For All You Have Left (24 page)

I’ve been here once—the day I said goodbye to him for the last time. But I’ve never seen the gray stone that bears his name. I finish moving my fingertips over the word, and then I follow the letters in his name, until my eyes fall to a spot below the dates where there’s an inscription. I had requested it be there, but I hadn’t thought about it since then until now. In small letters is the little quote that he might not have gone a day without saying:
There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.
I wanted it there because the quote is Andrew, because it says what he would say if he could. It says:
Don’t cry for me
. And now, everyone who passes by here—everyone who never had the chance to meet him—will know who he was.

The quote makes me smile, but it also forces another tear down my cheek. I wipe it away with the back of my hand and focus on another inscription below the quote. I run my fingertips over each letter in the words:
Forever and a day
. And when I get to the last letter, my head falls to my knees, and I try to control my heart as it grows ever heavy in my chest. He wrote the words in a tree; I had to make sure they were written in stone. And I had said those words that day—that last day with him—but I had whispered them, and I don’t think he could have heard me over the bike’s engine. I have replayed that moment in my head probably a million times now, but each time now, when I say the words, I shout them. I make sure he hears them.

I feel like sobbing, but I don’t. Instead, I sniffle, swallow the hurt in my throat and wipe my eyes again.

“Andrew,” I whisper.

I watch my breath freeze in the air, and I try to force back the flood of tears that I soon realize I can’t possibly stop from streaming down my cheeks. It’s been years since I’ve said his name out loud—as if he were right in front of me.

“You weren’t supposed to leave me,” I whisper.

I pause and force my lips up, but the smile quickly fades away.

“If I would have known that day was going to be our last day together, I would have held you tighter. I would have kissed you longer.”

I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand and just sit there in silence for a moment. I stare at the last inscription. I try not to look at the name above it.

“I’ve met someone,” I whisper, at last. “He’s not as crazy as you.”

I laugh to myself and sniffle some more.

“But he’s just as amazing,” I say, and then I try to smile again through my tears. “You would have liked him.”

I swallow hard, and I just sit there in silence for a while—thinking, letting the hum of the quiet carry me away. I think about our first kiss behind th
at big hay bale in that dusty hayloft. I think about the way his muscles moved in his arm as he carved our love into that old oak tree. And I think about the way my name looked as if it belonged etched in that black ink onto his heart. And then I remember the look in his eyes when he told me he liked my sundress on our wedding day, and I replay that last, perfect smile that he ever gave me. Then, I take a rock out of one coat pocket and a piece of torn paper from the other. And I allow my eyes to follow over the words on the little page one final time:

September 2, 2000

Dear Diary,

I really hate being the new girl. I hope Daddy never gets another promotion. I never want to move again. I miss my old school, and I miss my friends. But I guess it’s not all bad. Sara Thomas showed me how to do a backflip on the monkey bars today, and she pretty much never left my side. I’m pretty sure she’s going to be my new best friend. And don’t tell anyone, but there’s also this boy in my class, and he lives just up the road, and he’s so, so cute. He acts like he doesn’t like me, but I don’t think he’s a very good actor. I’m going to marry him one day.

I hold the page torn right out of my old diary tightly in my hand. Then, I place it on the ground near the base of the stone, and on top of it, I gently set the rock that, once upon a time, penned our love into eternity.

“I love you, Andrew,” I whisper.
“I’ll love you forever...and a day.”

I softly kiss the inside of my fingers and then press them to the hard, cold stone. Then, I take another second and wipe the tears from my eyes before I slowly stand up, inhale a br
eath of cool air and walk away.

Chapter Thirty-Six

Six Months Later

O
nce the words were said, somehow, it had made it all real. And I can’t help but notice that Jorgen had been the only one who had made me want to make it all real—to pull off the Band-Aid and start to heal. I wanted to heal for him.

I take the marriage license from Hannah and lay it into the cardboard box. Then, she hands me Andrew’s championship ring, and I catch its blue jewel sparkling in the light from the open window.
My something blue.
I always kept it in a little shoebox tucked away inside my closet. I take the championship ring now and the little diamond wedding ring, and I put them together into a small ring box and then lay the little box next to the marriage license.

“Here, this too,” Hannah says, handing me a little, metal pin.

I shake my head and take the pin. “No, that can stay out,” I say. “That’s actually my fiancé’s.”

Hannah just smiles back at me.

“Well, then, I think we’ve got everything,” she announces.

“Hey,” I hear a familiar voice call out from the
other room.

“We’re in here,” I say
.

I stretch a piece of packing tape over the top of the box.

“What about your name?” Hannah asks.

I stop running my hand over the tape and look up at her.

“I’ve been Ada for so long now. I don’t even know what it’s like to be Logan anymore.”

I think the truth is that I feel more alive being
Ada and maybe also that Logan is in some way my last piece of Andrew. And there’s still a tiny piece of me that wants to leave him something.

Jorgen is standing in the doorway now. I meet his eyes, and I think he reads my mind.

“I’ve only known you as Ada,” Jorgen says. “I’ve always loved Ada.”

I slowly let go of a smile before I look back at my sister.
“I’m Ada, Hannah.”

Hannah seems to understand because she gives me her look of approval.

Amsel comes in then and Jorgen pats him on the shoulder.

