Laura Miller - For All You Have Left

My smile fades a little but ultimately stays.

“It’s fine,” I say. “I don’t mind the name so much coming from you.”

He squeezes my hand before I notice his gaze fall to my ring finger.

“The ring,” he says.

I’m not sure if his statement is a question or just an observation. I pretend it’s a question, though.

“I wear it sometimes,” I say softly, lowering my eyes. “That doesn’t make me crazy, does it?”

After a moment, I slowly lift my gaze to his and catch him shaking his head.

“Deep down, we’re all some kind of crazy, Ada.”

I laugh to myself. “Good answer.”

He laughs too, but then the soothing hitches in his voice start to fade, and his familiar eyes spear mine.

“Someday, you won’t feel the need to wear it anymore,” he says.

I let go of a soft sigh. “It’s still hard sometimes to imagine a day like that,” I admit, looking at him now through hooded eyes.

I feel his hand squeeze mine a little tighter.

“Ada?”

Suddenly, there’s a familiar voice cutting through our conversation, and immediately, it stops me cold.

My breath catches, and I look up to see a man holding a bag of M&M’s. And behind him, I can see the little gas station sign, glaring at me. And then it hits me — it’s Sunday.

I’m frozen. I watch Jorgen’s eyes fall to my hand, cradled in Amsel’s. And in plain sight, is the ring on my finger.

“I think we’ve met before,” Jorgen says, turning his attention to Amsel.

I quickly take back my hand from Amsel.

“Jorgen,” I manage to get out. “This is Amsel. He’s… uh…”

I stop. I can’t say it. I just can’t get the words out.

Jorgen glances at me and then looks back at Amsel. “Jorgen,” he says, extending his hand.

Amsel looks slightly confused, but he offers his hand and forces a smile nonetheless. Jorgen, however, doesn’t even make an effort to smile.

“I’m Ada’s next door neighbor,” Jorgen says.

I cringe on the inside by the reference. I’m more than his next door neighbor.

“Oh,” Amsel says, nodding his head.

It seems as though it just clicks for Amsel. His eyes widen and then quickly snap back to mine.

I try to smile, but there are too many thoughts running together in my mind. Jorgen’s here, and Amsel’s here, and I’m wearing a wedding ring, and two seconds ago, my hand was in Amsel’s. I don’t even know where to begin.

“I’ll…uh,” Amsel starts. His eyes trail back to Jorgen. “I’ll just call you later. Okay, Logan?”

I manage a nod. And then, Amsel’s gone.

I close my eyes. I want to open them and realize that this was all a dream — one big, awful nightmare. I feel the tears building. I try to push them back. I have to be a big girl. I have to face this. I have to finally face this.

I open my eyes to Jorgen’s blue gaze. He hasn’t moved an inch, and now his piercing stare is leaving a trail of hurt in my own.

“Jorgen,” I start to explain. “I know what this must look like.”

He’s shaking his head, and I don’t think I can fight back the tears anymore.

“Who are you…Logan?”

His words — my own name — hit my ears so coldly.

I close my eyes again to try and force back the tears. Then, suddenly, I feel him brush past me, and I quickly open my eyes and turn to see him walking swiftly away.

“Jorgen,” I call after him.

He doesn’t even slow down.

Fear courses through my veins until I’m literally shaking as my next thought battles to the forefront of my mind and my heart slams hard against my chest.

I know it’s time. It’s time to tell him everything — everything I’ve been too afraid to face, everything I’ve been too afraid to say, everything I’ve been too afraid to let go of. He deserves more than only half of me. He deserves to know all of me.

I knock on his door and wait a couple seconds.

“Jorgen.”

I knock again. I know he’s here. His truck and his bike are still in the parking lot, and anyway, it didn’t take me that long to grab my stuff and run after him.

“Jorgen, we need to talk.”

I wait another minute, but still he doesn’t come to the door.

“I’m sorry,” I say, into the wooden frame.

I wait there for a few more agonizing moments.

“Jorgen,” I plead one last time.

After another minute, I sadly realize he’s not coming to the door. So I quickly venture back into my apartment and grab an index card and a pen. I go back to Jorgen’s door, scribble the words I love you onto the card and then slide it in between the frame and the door until it sticks.

I step back then and stare at the little piece of paper with my honest words written on it. I might not have any other words together, but I do have those.

And a few more heartbeats later, I find myself slowly turning and inching my way back into my apartment. But I only make it to the couch before I just collapse and fall straight into the leather. All of a sudden, I feel weak and scared, as if I’m on the verge of losing everything — again. My eyes travel to a blank spot on the wall and fall quickly into a trance. I love Jorgen. I might be in love with another man — or the ghost of one — as well, but I love Jorgen. I love him with everything I am. In such a short time, he’s become my world. And he’s helped me to live again — to get back on the bike again, to do things I never thought I would ever do again. I can’t imagine life without him. But it’s also just hard to let go — so hard.

