For All You Have Left (16 page)

We stop at a food-truck-looking thing with an opening on one side and a big whiteboard on the other. On the whiteboard, there’s a list of fruits and sweets scribbled down two columns.

“You’ve had a funnel cake before, right?”

I purse my lips in deep thought. And eventually, I shake my head.

“No?” he asks.

He looks so shocked or offended—I don’t know which—that it makes me laugh.

“Isn’t it just a bunch of fried dough or something? I’ve had a doughnut before.”

“No, no, no, sweetie,” he says, as if adding the term of endearment takes away the horror in his voice. “Doughnuts and funnel cakes are not the same.”

He asks the woman in the truck for a plain cake with extra powdered sugar.

“Your first one has to be plain,” he explains. “And when you graduate from that, we can start adding the toppings. But if you ask me, I think plain’s the best anyway.”

I give him my best apprehensive look. He just smiles and eventually takes a paper plate from the woman. Then, he pulls off a piece of the cake and holds it up to my lips.

I hesitate but then open my mouth. And after chewing the piece of cake a few seconds, I look up and meet his awaiting stare.

“It’s good,” I say. “It’s actually really good.” I swallow and then shake my head. “It’s not really like a doughnut at all.”

“See, what did I tell ya?”

I pull off another big piece. “What are the other two things?” I ask, taking a bite.

He clears his throat
as if preparing to reveal a well-kept secret.

“Ride at least one ride,” he says, proudly. “And pet a sheep.”

I stop chewing and fix my eyes on his. “What?”

He only shrugs his shoulders and nods his head.

“Pet a sheep?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he says. “It’s fun. Oh, and you’ve got to go to the tractor pull. That’s the last thing.”

“But wait, that’s four things,” I say.

He grabs my hips and playfully pulls my side closer to his as we start walking.

“I could have sworn you were a writer, but now I’m starting to believe you actually might be an undercover mathematician.” He narrows one eye at me. “I thought I knew you, Ada Cross.” His last words are raspy, and surprisingly, really seductive.

I try to shake off his sexy voice with a guarded laugh.

“Okay,” he says. “So, what ride do you fancy, my dear?”

I scan the area where all the rides seem to be. I know virtually nothing about rides or fairs, for that matter. I think I went to a county fair when I was little back in
Independence, but I don’t remember much about it. I’m sizing up the whole place when suddenly, my eyes fall onto a tall contraption, circling high above the grassy field below it. And I know just enough to know what it is.

“The Ferris wheel,” I say.

I’m not sure, but I think my eyes light up as if I’m seven or something all over again.

“Good choice,” he says.

He picks up the last piece of funnel cake and throws the paper plate into a metal trash can.

“It’s all yours,” he says, holding it out toward me.

I open my mouth, and he feeds me the last piece.

“Mmm,” I say, chewing. “I’m really going to have to learn how to make these.”

He just grins at me and takes my hand. The ride hasn’t started, so we hurry to it. And when we reach a set of metal gates, Jorgen shows the man taking tickets our wrist bands. The man nods, then lifts a metal bar from the bench, and Jorgen and I both squeeze into the seat and pull the bar to our laps. It doesn’t take me long to realize just how perfectly close I am to Jorgen in the little bench, and it makes me sport a cheesy grin. I try to hide it by sitting back, but suddenly, the bench moves. I quickly throw my hands to the bar in front of us and straighten up again.

“Is this safe?” I
ask, sounding terrified.

Jorgen laughs. “You’ve got a habit of askin’ that after the fact, don’t ya?”

I push out a nervous laugh, but then I quickly go to examining the bench, checking to make sure everything’s connected and that all the screws look tight.

“Tell me you’ve been on a Ferris wheel before.”

I stop and look at him.

“I have, but I was little, and I don’t remember the seat moving.”

“Honey, the swing’s the best part about this ride. Otherwise, you’re just goin’ in one big circle at a turtle’s pace.”

“I don’t mind turtle pace,” I admit.

I notice Jorgen’s eyes turn down toward the nonexistent space between us. “I’ve gotta admit, there are worse things in the world,” he says.

I meet his stare. I want to laugh, but something about him makes me just swoon instead. Even when he’s being cheesy, he’s somehow sexy.

Seconds go by, and his eyes don’t leave mine. And unbelievably soon, the world seems to stop. I follow his slow gaze to my lips. My heart races. All I can think about is his kiss as my eyelids fall over my eyes. But before I feel his touch, the seat jolts backwards, catching us both off guard. A sound comes from me. I think it’s part terrified, part excited. Whatever it is, I feel Jorgen’s arm wrap around me in the next moment, and I lean into him and immediately feel his chest rise and then fall into a sigh. Meanwhile, I swallow hard and try to breathe normally again. If the sudden jolt didn’t knock the wind right out of me, missing his kiss did.

In a
handful of moments, we’re at the top of the wheel and both still recovering, I think, when I timidly peer over the side. People look like tiny Wii game characters now, floating and meandering over the grass below us. But I can also see the river and fields and patches of trees that stretch for miles.

“We’re so high.” My excited words just fall off my tongue.

Jorgen chuckles and then sends me a sexy smile. I can tell he’s still thinking about our almost-kiss. I just lower my eyes and laugh too, solidifying the fact that the missed opportunity didn’t go unnoticed.

He chuckles some more and then seems to shake it off as he points off into the distance. “See, way over there. There’s a house and a shed and then there’s a barn next to it.”

“Yeah,” I say, spotting the buildings.

“That’s my parents’ house. And there’s the shed where we keep Ol’ Red.”