“
Ada,” another voice calls out from the other room. “I’ve brought a lot of hands to help you move.”

The voice comes from a petite, very pregnant brunette who squeezes into the room and plants her feet in front of Amsel. Amsel puts his arm around her and kisses her on the lips.

“Thanks, Erin,” I say.

“We’ll have you all moved out and in your new home in no time,” she says, eyeing up Jorgen.

Jorgen finds my eyes, and a crooked smile dances to life on his face.

God, I love him.
 

*
**
 

“Red?”

I open my mouth, and he sets an M&M onto my tongue.

“Mmm,” I say. “Red tastes good.”

He laughs and pours more of the candies into his hand.

“Green.”

“Put it back,” I say.

I stretch my leg to where the metal links of the porch swing connect, and with my bare toes, I play with the delicate, little chains. The house is quiet now. Everyone’s gone home. Boxes are scattered in every room. There are even a few, which didn’t quite make it into the house, stacked up next to us. I turn my head in Jorgen’s lap and look out onto the field in front of us. There’s a summer breeze gently pushing the
wildflowers and the tall grasses back and forth. It almost looks as if the grass is waving. I smile and turn onto my side and nuzzle back into Jorgen’s lap.

Off to the left, t
here’s a narrow, white-graveled driveway. It starts close and meanders to a line of apple trees, then disappears. The sky is a beautiful mix of blue and pink watercolors fading into each other at the base of the tree line. It looks more like a painting than real life. That’s my view from this porch swing—simple, untouched, exactly how I always saw it. There’s a lot to do to make this little patch of earth a home, but I can’t wait to make it a home with Jorgen.

I feel his hand come down and gently brush a piece of my hair back from my face.

“What are you thinking about, Ada Bear?”

His voice is soft and
thoughtful.

“About our little house in the country,” I say.

I turn onto my back again and stare up into his beautiful sky-blue eyes.

“You know, I always saw it this way,” I go on. “I saw the tall grass and the apple trees and the long, gravel driveway. I saw it all from this porch swing. And when I looked up into the eyes of the man I was resting in...”

I stop and start to smile.

“I saw your face,” I say. “I know now it was you all along.”

Epilogue

T
here is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.

I still think about that quote from time to time. And I think maybe I was supposed to live two lives. Maybe I was supposed to meet two wonderful people and share my life with them. Maybe Shakespeare and Andrew had it right. Maybe the story of our life is what we make of it. I mean, we’re dealt the rain and the sun, but maybe it’s up to us to push away the clouds in order to see the rainbow.

My story began with Andrew Amsel. It began on the playground at Cedar Elementary and on our childhood adventures along with Hannah and James at my grandpa’s farm. It began in the hallways of Truman High and under the stars at Jenson’s slab. My life began in those little moments with that starry-eyed dreamer who stole my first
I love you
. And it still stings sometimes thinking about the story that Andrew and I could have had—the one we spent hours of our summer nights in the bed of his truck and under that old oak tree scheming and dreaming about. I’m convinced that that first heartbreak will never truly go away, and yet I don’t know what my story would have been like without Jorgen showing up across the hall in the next chapter either. I can’t even picture it. Andrew was my first love. Jorgen is my true love. I think I was meant to find them both—to give each one of them a part of my heart.

I still love Andrew very much. I gave him a piece of my heart a long time ago, and once you give that away, I’ve learned you don’t so easily get it back. Though, I’m not looking to get it back either. I’m concentrating on today now—on just those precious moments that are right in front of me.

“Mommy, I found a ring.”

I look down at my little girl. Her
short pigtails are like sprouts shooting out of her little head.

“You did?” I ask her. “Let me see it.”

She proudly presents me with her tiny hand. I glance at the ring now wrapped around two of her fingers, and my smile fades.

“Whose ring is it, Mommy?”

I take a second before I answer her.

“It’s mommy’s ring, sweetheart.”

She stares at the ring for a moment.

“Where did you get it?”

Her small voice is so curious. I try to force a smile.

“A boy,” I answer her.

She’s dangling the ring now from her pinky finger.

“From Daddy?” she asks.

I look at her little, perfect face that seems to be completely engulfed in the ring and in the mystery behind it, and then I pull her closer to me and take the ring into my own hand.

“No, sweetheart, it was from Mommy’s first love.”

I kiss the top of her head.

“Someday, you’ll have a first love too,” I say.

She’s quiet for a moment. I know she’s thinking.

“Why isn’t Daddy your first love?”
she asks then.

The hint of a smile starts to edge up my face.

“Because Daddy is my true love, darling,” I say to her.

She fixes her eyes on the ring in my hand again. I can tell she’s soaking up my words, but I’m not sure if she knows what they all mean.

“What if I just want one?” she eventually asks.

I push out a soft laugh.

“I pray that your first love is your true love, sweetheart.”

She turns to me and presses her
delicate hand against my chest.

“Mommy?”

“Yes, dear?”

“Does your heart hurt?”

My smile falters a little. I have no idea how this little person can sense so much feeling.

“No, sweetheart,” I say, shaking my head. “Mommy’s really happy. She’s really happy she
had the chance to hold everyone she held in this life—especially you.”

I wrap my arms around her and squeeze her little body tightly against
mine. And I hold her for a little longer than I usually do before I take a deep breath and let out a gentle sigh.