Suddenly, there’s a knock at the door. The few thuds make me jump. I sit up and force my eyes to the sound. And within the next second, I’m jumping up and running over to it. I don’t even bother looking through the peep hole before I throw the door open.

“Jorgen,” I exhale when I see him.

He doesn’t say anything. He just steps past me and plants his feet in the middle of my living room floor.

“Tell me it’s not what it looks like,” he demands flatly.

I slowly shake my head. “It’s not.”

His expression doesn’t change.

“Will you sit with me?” I ask in a timid voice. “I’ll explain everything.”

I watch his chest rise and then fall. Then, he looks at the couch, takes a step toward it and sits down.

I try to smile, but smiling just doesn’t seem right. So instead, I just make my way over to the couch and sit next to him.

“Jorgen,” I say and then stop.

I take a deep breath and then force a steady stream of air over my dry lips. Somehow I know once I say it all, it will all finally be real.

I clear my throat and swallow hard.

“I was married.”

His blue eyes rush to mine.

“Was?” he questions.

I pause and bite my bottom lip.

“The guy I saw you with,” he starts. “He’s the same guy. He’s been here before.”

He stops and turns his face away from me. I can see his jaw tighten.

“God, am I really that stupid?” he asks, rubbing his temples with his fingers, then balling his hands into fists. “You have this whole, other life, and I was too blind to see it.”

It takes a second for it all to click.

“Amsel?” I ask.

He looks at me, and his eyes seem eerily cold now.

“Yeah, whatever his name is,” he says, turning his face away from me again.

“Jorgen, it’s not at all what you think.”

His head snaps back toward me.

“Really, Ada? Because it looks pretty damn bad.”

I lower my eyes and gather up my courage.

“Amsel is James — James Amsel,” I say. “He’s my husband’s brother. He was…is my husband’s brother. He’s…he’s Andrew’s brother.”

Everything just stumbles out of my mouth. I’ve never had to explain who James is. I’ve never even had to explain who Andrew was. And now, I can’t seem to get the words out and put it all in the right tense. I look up at Jorgen. He seems to be processing everything.

“I just need a minute,” he states, standing up.

I close my eyes and take a breath. When I open my eyes, he’s staring at my hand.

“I just need some time, Ada,” he says, as he makes his way to the door.

His words come out so soft, almost broken.

I look down at my hand and the ring still on my finger.

“Jorgen,” I call out after him.

I try to say more before he escapes back into the hallway, but I can’t. I can’t say it all to his back. I can’t say everything I need to say to him as he’s walking away.

I stop and feel the tears freely cascading down my cheeks as I realize that even if he had stopped — even if he had stopped and turned around — I’m not so sure I would have had the courage to say: My husband left me, but not on his own time.

“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.

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.

It’s early afternoon. Wednesday. June 10. The sun is shining. There are cotton-ball clouds in the sky, and I can see the open road ahead of us. The warm air is hitting my arms and brushing past my bare shoulders. It feels good against my skin. We take a turn, and I hold on to Andrew tighter and move with his body. I have so much love for the boy I’m holding. I caress the ring on my left hand with my thumb and think about the perfect life we’re going to have together. I’m thinking about our little house in the country, our three, little scraggly children we’re going to raise together and all the places we’re going to go when something happens and the dreams all shatter.

My weight shifts forward, and the bike turns sharply. There’s something big with fur running to the side — maybe a deer. I hold on to Andrew as tightly as I can. Then I see the pole, and I brace myself for the impact.

It feels as if it’s only been a matter of seconds and I’m waking up in a ditch on the side of the road. I’m on my back, and all I can see is blue sky. I tilt my head to the side, and my head aches. There are wildflowers growing up everywhere all around me. And there’s a smell of burnt rubber in the air. It gets stuck in my throat and makes me cough. I swallow hard and try to take shallower breaths.

“Andrew,” I whisper.

I’m terrified. I want to find him, but I don’t want to say his name loud enough and he not answer me back.

“Andrew,” I whisper again.

I hear the sirens of police or ambulances or something.

I turn on my side and sit up. The backpack is still on my back. I pull its straps across my chest until they’re touching, remembering Andrew’s warning. And then my head starts spinning. I force my eyes closed for a second. And when I open them, I notice that there’s a gash on my leg. It’s bleeding, but it doesn’t look too bad. I look toward the highway. The sirens are getting closer.

“Andrew,” I say a little louder.

I unsnap my helmet and pull it off. It falls to the ground, and I quickly push up onto my feet. But suddenly, my head spins out of control and just as quickly, the earth is pulling me back down again. I fight it, though, and manage to get back to my feet. And in the next moment, my eyes frantically go to searching the tall weeds around me.

“Andrew,” I yell this time.

I spot him several yards away. He’s on his back. He’s not moving. He’s not moving! I panic and lose the moments. Somehow, the next thing I remember is shaking Andrew’s shoulders and calling out his name, while someone else is pulling me off of him. I hold onto Andrew’s shirt as tightly as I can. I don’t want to let him go.