For All You Have Left

by Laura Miller

  “Don’t be scared,” he whispers.

  I take my gaze off the dust and the light and find Andrew’s eyes. I can barely see them. They match the darkness around us.

  He smiles, and it seems like a real smile this time. I look down because it kind of scares me too. What if he’s been bitten by one of these spiders and he’s going crazy or something?

  “Logan,” I hear him whisper.

  I look up again, and this time, I notice his eyes on my lips.

  “Wha...?” I start to ask.

  Suddenly, his lips touch mine, stay there for a second and then pull away.

  “We know you guys are in here,” I hear Hannah yell.

  I stiffen. She’s in the hayloft now.

  “What was that for?” I whisper to Andrew.

  He just smiles at me.

  I can hear Hannah’s footsteps getting closer.

  “Found you,” Hannah yells.

  Suddenly, Hannah is towering above us at the entrance to the little, dark space.

  “I told her you guys would be in here,” James shouts, coming up fast behind Hannah.

  “Shut up, James,” Hannah says. “I knew they’d be here too.”

  I look at Hannah and then at James and then I feel Andrew squeeze my hand. He shows off the little gap between his two front teeth and then steadies himself on one knee.

  “All right,” he says. “You found us. Your turn.”

  I watch Andrew crawl around me and then out of the little, dark hole. Then, he turns around and holds his hand out to me. I’m still confused, but I take his hand anyway and let him help me out of the mouse pit.

  “Wait,” James says. “You’re not mad? We found you in like two seconds.”

  We all look at Andrew. Andrew just shrugs his shoulders, then sets his eyes on me.

  “Nope,” he says. “Couldn’t be happier.”

  I slowly lift my gaze to Hannah and James, expecting their eyes to be on me. But they’re not. They’re both looking at Andrew like he needs a doctor. They’re just standing there, motionless and silent, staring at him. And I’m just staring at them, wondering how much they had seen, until eventually, my gaze slowly falls back onto Andrew. He’s smiling at me, and immediately, I think he might be crazy too. But then maybe I’m crazy because for the first time in my whole, entire life, I’m smiling back at Andrew Amsel—and there’s no evil plot behind it.

  Chapter Nine

  The Quiet

  “Hi.”

  I hear a smooth, deep voice come from behind me. I turn the key in the lock and swivel around.

  “Oh, hi,” I say.

  I pull my bag’s strap higher up my shoulder, and then a sound forces my attention to the stairs. It’s the delivery guy, and I notice that he’s also got Jorgen’s attention now too. I watch as the boy-man in the George’s pizza shirt and hat meticulously positions himself onto the metal stair railing and then slides all the way down it. I watch him until his feet hit the concrete and he scurries back to an older sedan with a little, lit-up George’s sign stuck to the roof before I turn my attention back to Jorgen.

  He’s already looking at me with a curious grin when I meet his eyes.

  “He always does that,” I say, waving it off.

  Jorgen laughs and glances down at the pizza box in his hand.

  “Dinner?” I ask.

  “Yeah. Dishes are still packed.”

  I nod my head.

  “You want some?” He extends the flat box a little toward me.

  “Oh, no,” I say. “Thanks though. I’ve got to meet someone for an interview in a few minutes.”

  I watch him nod his head now too. He really is intimidating somehow, and I think that’s maybe why I feel so flustered around him. I’m not sure if it’s his muscles and the fact that he could probably crush me with one hand if he really wanted to or if it’s his piercing blue eyes and the way they seem to laser straight through me. Whatever it is, I’ve really got to get over it if I’m going to be living two yards away from him from now on.

  “Another people story?” he asks, stopping my train of thought.

  “Yep,” I say.

  I start my walk down the stairwell.

  “A collector, strange addiction?”

  I hear his voice trail behind me.

  “I’m about to find out,” I call back up to him.

  ***

  I pull back into a parking space after the interview. It went an hour longer than I had anticipated, but I guess you’ve got a lot of years—and a lot of stories—between parachuting out of your first plane in World War II and downloading your first Johnny Cash song onto your iPod. I grab my bag off the passenger’s seat and squeeze out of my door, being careful not to bang it against the car parked next to mine. These spaces are made for toys and Smart cars. I shimmy sideways and eventually make it out without a scratch—on me or the car—and head for the mailboxes in the breezeway.

  “Hey,” I hear a voice say as soon as I make it under the stairwell.

  I look up.

  “Jorgen. Hey, again.”

  He taps an envelope to his palm. “How’d the interview go?”

  I think I seem unfazed on the outside, but on the inside, I’m secretly wondering if he somehow was able to stick a tracking device to me.

  “It went well actually. Eighty-seven-year-old. Nice guy.”

  I look down to make sure I don’t have any crumbs on my jeans from the granola bar I inhaled on the way back. When I look back up, Jorgen’s staring at me with a questioning smile.

  It takes me a second, but I eventually catch on.

  “Steam-powered tractors,” I say. “He has nine of them.”

  He nods his head. “To each their own.”

