For All You Have Left

Chapter One Four Years Earlier

“Why do you need that anyway?”

His chocolate-colored eyes find mine.

“You’ll see.”

I watch him go back to carefully examining the rocks scattered in the dirt and the grass. Out here, there are plenty of rocks, just like there is plenty of black dirt mixed with red clay and tall grass and some trees and nothing much else. Andrew and I are standing under a big, old oak tree on the edge of my grandpa’s farm. Toward the end of one of the tree’s thick branches, there’s a worn-in tire swing. It catches my eye as it sways back and forth now in the soft breeze. I live just up the road. We have a dog named Buster and a cat named Nugget, and there’s an old plow contraption that my mom uses as decoration in her flower garden, but besides my grandpa’s old place, the dog, the cat and the plow are as close as I ever came to growing up on a farm. My grandpa’s farm isn’t much today — just an old barn, some pastureland and a few cows. My dad left the farm in its heyday when he was eighteen. The story goes that he followed my mom to a little college town west of here and never looked back — well, not for at least a decade anyway. My sister and I were born in that little college town, and we called it home until my dad got a promotion and moved us here. Though, I’m pretty sure even without my dad’s new job, we would have eventually made it back here anyway. My mom grew up here too, in a little brick house that’s now a daycare center inside the city limits. They always talked about this place when I was younger — as if it were heaven on earth or something. From what I gather, it’s not as small as it used to be. In fact, it’s larger than the town I was born in, but you would never know it from just a few miles past the last stoplight — where I spent the last nine years of my life. I hated it for a while after we moved here. I hated the mosquitoes and the bees and the smell of cows that drifted our way when the wind blew just right. And most of all, I hated the fact that I couldn’t just ride my bike to the ice cream shop or to the movies. In fact, I hated this place pretty much up until about the time that Andrew Amsel first kissed me.

“I need a sharp one.”

Andrew’s talking to me, but it really sounds as if it’s only to himself. I furrow my eyebrows and shake my head. I’m used to his little breaks from ordinary, everyday life, like his little paper-airplane notes that sometimes fly into the classroom from the hall and land near my desk or the groundhog trap he made in shop class — not to actually catch the groundhog that had been burrowing holes into the school’s lawn since March and not even just to have an excuse to get out of class and check it throughout the day. No, the day he built it, he came up to me at my locker with a proud smile on his face and whispered into my ear: “I found a way to see you every day. Look outside the window during English class.” And sure enough, later that same day, I dropped my English book onto a desk, sat down and looked out the window, and there he was, fiddling with a wooden box and smiling back at me. It was just another ordinary day with Andrew Amsel.

Andrew’s house is across the road and two houses down from mine. I first learned this about nine years ago, before I knew anything about mascara or eyeliner and when high school seemed only like some distant dream. It was the same day we moved here actually. It was raining. I remember that because it seemed fitting. My life already sucked because I had no friends; I had just left them all in Independence. I figured: Why shouldn’t the weather suck here too? But it was only a couple hours maybe after the last box had been unloaded from the truck that two little boys showed up at our front door. I remember the clouds were just starting to float away when the taller boy asked if my sister and I wanted to play Wiffle ball. I hated Wiffle ball, and I didn’t so much care for boys, but I would have done anything, I think, to get out of unpacking for a while. Unpacking was right up there with no friends and the sucky weather.

“Found one!”

My thoughts are instantly broken as Andrew takes my hand and gently pulls me to the tree’s trunk and plants his feet right in front of it.

“You put it in a tree, it’s forever,” he says, looking at me with his big, brown eyes.

I feel him squeeze my hand before he puts the sharp edge of the rock to the tree’s bark and starts carving. After a couple moments, he has a big A etched into the surface of the tree. I continue to watch his hand and the rock in it as he draws a plus sign followed by a big L. Then, he traces over the letters a few more times.

“Now it’s forever,” I say.

“Just about.” He sends me a quick glance before going back to his carving.

My eyes follow his movements as he puts the rock to the bark yet again, but this time, I can’t see what he’s etching into the tree. He’s at it for a good while, but I don’t mind just watching him and the way his forearm muscles move with the turn of the rock in his hand. His arms aren’t huge — not like the guys who spend every evening in the school’s weight room, lifting and grunting and trying to outdo each other. Andrew’s arms are just right. They’re strong enough to throw a ball across a baseball diamond, tough enough to lift the heavy things I can’t and sturdy enough to scoop me up into his arms at just the right times.

“There!”

He moves away from his carving and stands beside the tree’s trunk.

I reread the A + L that now has a heart encircling it, and then my eyes travel to the words below it, and I feel the corners of my lips suddenly edging high up my face.

“Forever and a day,” I say out loud, reading the inscription below the letters.

