suddenly, the purr of the bike’s engine fills the air around us. The sound grows louder and louder as the bike leaves the curb in one swift motion, forcing my body backward. I squeeze my arms tighter around Andrew’s waist.

“Forever and a day,” I whisper, pressing my cheek against his shoulder as the warm June air brushes feverishly over the parts of my bare skin.

Chapter Five
Four Years Later

(The Present)

“This is a nice place you got here, sis,” Hannah says, throwing herself onto the couch. “It’s different now that it’s finally all decorated – homier, I think.”

I pull out a glass from the cabinet. “You want some tea?”

Her face darts toward mine in a severe kind of way. “You never have to ask, you know?”

I laugh and grab the tea from the fridge and pour two glasses as Hannah goes on another tangent.

“I’m just so happy you’ve got your own place. And this one is so much better than your last one. And much, much better than the one before that.”

I look up at her.

“Hannah, the one before that was my dorm room.”

“I know. That one stunk…literally.”

I chuckle and shake my head. “It did,” I agree.

“Your own place. No roommates. A great, big-girl job. I just feel like you’re so grown up,” she says and then stops.

“It’s like you’re not Little Logan anymore.”

If looks could kill, I’m pretty sure Hannah would be laid out on the couch by now. I really don’t even mean to send her my death stare; it just comes naturally.

Hannah eventually looks up and scrunches her lips to one side.

“I’m sorry, I mean Ada…Lada.”

She finally settles on the nickname she made up for me that I’ve also come to answer to.

Having a sister definitely comes with its advantages. But being so comfortable that you just spit the first thing that comes to your mind out of your mouth is not one of them.

“Lada, it just came out,” Hannah pleads.

I continue to stare at her across the empty space. But I guess I really can’t be mad. She had called me Logan for eighteen years. I imagine it’s hard to retrain your brain after almost two decades of knowing someone by a different name, and I imagine it’s even harder when you have a brain the size of a pea.

“It’s fine,” I say, picking up the two glasses.

But I’m still trying to shake off the sound of my own name when we hear a loud thud outside the door.

I catch Hannah’s face light up, and then suddenly, that look somewhere in between mischief and curiosity fills her eyes. I recognize it instantly.

She jumps up and rushes to the door as I bring our drinks to the living room and set them down onto the coffee table.

“What is it?” I ask.

She’s got her face plastered to the door; her eyes are glued to the peep hole.

“I think someone’s moving in across the hall.”

“Oh,” I say, in the most enthused voice I can muster.

I haven’t had a neighbor for two weeks, and now, I think I’ve already kind of gotten used to it. Plus, I’ve only ever had weird neighbors. In the dorms in college, the girl across the hall always left messages on my door about her Renaissance club meetings. I’m not sure what I did to convince her that I would ever be the slightest bit interested in “keeping the Renaissance alive,” as she put it, but that didn’t stop her from stalking my door twenty-four-seven with little sticky notes that included words like: Good morrow, prithee and fare thee well.

Then, there was Suri. When I was nineteen, I moved off campus and right next door to Suri. Suri had a strange obsession with cats. She believed that cats were really people on their second lives. She had four of them – cats – even though I think we were only supposed to have one – and each had a story about whom he or she was in his or her first life. One was a doctor who practiced herbal remedies; one traveled with the Russian ballet; one was an aide to Ronald Reagan. The other… What was the fourth one?

“Hannah, what were Suri’s cats in their past lives?”

Hannah doesn’t move her eye from the peep hole. She doesn’t question my query either. Both responses are expected.

“A ballerina, a doctor, a presidential aide and a TV meteorologist,” she says, without skipping a beat.

“That’s right,” I say out loud. “The cat that could predict the weather.”

How did I forget that one?

“O.M.G.,” Hannah squeals. “Lada, get over here. You’ve got to see this.”

I’m almost positive that whatever it is on the other side of my door, it doesn’t warrant me running over to Hannah and shoving her out of the way, but I do it anyway – just in case Publishers Clearing House or Brad Pitt is on the other side.

