For All You Have Left (21 page)

“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 n
ine, 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

“J
orgen.”

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, t
he 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.