For All You Have Left (15 page)

“Mom,” Jorgen says, “it’s fine. We’re just stopping by. We’re headed to the fair.”

“Hogwash,” the older woman chimes in. “You can’t feed this beautiful girl candy apples and popcorn for dinner.”

The old woman ambles over to me and takes my hand with both of hers.

“Hi, dear, you’ll stay and eat something before you go, won’t you?”

I look up at Jorgen. His eyes are already on mine as if he’s waiting for my response. I send him a smile to let him know it’s okay with me.

“All right,” he says. “But she’s got to save room for dessert. So, no tempting us with any of whatever you got back there.” Jorgen gestures toward a counter lined with baked goods.

“Oh, we won’t,” the older woman says, squeezing my hand, and at the same time, giving me a sly wink.

I try to hold in a laugh. Something tells me this woman was a force to be reckoned with before her first gray hair.

Jorgen and I sit down at the little table, and Jorgen fills my plate, and we eat and listen to the older woman talk about the key to a perfect pie crust, which somehow involves keeping the men out of the kitchen. And every once in a while, Jorgen’s mom finds an open space in the conversation to ask about me and what I do and where I’m from, but I get the hint that she already knows all the answers. She reminds me a lot of my mom. She seems gentle on the outside but also like one of those people, who, if you pulled back a layer, all you’d find was pure strength and determination.

“Oh, and Jorgen, your dad and grandpa finally found your old toy riding tractor. How on earth did it get to that old house on the Steelman’s place?”

Jorgen almost chokes on his salad. “I completely forgot about that.”

His mom is staring at him now, presumably waiting for his answer.

Jorgen swallows and then moves his head back and forth a little, as if he’s trying to play it off. “Lindsey and I threw it on the back of the five-wheeler one day and took it over there.”

His mom doesn’t
look satisfied, and Jorgen seems to notice that.

“Okay,” he huffs. “We put a piece of plywood on the steps and took turns ridin’ down it.”

I force myself not to laugh as the woman instantly tosses her hand to her heart and shakes her head.

“I swear, I’m not asking any more questions. I don’t even want to know how many times you kids could have killed yourselves growing up.”

“They were kids, Diane,” the older woman chimes in. “They survived. You don’t want me to get started on half the shenanigans you and your sister put me and your father through when you were little.”

Jorgen’s mom hardly bats an eye at the older woman, but she does smile at me before she goes back to kneading her dough. I can only guess that smile confirms the truth in the old woman’s words.

“Why were they lookin’ for that old thing anyway?” Jorgen asks.

His mom pats the dough and then lets out a breath.
“Oh, they want to ‘restore’ it.” She uses her fingers to make quotation marks. “You know, paint it, oil it, whatever they do.”

“A toy tractor?” Jorgen asks.

“Well, it was yours when you were little,” she says, bringing a plate of brownies to the table and setting them down in front of us. Jorgen takes the plate and pushes it aside.

“We’re getting dessert at the fair,” he whispers to me.

He winks then, and I just smile to myself.

“So, why are they fixin’ it up again?” Jorgen asks.

His mom stops and touches his shoulder. “They’ll never admit it, but they miss it sometimes.”

“It?” he questions.

“You’ll understand when your kids are grown someday, dear.” She walks back to her station behind the counter. “God knows your father and grandfather didn’t worry half as much as I did about just getting you and your sister to adulthood in one piece.”

Jorgen narrows one eye at me, and I just snicker. I’m beginning to see that our childhoods really weren’t that much different.

We finish our meals a few minutes later, and Jorgen takes my plate.

“Mom, where’s Dad?”

“We sent him outside,” the older woman puffs.

Jorgen looks at me and then at his mom. “Okay, well, we’re going to take off so we can get there before they shut the fair down.”

We say our goodbyes and then head out a back door off a little room attached to the kitchen.

“Dad.” I hear Jorgen say before we’re even out the door. “Truck’s in town. Can I borrow yours?”

“Sure, Son.” The man squeezes Jorgen’s arm but continues toward me.

“Victor,” the man says.

“Ada,” I say, meeting his outstretched hand.

“Well, now
I can finally say that I’ve met someone famous.”

My eyes dart to Jorgen. He just smiles, and I shake my head.

“And Son, you didn’t warn me of how pretty she is.”

My smile quickly turns bashful, and heat rushes to my cheeks. I pray that I don’t turn beet red right in front of him.

I manage to find Jorgen’s stare again through my hooded eyes. It’s locked on mine, and for the first time, I notice a certain softness in his eyes that I don’t think I’ve ever noticed before.

“You meet Grandpa yet?” Jorgen’s dad asks me.

I start to shake my head. “No, not yet.”

“Where is he?” Jorgen asks.

“In his rocking chair,” his dad says.

Jorgen takes my hand. “Okay, we’ll head over there. But then, we’re takin’ off.”

“Ada, it was so nice to meet you.”

I smile at his dad and then feel Jorgen tugging me along toward a big, unattached shed or garage or something. Its bay doors are open, and the first thing I see is a little, old man sitting in a green, wooden rocking chair.

“Ada, this is my Grandpa E,” Jorgen says, gesturing toward the aged man.

“Hi,” I say. “Nice to meet you.”

“No, no, dear, the pleasure’s all mine,” the old man says with a sweet smile.

“Grandpa E, how’s it going?” another younger voice calls out from behind us.

“Still vertical,” Grandpa E shouts over his shoulder and then goes back to his rocking.

“Did those women kick you out of the house again?” the younger man asks.

“No, I left on my own accord.” The old man chuckles to himself.