  I laugh in agreement and then find my tiny, metal box, stick my key into it and eventually pull out a newspaper from the next town over and a couple pieces of junk mail. But before I do that, I steal a glance at the name on the envelope in Jorgen’s hand and memorize it. Then, I shove my mail into my bag and start my walk up the stairs. Jorgen follows me.

  “How was dinner?” I ask, angling back toward him.

  “Good.” He’s nodding his head. “A little quiet, but good.”

  I get to the top of the steps and stop in front of my door.

  “Well, next time you get pizza, maybe you can bring it over,” I say, shrugging one shoulder. “We could watch...the Food Network or something. Then it won’t be so quiet.”

  I turn and push my key into the lock. What the hell did I just say? I swear there’s something wrong with me. I open the door and slowly spin back around. He hasn’t said anything, but he’s got a boyish grin hanging off his lips and a questioning look plastered to his face.

  “Really?” he asks, finally.

  I think about it for a second. I could take it all back. I should take it all back. He’s a stranger. And he might think I’m hitting on him. Am I hitting on him? No, I’m definitely not. Make up an excuse!

  “Or I have some really girly movies,” I offer.

  He laughs. “I love the Food Network.”

  I could have taken it all back, but I didn’t. There is definitely something seriously wrong with me.

  “But you’ll have to share,” I add.

  He’s silent then—just long enough for me to realize that maybe I hate the quiet just as much as he does.

  “That sounds nice,” he says.

  I’m not sure what “sounds nice” exactly—sharing, the lack of quiet over pizza or watching the Food Network. Any way, it doesn’t matter. I’ll probably regret this whole thing if it ever pans out later anyway.

  “Well, have a good night,” I say, stepping into my apartment.

  “Good-night,” I hear him say before I close the door behind me.

  I quickly turn the lock on the dead bolt, then set my bag onto a barstool, bolt into the next room and plop down in front of my laptop. I’m on a mission.

  I Google Jorgen Ryker—the name on the envelope—and then search t
he arrest records. After that, I search his name with his hometown and his name with the hospital he said he worked for. I search everything that might be connected to his name. And after an hour, all I’ve found is that he had a reserve champion steer at the state fair when he was thirteen and that his high school football team won the state championship his senior year. He was a running back, evidentially, and also not too shabby of an athlete, which is not that surprising judging by his arms and abs. But other than that, nothing—no arrests, no crazy or embarrassing photos on Facebook, no Twitter account. Nothing.

  I rest my elbows onto the surface of my desk and stare into the screen and at an old, black and white newspaper photo of a gangly thirteen-year-old proudly standing next to a really, really big cow.

  I take in a deep breath and then slowly force it out.

  “Hmm. You’re either really good at hiding your crazy, Jorgen Ryker, or maybe you really are just...normal.”

  Chapter Ten

  Pizza

  I hear a knock at the door, and I make my way over to the peep hole.

  After one glance through the tiny window, my heart is racing. It’s Jorgen, and he’s holding a box of pizza.

  I kind of figured he’d take me up on my offer. I just didn’t expect it to be the next day. I run my fingers through my hair and look down at my outfit. I’m wearing sweatpants and a tee shirt. At least I have pants on this time. I push my lips to one side. There’s pepper spray in a drawer in the kitchen, but as long as my professional stalking skills are up to par, I shouldn’t be needing it. I count to three, and then I pull open the door.

  “Hey,” I say.

  My eyes travel to the box in his hands.

  “Didn’t you just have pizza last night?” I ask, leaning up against the door.

  He shrugs his shoulders. “The event tonight called for pizza.”

  I lower my eyes and push out a soft laugh.

  “Well, you’re just in time for a new episode of Chopped,” I say, stepping back from the door.

  He smiles wide. “Perfect.”

  I watch him step into my apartment and then hesitate a little before finally making his way to the couch.

  “It looks nice in here,” he says, his gaze sweeping the room. “You want to come over and decorate for me?”

  I laugh again as I close the door and walk back into the kitchen. My heart is still racing. I’m praying to God he doesn’t notice. Just play it cool, Ada.

  “My sister did most of it. But I’m sure if you ask her, she’d be more than happy to do yours.”

  “Speaking of,” he says. “What was it that she called you? Lada?”

  I freeze with my hand on the knob of the cabinet door.

  “Uh, yeah,” I say.

  I feel as if my words kind of clumsily stumble off my lips.

  I pull two glasses out of the cabinet and catch him staring at the bookshelf and at a photo of Hannah and me.

  “What’s behind it?” he asks.

  I swallow hard. The thought still stabs tiny holes into my heart.

  “The name?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” he says, meeting my eyes.

  I had hoped he wouldn’t ask.

  “Um, after eighteen, I started going by my middle name,” I say and then pause.

  He keeps his eyes on me.

  “But my sister,” I grudgingly continue, “being the creature of habit she is, had such a hard time dropping my first name that she just gave up and combined them.”

  He seems to think about something for a second.

  “So, no one calls you by your first name anymore?”

  “Uh, no,” I say, shaking my head.

  “So, what is it—your first name?” he asks.

  My heart almost jumps right out of my chest. I’m not sure why. I’ve said my name a million times before, when I had to—when the law required.

  “It’s Logan,” I say. My voice is barely audible.