My eyes fall into Andrew’s. I can’t imagine loving someone more. He’s my perfect — one part solid as a rock, one part crazy, one part starry-eyed dreamer. I could listen to him talk about the life we’re going to have in the little house in the country and how happy we’re going to be for hours under this old tree. I don’t know how many hours we’ve spent doing that same thing already.

“I’m gonna marry you someday, Andrew Amsel.”

Even though his face is straight, I watch his wild eyes burn with passion. I know those eyes, and I love those eyes.

“I’m gonna make you so happy,” he eventually says. His voice is raspy and passionate.

He pulls me into him and then kisses me slowly and softly and deeply, almost as if he’s claiming my soul for himself. And when our kiss breaks, he puts his forehead to mine and one hand to my cheek, while the other strokes my hair.

“Marry me tomorrow, Logan.”

I pause, as a word dances on my lips but never leaves them.

“No, really, let’s get married,” he says again.

“Andrew.” I start to laugh. “We’re still in high school. We can’t get married.”

“Why not? We’re both eighteen; there’s no law against it.”

My smile widens. “That has to be a bad idea.” I think I’m more so trying to convince myself just how bad of an idea it really is.

“There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.” He recites the lines straight from Shakespeare himself.

I shake my head. For some reason, of all the lines and quotes he’s ever heard or read, that one is the one that stuck. I think I hear it at least every other day.

“I love you, Andrew, but I can’t marry you in high school.”

He pushes his lips out and to one side and narrows one eye. He doesn’t seem satisfied.

“We’d spend our honeymoon grounded, doing chemistry homework,” I say.

He dramatically inhales and then slowly forces the breath out. “Good point.”

I laugh, and then he gently pulls me down to the ground until we’re resting on the grass and our backs are up against the old tree.

“I love you so much, Logan.”

He sets the rock down onto the ground, and I quickly recover it and then let my head fall into his lap — just like I have done nearly a million times before. There are cicadas in the trees around us, and they’re singing their summer song in unison. And pushing over us, trying desperately to warm our shade, is a soft, steady stream of air.

I feel Andrew pick up a strand of my long hair and then gently lay it back down again. He does this over and over again. It makes me feel safe somehow.

“Are you happy, Andrew?”

A silent moment passes between us. Then, I hear his soft, thoughtful voice.

“It’s just another day with you — the best day of my life.”

I nuzzle my cheek against his leg and press against my heart the rock that just penned our love into the wood of eternity.

“And someday,” he goes on, “we’re gonna get married, and I’m gonna make sure you know I love you every day — whether I’m by your side or not, you’re gonna know I love you. I’ll probably drive ya crazy making sure you know, but at least you’ll be a loved crazy person.”

He pauses, and I snicker a little.

“We’ll fight, probably,” he continues, in a way that seems as if he’s just now come to that conclusion. “And you’re gonna pout in your corner, and I’m gonna pout in mine. And we’re gonna pout until we just can’t hide how much we love each other anymore, and then I’m gonna kiss you so hard. And then we’re gonna promise each other that we’ll never fight again. And then we’re gonna grow old together, and I’m still gonna love you.”

He stops then, but he keeps stroking my hair.

“I’m gonna love you, Logan, forever and a day,” he whispers.

I don’t say anything because I know he’s in his own, little world now, dreaming about our future. He breathes evenly, peacefully now. I can picture the little smile hanging on his lips — the little grin he saves only for times like this. It’s not the same smile he wears at school. In the halls of Truman High, he wears a poker face — a perfect, little smirk that’s one-part sexy and one-part mysterious. He hides his crazy there. He hides the dreams that I know are constantly in his head. He hides them so well that sometimes he even fools me into believing that lunch and the next baseball game are the only future he’s ever thought about. But I guess that way no one bothers Andrew Amsel. His brother tries but to no avail. The girls love him; the guys respect him. He’s cute, and he’s a natural athlete, which helps a little with his tough-guy façade, I guess. But if you know Andrew Amsel like I do, you know his real strength isn’t in anything you can see.

“Babe.” His soft whisper instantly halts my thoughts.

“Hmm?” I angle my face up toward his.

“Two or three?”

I think about it for a second.

“Three,” I say.

He pauses.

“Dog or cat?”

“Dog,” I say.

He nods in satisfaction. And I rest my head in his lap again as he goes back to his dreams and to picking up the pieces of my hair and then laying them back down again.

“Three scraggly kids and a dog,” he confirms.

I can hear the smile in his voice — even over the cicadas’ song, and it makes my heart dance because I see what he sees too. I see the little house in the country — the row of apple trees, the purple and orange wildflowers swaying in the breeze, even the dog. I see it all, all from the view of some old porch swing somewhere. I know it sounds crazy, but minus one detail — one pesky, little detail that’s still a little blurry — I see it all so clearly — almost as if it were a snapshot right out of our future.

I nuzzle my cheek against Andrew’s leg again and let go of a happy sigh. Crazy or not, somehow I just know that from that old porch swing, I can see the stuff my dreams are made of.