I follow his hand to another spot below us. I see the shed, and I also notice the train is gone now.

We go around a few more times, and Jorgen points out the grocery store, the ice cream shop, the corner where he made a lemonade stand with a friend when he was eight—the pl
aces that make up his childhood. And it makes me happy—to be exactly where I am—with him.

It feels as if only seconds have passed, and our swing is slowing at the bottom of the wheel. There’s a quick halt before the man running the ride magically unlocks the bar above our laps and frees us. Jorgen gets out first and then turns around to help me out of the bench.

I happily take his hand and follow him onto the grassy ground again.

“Now where?” I ask.

He squeezes my hand. “This way.”

We head to a big tent in the center of the field. And the closer we get to it, the thicker the waves of smells. They’re not all bad—some are, but not all of them. Finally, we get underneath the tent, and just like that, I’m on Noah’s
Ark—as if someone seriously just collected up every animal they could find around here and then stuck them all under this tent. There are chickens and pigs and rabbits and cows and some other strange-looking animals that look as if they could be some combination of the normal ones.

“Here, touch it,” Jorgen says, stopping us in front of a short, wooden fence.

I look at him blankly. Then, I watch him reach over the fence and place his hand on the back of an off-white, spongy-looking creature, and I laugh. “Are you sure we can touch them?”

“Yeah,” he says, still stroking the animal.

I take a step closer to the fence and then carefully touch the back of the sheep before quickly pulling my hand back and gasping.

Jorgen just stares at me as if he doesn’t know whether he should rescue me or commit me.

“It
is
soft,” I say, at last.

His face brightens, and he laughs. Meanwhile, I find my hand gravitating toward the sheep’s back again, and within no time, my fingers are caressing its thick fur or wool or whatever the soft, spongy stuff is.

“This
is
fun,” I exclaim.

He shrugs his shoulders and cocks his head. “I’ve never found anyone who didn’t like pettin’ a sheep.”

Just then, a loud engine roars from somewhere outside the tent. It makes me jump, but it doesn’t seem to faze any of the animals meandering in their little pens around us.

I look at Jorgen with
gaping eyes.

“Tractor pull,” he s
imply says.

“Aah.” I nod my head and watch him brush his hands together and then lean up against the fence.

“Well, now that you’ve got your sheep-petting fix, you wanna head on over?” he asks.

My eyes fall onto the animal again that’s now busy gnawing on something near the ground.

“One more time,” I say, reaching over the fence and gently pressing my fingers into the sheep’s soft back.

Jorgen just shakes his head and smiles.
 

***
 

We watch the fourth thing on the to-do list—the tractor pull—until the day is swallowed by the night and then some. And Jorgen tries to teach me all he knows about tractors and tractor pulls. I mostly just watch the way his eyes light up when one charges past us. And I notice after awhile that there’s a direct correlation between the level of his excitement and how far down the track one gets before it’s suddenly jerked backwards. Then eventually, a tractor races across the dirt in front of us and comes to a halting stop right before everyone stands, claps and starts moving again.

“Is it over?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Until next year.”

He stands up from the wooden bench, and I follow his lead, while dusting off the back of my skirt.

“Now, we wait for the best part of the night.”

I stop dusting and look up at him.

“Jorgen Ryker, I believe that makes five things now that we must do at a county fair.”

“Oh, but you don’t have to do anything for this one, my dear. All you have to do is watch.”

He tugs at my hand, and together, we climb down the wooden bleachers and make our way to a little, grassy hill that overlooks an empty field.

“This looks pretty good,” he says, coming to a stop.

He eyes the grass and then sits down. I do the same and sit down right next to him, as people gradually gather around us.

“What are we waiting for?” I whisper, after a little while.

He
simply smiles at me. “You’ll see.”

Just then, a high-pitched scream and a fiery line shoot from the earth to the starry sky. And suddenly, a burst of color explodes against a black backdrop and lights up the patch of grass where we sit. A loud thud follows, and then another scream and another fiery line shoot to the sky.

I find Jorgen’s eyes. He takes my hand and laces his fingers in mine as if my hand belongs in his, and then I return my attention to the sky. I’m not sure what I like more: the dancing lights or the way his large, rough hand seems to swallow mine.

One by one, blues and whites and reds and golds shoot to the sky, burst and then fall toward the earth like bits of dust and disappear. It goes on like this until
at last there’s a thunderous stream of colors soaring to the heavens all at once. It looks as if the field in front of us is bursting into one big firework. I try to make my eyes as wide as I can to soak in all the madness. Then, just like that, it’s black again.

I glance up at Jorgen, and I
don’t even need a mirror to know there’s a childish excitement written all over my face. It’s stupid and probably goofy-looking, but I don’t care. “I like fireworks.”

He lowers his head and chuckles to himself. “Good. Me too.”

I watch him lean back on the ground and fold his hands behind his head. He makes himself comfortable in the grass, and then, his eyes meet mine. Those baby blues seem to tempt me first right before he reaches for my arm and gently pulls me down next to him.

“You can’t leave the fair without lookin’ at the stars.”

I let him guide me down onto the warm, little spikes of grass as I make a mental note: that’s six things to do at the county fair.

He stretches out his arm and pats his bicep. “Pillow.”

I shoot him a curious glance.

“I know it’s hard, but it’s all I’ve got.”

I start to laugh as I gently rest my head onto his arm. And when I’m settled in, he pulls me closer to him and kisses my forehead. And immediately, my laughter fades.

“Did you...,” I start and then stop. “Did you just... kiss me?”

There’s a moment where I swear there’s not a single emotion written on his face. Then gradually, his lips start to turn up.