  “Logan,” he repeats. “That’s a pretty name.”

  He continues to look at me as if he wants me to explain why I don’t use it.

  Instead, I grab two plates, scoop up the glasses and head toward him.

  “So, do you have any brothers or sisters?” I ask.

  There’s a slight hesitation before he speaks.

  “One sister. She lives in Connecticut with her husband. I don’t really see her as much as I’d like.”

  “Well, what took her to Connecticut?”

  “Her husband’s job,” he says. “He’s an engineer.”

  “Oh,” I say, as I take a seat on the other side of the couch.

  “You?” he asks.

  I look at him with a rascally side-smile.

  “My husband’s not an engineer,” I say.

  He takes a second to study my face, then laughs.

  “No, any brothers or sisters besides Hannah?” he asks.

  “No,” I confirm. “Just me and Hannah.”

  I hand him a plate, and he picks up a piece of pizza and sets it onto my plate.

  I feel like he shouldn’t be that comfortable with me—comfortable enough to touch my food—but strangely, I don’t mind all that much.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  I feel my face turning bashful all of a sudden.

  “The guy with the beard’s going to win.”

  My eyes follow a line to the TV and then back to him. “How do you know?”

  “I just know,” he says. “It’s all in the way they chop their vegetables. The best vegetable chopper wins—always.”

  I laugh. “That’s not true.”

  “Just watch,” he says. “You’ll see.”

  I surrender and silently agree to play along.

  “So what made you move to Columbia?” I ask after a moment.

  “The job,” he says. “It was an offer I couldn’t pass up, I guess you’d say.”

  I nod my head.

  “So, how long have you been a paramedic then?”

  He finds my eyes.

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were some kind of reporter for some big magazine or something.”

  I lower my eyes and feel a shy smile tugging at the corner of my mouth.

  “Sorry,” I say. “I can’t help it.”

  He laughs. “It’s fine. I’ll answer anything you ask.”

  My gaze eventually finds his again.

  “I’ve been a paramedic for about four years now,” he says. “I started here in Columbia.”

  I pause for a second to quickly add up the years. I guess he’s a couple years older than me—maybe twenty-four or twenty-five.

  “Did you always want to be one?”

  “A paramedic?” he asks.

  “Yeah,” I confirm.

  He lowers his head and chuckles.

  “No. I wanted to be a chef. But I learned early on that I wasn’t very good at it. Plus, it’s not really a real career where I come from.”

  Now, it’s my turn to study his face.

  “You don’t sound too broken up about not starring on this show,” I say, at last, pointing at the TV.

  He laughs again. “I’m not. I love what I do. I meet a lot of interesting people. Kind of like yourself, I guess.”

  This time, a smile instinctively finds my face.

  “Yeah, kind of like me,” I agree.

  “What about you?” he asks. “When did you know you wanted to be a famous writer?”

  I glance up at him, and I know I have that bashful look on my face again. It’s a side effect of being around him, I’m starting to believe. I try to play it off nonetheless.

  “Famous?” I say. “Not sure I know what that’s like yet. But a writer—that would have been at twenty, I think. I decided somewhere in my second year of college. It just kind of came to me while I was staring at a Shakespeare quote one day. I had never really written much of anything before that.”

  He cocks his head in my direction.

  “So, I’d never dig up any childhood memoirs or deep philoso
phical poems you wrote when you were seven?” he asks.

  I laugh and shake my head.

  “Not a one,” I confirm.

  A silent moment passes as our laughter fades.

  “I never really thought about careers when I was younger,” I say.

  I notice his eyes stumble onto mine again.

  “Well, what did you think about?”

  “I don’t know.” I hesitate a little. “Being happy, I guess.”

  I stop at that. I don’t say happy with whom. I don’t mention the house in the country. I don’t mention the three kids we would never have together or the fifty years we would never see.

  “Sounds like a pretty good thing to think about,” he says.

  A broken smile finds my lips.

  “See,” he suddenly says.

  His eyes are planted on the TV now. There’s one guy left standing on the show. It’s the guy with the beard.

  I flash him a suspicious grin. “How did you know that?”

  “It’s all in the chop,” he says, casually. “You want another piece?”

  I think about it, then lower my eyes. “Sure.”

  He slides another piece of pizza onto my plate.

  “So, do you make it home much?” I ask.

  “Uh, yeah.” I watch him grab another slice for himself. “About once a month or so. My buddy plays on a softball league, and I play the fill-in sometimes when I can.”

  I nod my head as my eyes travel back to the television.

  “The girl with the tattoos.”

  “What?” I ask.

  “She wins,” he says.

  He takes another bite of pizza and then arches one eyebrow at me. “Watch her chop.”

  And I do just that. I watch the girl covered in tattoos meticulously for a minute. She’s fast, and she seems efficient, but I still don’t believe him. And soon, I find my attention wandering away from the television and back onto the man beside me. He seems too good to be true. And blame it on my odd curiosity, my past experiences or my job, for that matter, but I just can’t stop wondering what his weird thing is. It probably would have been better to find that out before I invited him to sit next to me on my couch in my apartment, but I guess it’s better late than never.