“What?” I ask, forcing one eye to the peep hole.

“Is he the mover or the one moving in?” she asks.

“I don’t see anything.” My shoulders slump. No big check. No sexy actor.

“Just wait,” she says. “He’ll come back.”

I stand there motionless, breathing into the little space between my lips and the door, for a few more seconds – just long enough that I start to feel as if I’ve somehow turned into the weird, creepy neighbor that I’m so afraid of. Then, suddenly, he walks by and disappears into the apartment across the hall. I immediately gasp, turn and quickly force my back against the door.

“It’s the mover, right?” I say to Hannah.

She pushes me out of the way and glues her eye to the peep hole again.

“But he’s the only one. Have you ever seen just one mover?” she asks.

I push my lips together.

“He’s got a weird obsession with his mother or his cats have afterlives, right?” I ask her.

She doesn’t say anything for a second.

“Or he’s just as sane as his abs are perfect,” she says. “And God, his eyes are so blue.”

I let out an audible sigh.

“Come on, Lada,” she scolds, “be excited. You don’t see eyes like that every day – or abs, for that matter.”

I gather myself and slowly make my way back over to the tea on the coffee table.

“Hannah, he’s probably got a girlfriend or a wife or he’s a priest or something.”

I pick up a glass and take a drink. I think I’m trying to convince myself just as much as I’m trying to convince Hannah.

“Lada, he’s no priest,” she states, confidently.

I shrug my shoulders to try to show some indifference.

“But I’ll look for a ring,” she adds.

“Hannah,” I whisper loudly. “You’re being Creepy McCreepster. What if he can see your big eyeball through that hole?”

She tilts her head toward me just enough that I can see her face – the one that’s pretending to be put out.

“You’re kidding, right?” she asks. “He can’t see me.”

I flash her an impatient look. “Yeah, well, he can probably hear you.”

She furrows her brow and purses her lips. She knows I’m right.

I take another sip of my tea.

I really hope there’s something wrong with this guy – something that would make it easy for Hannah to just let it go – because Hannah anywhere near my love life scares the hell out of me. And I already know where this is all going.

“O.M.G.,” she squeals in her high-pitched voice.

“Hannah,” I scold in my loudest whisper.

She turns her head to the side and stares intensely at me. “You guys have the same tall lamp.”

I close my eyes and exhale.

“Hannah, everyone who shops at Target has the same tall lamp.”

She turns her face away again and goes back to her peeping. “It’s a sign,” I hear her whisper into the door.

I laugh and fall into the couch with my tea in hand. “A sign that he shops at Target,” I mumble under my breath.

Chapter Six
Next door

It’s 6:30 in the morning. I’m barely awake. The light pouring in through every window in this little apartment is blinding me. I readjust my sweatshirt and let it hang over the boxers I sleep in every night. There are exactly eleven steps from my bedroom to the door. Sometimes I get bored of doing the same thing over and over again, so I count. Ten. Eleven. I swing open the door and reach down to pick up my paper. It’s there every morning – without fail. I slide the rubber band off – like I do every morning – and unfold its accordion pages. And as if it were second nature, I turn to the last page just when the door across the hall opens and a man freezes in the doorway and stares at me.

I panic. I feel as if I should be embarrassed of stalking him yesterday – as if he knows or something – even though it really was Hannah who was doing most of the stalking. I quickly roll the newspaper back up and force my lips to move.

“Hi,” I say and quickly drop my eyes.

Oh my God. I notice my bare legs where my sweatshirt ends. It looks as if I’m not wearing any pants. I tug at the boxers, trying to will them to be longer, but I don’t think they’re any match against my oversized sweatshirt.

“Hi,” he says, with a warm smile. “I just moved in.”

There’s a second where I don’t say anything. I know it’s my turn to talk, but I haven’t got the foggiest idea of what to say. What if he heard Hannah yesterday through the door? What can I say that makes me look less like a creeper?

