For All You Have Left

Chapter Nineteen ‘64 Ford

“Damn train,” I hear him mumble under his breath as he pulls to the side of the two-lane road.

I look up to see a train frozen and stretched across the part of the tracks where the truck is supposed to drive across.

“Okay, we’ll have to get out here.”

He smiles his crooked smile at me and then pushes open his door. I watch him climb out and shut the door behind him. And after a second, I follow his lead and do the same, even though I’m now one-part bewildered and one-part amused.

“I don’t know why the damn thing stops here like this all the time.”

He’s talking to me but not talking to me at the same time.

“I live on the other side of these tracks. Are you up for a little walk?”

I know my expression turns curious — fast. I’m not exactly sure what I’ve signed up for yet, but at least now I’m happy that I chose to wear my comfortable boat shoes earlier this morning instead of something less forgiving on my feet.

“When you say ‘walk,’ are we talking down the block or more like a day’s journey?”

I can see in between the railcars, and there’s a shed and a little, winding stretch of highway, but other than that, it’s all flat fields and nothing much else for miles.

“There’s an old truck in that shed over there,” he says, pointing at a spot behind the cars. “It’s there mostly for times like this.”

I watch lines form near the corners of his eyes as he holds out his hand. And I can’t help but smile too when I lay my fingers against his.

He swings his legs over the labyrinth of metal and chains that connects the two train cars next and then turns back toward me.

“I know this is pretty much after the fact, but this is safe, right?” I ask.

A playful expression dances to his face.

“It is until it starts movin’.”

I feel my eyes growing wide right before I scurry up onto the metal hitch, steady myself with the help of Jorgen’s hand and then quickly jump off. Immediately, I feel my feet hit the loose gravel on the other side of the tracks, and I let go of a thankful breath.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I say, securing a strand of my hair behind my ear with my free hand. “There’s really no other way in?”

He slowly shakes his head back and forth. “Not from this side.”

“How often does it just stop here like this?”

“Oh, about once a month or so,” he says casually, as if it’s just another fact of life.

The way he says it makes me laugh.

“Come on,” he says, setting out down the black asphalt with my hand still in his.

The asphalt is the only thing, once we cross the tracks, that reminds me that I’m still in the twenty-first century. I mean, I’m not exactly from the most bustling of metropolises either, but we do have grocery stores and hospitals…and lines on our roads. My eyes fixate on the black highway that carves a winding path through corn fields for several miles. There’s not a single white or yellow mark on it.

“So, this is home?”

He angles his face my way. He’s wearing a happy, boyish grin, and I can’t help but notice there’s a new spark in his eyes all of a sudden.

“This is home,” he confirms.

It’s about a quarter of a mile to the shed. We reach it about five minutes later and make our way to one side where there’s a big door made of wooden slats. We stop at it, and Jorgen reaches up and lifts a latch, then pulls the door open.

“Watch your step,” he says, holding out his hand.

I lay my hand in his again before I look down and step over the raised, wooden ledge and onto the dirt floor.

It’s dark inside the shed. There are no windows, but the sun pouring in from the open door lends me just enough light to see that there’s a thick, gray tarp covering something big in front of us.

I watch as Jorgen bends down at one of the corners of the tarp and starts pulling it up. He pulls it up and then over and then gathers it into his arms.

“Ol’ Red,” he announces, once he’s got the tarp squished into a big ball.

He gestures toward an old truck painted a bright cherry red.

“What year is it?”

I can’t believe something that looks this old still runs.

“It’s a ‘64.”

I walk around the front of it. There’s a clear bug shield running the width of the hood. The words Ol’ Red are written on it in black, cursive stenciling.

“It really is Ol’ Red,” I say, pointing to the letters.

“Sure is,” he says, smiling back at me.

I take another good look at the old truck. “I love it,” I say and mean it.

I watch Jorgen walk to the back of the shed and swing open two big wooden doors. Dust goes flying every which way. I can see its particles hanging on the sun’s rays, though Jorgen doesn’t seem to notice it so much.

He walks over to the passenger’s door then and pulls on it. It comes open but not without a noisy squeak.

I peer into the cab. Inside, the seats are vinyl, and the same cherry red as what’s on the outside of the truck covers the inside too, including the dashboard. And there’s a big steering wheel on the driver’s side made wholly out of metal with what looks like a small doorknob fastened to it.

I climb onto the seat, and Jorgen gently closes the door but then gives it a good, forceful push until it latches. Inside the cab, I notice there’s a long shifter coming out of the floor and only two little metal knobs for the radio. Out of pure habit, I reach for my seatbelt, but I don’t feel anything. I look above my shoulder and notice the reason why I don’t feel one is because there isn’t one.

Jorgen hops in behind the wheel a minute later, and immediately, my eyes fall on him. I watch him reach up above his head and pull down the visor. A keychain with one key attached to it falls to his lap.

“Theft not so bad here, I guess?”

He looks at me with a wide grin.