The younger man laughs too and then sets his eyes on Jorgen and me.

“Hi,” he says, planting his feet in front of me. “Marcus.”

He holds out his hand, and I habitually place my hand in his.

“Ada,” I say.

“
Ada, this is the buddy that plays on the softball team I think I mentioned before,” Jorgen says.

I take a second, remembering.

“Oh, yeah,” I say, starting to nod my head. “How are you guys doing?”

Marcus immediately lowers his head.

“Well, we’re 2 and 4, but I think we’re still all trying to get used to playin’ with each other, you know? We’ve got a bunch of these newbies, and Jorgen over here up and left us.”

He stops then and puts a finger to his chin.

“Hell,” Marcus goes on, “I think Jorgen has been here the two times we’ve actually won this season.”

He
raises an eyebrow at me.

“Maybe you could convince him to get back here for our next game,” he says, sending me a wink.

I laugh and find Jorgen’s stare, already on me.

“I’ll see what I can do,” I say.

Jorgen smiles at me and then turns his attention to Marcus. “So, what are you up to?”

“Oh, I’ve got a tree that was hit by lightning a while back. I’m finally gettin’ around to cuttin’ it down, and I’m borrowin’ your dad’s chainsaw.”

“Aah,” Jorgen says, rocking back on his heels and catching my gaze again.

“So, you guys going to the fair tonight?”

I hear Marcus’s voice, but everything else about me is stuck on Jorgen’s stare.

“Yeah,” Jorgen eventually says, making sure to keep his eyes on mine. “We’re headed out there now.”

“Okay,” I hear Marcus say in the background. “I’ll see you out there then.”

I press my lips together and finally lower my eyes. He’s killing me. He has to know that with those eyes and that forever crooked smile of his, he’s irresistible. Any other guy, I don’t think I’d be here right now. In fact, I know I wouldn’t be here right now. It took him to get me here.

I look up and catch his awaiting smile.
God, he’s beautiful.

“You ready?”

I think it takes me a second, but I eventually force myself out of my trance.

“Hmm?”

“To go?” he asks.

“Oh. Yeah,” I say, nodding my head.

“I’ll just have to get the keys to my dad’s truck. I’m not quite sure Ol’ Red will make it into town.”

I laugh softly, as my eyes suddenly get stuck on something in the corner.

“What about that?”

I point to a motorcycle in the back of the garage and watch Jorgen’s eyes follow my gesture to the bike.

“Oh that?” he asks.

I nod my head.

“That’s my old Harley. I bought that before I even got my license and fixed it up. It runs pretty well.”

He stops and shoots me a sideways smirk.

“Do...you...want to take that?” he asks, timidly.

I think about it for a split second. Then, before I have the chance to change my mind, I nod my head.

“But you’re in a dress.”

I shrug my shoulders. “Well, technically, it’s a skirt, but I’ll make do.”

I watch his smile carve a wide path across his face.

“All right, let’s go,” he says.

He disappears into the garage for a second and comes back out with two old, black helmets. My heart jumps at the helmets’ color.

“Come on,” he says.

I slowly follow him over to the bike. There’s a part of me that can’t believe what I’m about to do, and then there’s another part of me that just can’t wait to feel the wind on my bare arms and legs again.

I watch Jorgen swing one leg over the bike and straddle it. Then, he turns and pats a part of the black leather seat behind him. I try to move, but I’m frozen. I just can’t seem to pick up my foot and take the first step.

“Come on,” he says again, smiling and waving me closer toward him.

I suck in a big breath. My heart is racing now. I can feel its thuds hitting hard against the wall of my chest. I even feel as if I can hear its beats. But Jorgen’s eyes are comforting somehow in a weird way. I haven’t figured out why yet. Maybe blue is just a comforting color. I try to pick up my foot again, and this time, it moves. And before I know it, I’m swinging my leg over the bike and resting a foot on each peg. I take a second then and let it sink in that I’m on the bike—that I’m on a bike for the first time since... I stop the thought, close my eyes and let the breath I’ve held hostage in my lungs for the last minute slowly escape my lips.

“Helmet,” he says, handing it to me.

I take it and carefully squeeze it over my head before he twists around and takes the straps underneath my chin and snaps them together.

“It fit okay?”

I nod my head. The big helmet nods with me.

“Good,” he says. “First time you’ve ever been on a bike?”

I will my heart not to drop to the bottom of my stomach.

“A Harley...yes,” I manage to say.

“Okay, you should probably hold on,” he says, smirking back at me.

I wrap my arms around his midsection, somewhere between his waist and his chest. I purposefully lay my hands flat against his body so that I can feel every muscle.

“You ready?”

I think about his question, but clearly, not long enough because the next thing I know, my head is nodding
yes
—even though I’m not so sure if I’ll ever truly be ready for this.

“All right,” I hear him say. “Nice and tight.”

I squeeze him tighter and then hear the puttering start of the engine. A few moments later, I feel the force pushing me backwards and the loose gravel on the driveway giving way under the tires. But then, I also feel the wind hit my arms and legs, and I close my eyes. There’s adrenaline, and there’s fear, but mostly, I just feel the wind. I feel the parts warmed by the sun and those pockets cooled by the shade. Every breath of summer air brushes over me, dancing and swirling, and ultimately, carving new memories deep into the pores of my skin.

Chapter Twenty

Fair

“T
here are three things that you have to do at a county fair,” Jorgen says, flashing me his now famous crooked smile.

“And what are those three things?” I ask.

He holds out one finger. “Number one. You must get a funnel cake.”

“Dessert?” I ask.

“Dessert,” he confirms.