“Really?” I ask, at last, giving him a pretend, puzzled look. My voice sort of cracks, and I clear my throat and try my best to recover. “You must be a really quiet mover. I didn’t even notice.”

He chuckles and looks down at his welcome mat.

“I tried to keep it down,” he says, looking back up. “I’m Jorgen.”

He takes a step and extends his hand toward me.

“Ada,” I say, meeting his hand.

“Ada,” he repeats, almost as if he’s questioning whether I know my own name or not. But he seems strangely relieved, at the same time.

My eyebrows instinctively wrinkle a little in response to his questioning look as I take my hand back and run it through my wild strands of hair. But I figure out quickly that trying to tame my bed head is pretty useless, and I give up.

He’s still staring at me – as if he’s trying to place me in his memory or something.

“We’ve uh…,” I stutter. “We’ve never met, I don’t think,” I try to reassure him.

He doesn’t quite look satisfied.

“I’m a…,” I start and then laugh nervously. “I’m not a one-night stand or a girl you never called, I promise,” I say, forcing out another laugh.

He doesn’t even crack a smile, and his deep stare on me turns even more unreadable. I put my hand on my doorknob and start to turn it. I’m now completely and utterly embarrassed. But at least the mystery is solved. He’s a weirdo who stares a lot and who can’t take a joke. I can’t wait to tell Hannah.

“No,” he suddenly says.

I stop instantly and slowly turn back toward him. His eyes are wide now, and his face is flushed.

“That’s not what I was thinking.” His voice is softer this time.

“No, I know. I’m sorry. I was just kidding,” I rattle off.

He lowers his eyes and shakes his head. “I know,” he says, starting to grin.

Then, there’s another awkward pause, and I start to turn again but something stops me. It seems as though I’ve come to acquire some sort of an affinity for strange neighbors. Plus, maybe the joke wasn’t the best for having just met someone. I feel weird just leaving on that.

“Are you new to Columbia?” I ask because I don’t know what else to say.

He looks up at me.

“Uh…no, actually, I’m just moving from across town. You?”

“No,” I say, “not new. I’ve basically been here my whole life. My family moved here from Independence when I was young.”

He nods his head. “I grew up in a small town east of here – Berger.”

I immediately recognize the name. I did a story several months back about a guy in that area. The little town was next to some other small town, and they were both known for something. It takes me a second, but it finally comes to me.

“By Hermann,” I say. “You have the wineries.”

He nods. “That would be us.”

There’s a pause before I open my mouth again. “Well, welcome to this side of town. It’s quiet. Nice. No complaints.”

He’s smiling by the time I finish.

“I like what I see so far,” he says, looking around and eventually landing back on my pantless legs.

And that would be my cue to exit. I haven’t ruled out that he’s not a dangerous weirdo yet.

“Well, it was nice to meet you,” I quickly stammer.

I reach again for the doorknob.

“It was nice to meet you too, Ada.”

I meekly smile in his direction one last time and then turn the knob and push through my door. It closes behind me, and I twist the dead bolt and let go of a breath.

A moment goes by, and I’m still standing with my back against the door replaying the last few minutes of my life, thankful that they’re over, until I slowly slide to the middle of the door and fix my right eye over the peep hole. He’s still staring at my door. Startled, I quickly move my eye away from the little window. But after a second, I find myself gravitating toward the glass again. I watch as he picks up his newspaper and looks at my door one more time – and this time, I don’t flinch. He looks my way for a second, arches one eyebrow and then turns and slides back inside his apartment.

God, Hannah was right. His eyes really are so blue, and his muscles are definitely…well, noticeable.

I close my eyes and for a second, I think about him and his blue eyes and his big muscles and his perfectly tanned skin. And I forget about my luck with neighbors and my big, awkward mouth and his staring obsession, until another image skips to the forefront of my mind and plops right down. It’s of Suri at a table with her four cat-people sitting across from the Renaissance queen, a horse and a jousting stick. A sigh instantly follows.

“Damn it,” I whisper to myself. “I wonder where he hides all his cats.”