“Not so bad,” he confirms.

He sticks the key into the ignition and purrs the engine to a start before backing out of the shed and onto the little dirt path that leads to the blacktop. From the big side mirror, I can see the dust trail that’s left in our wake.

So far, this trip has yielded a string of firsts for me — my first train hopping, my first ride in Ol’ Red, my first look into Jorgen Ryker’s life. It’s making me want to stop and stay awhile — even if it is just to see what this sexy creature beside me is all about.

I use the metal lever on the door to roll down my window. The glass seems to come down in two-inch increments and is all the way down in no time. I stare out the window then and let the warm wind pouring through it hit my skin and toss strands of my hair around my face. The dusty trail still hovers over the dirt path in the side mirror. And the train is still frozen on the tracks. We drive parallel to it for a little while longer, until we take a slight bend in the road and start heading away from it. The turn of the wheel makes an object dangling from the rearview mirror sway slightly to one side. It catches my eye and soon, curiosity claims me.

“What is that?”

Jorgen glances at me and then follows my stare to the mirror before he laughs gently and then sets his eyes back on the road again.

“It’s my dad’s tassel. This was his first car.”

The tassel is a faded red and yellowed white with the number 81 in tarnished silver at the top.

I watch the tassel sway back and forth for a moment before I return my attention to Jorgen. His eyes are still planted on the road. One arm is resting on the ledge of the open window; one hand is barely on the big steering wheel. He looks so comfortable — as if he fits perfectly inside a 1960-something truck with the words Ol’ Red painted across the bug shield. The thought makes me laugh inside, until I catch his finger lift up from the steering wheel, and I’m distracted again. There’s another much newer truck coming at us. I watch as the driver of the newer truck lifts a finger as he passes, and I can’t help but laugh out loud this time.

“Was that a wave?”

He sends a questioning look my way. “Yeah,” he says, before he plants his eyes back on the road.

“Who was it?”

He glances across the cab at me, still smiling, and then shrugs his shoulders.

“You don’t know him? But you just waved at him,” I say.

Suddenly, he beams. “It’s how you tell the insiders from the outsiders, baby. Welcome to the river bottoms.”

Baby? All of a sudden, he has this new air of confidence about him or maybe it’s more like comfort — the kind that makes baby sound so perfectly normal and also so perfectly sexy. There’s a happy, tingly feeling in my chest, but I also feel my eyebrows slightly furrowing.

“The insiders wave…,” I start.

“The outsiders don’t,” he finishes.

“Aah,” I say, allowing my head to fall gently against the back window. “I know all your secrets now, Jorgen Ryker.”

He just smiles. “Just about.”

It’s another mile on the blacktop before Ol’ Red climbs a levee and then wanders down a gravel road. It’s flat on the other side of the levee too, with more fields for miles and only a few houses in view. And one house, in the far-off distance, even looks as if it might be abandoned. Its outside is gray and through its windows, all I can see is a dark and sleepy inside.

We finally get to a long, white-graveled driveway, turn into it and eventually stop in front of a two-story farmhouse. It’s made of wood and painted white, and I think it still has a tin roof.

Jorgen gets out and then jerks open my door. It squeaks again but not nearly as bad as the first time.

“They’re all probably inside,” Jorgen says, helping me out of the truck.

“They?” I try to ask without sounding terrified.

“Oh, don’t worry, it’s just my mom and my grandma. I’ve just got to run in for a second. You wanna come?”

“Of…course,” I stutter. Of course home would mean meeting his family. I don’t know why that never crossed my mind. I silently put myself back together. I can do this. I meet new people every day in my job. I tell myself it’s just like that as I tug at the bottom of my tank top and try to brush out my wind-blown hair with my fingers.

I follow Jorgen up three concrete stairs to a little porch lined with hanging baskets full of bright red flowers.

“Mom, we’re here.” Jorgen pushes through a screen door.

There’s a room to the left; stairs in front of us; and a hallway to the right. We go right, and I follow Jorgen down the hallway, but an open door to a den-like room suddenly makes me stop. Hanging on the wall, there’s a framed newspaper clipping of the same photo I uncovered of him standing next to the cow. I stop and stare at it. Underneath the frame is another photo. It’s of his sister. She’s wearing a crown and a sash.

“What’d you find?”

Jorgen’s facing me again.

“I just…Is that you?” I feign ignorance, point to the frame and wait for him to walk back to me.

When he sees the photo, he lowers his head and chuckles, then walks into the room.

“That would be me.” He examines the photo more closely. “All one hundred pounds of me.”

I laugh and join him in the room.

“And that’s Lindsey?” I ask.

His eyes fall to the frame.

“Yeah. She was homecoming queen her senior year. You wouldn’t know it by this picture, but she hated every moment of it.”

I cock my head to the side.

“Lindsey’s not really the girly type,” he says. “And I think that’s why she won. Everyone knew that.”

I laugh again, but this time, my eyes catch another photo on the opposite wall.

“Wait, who is that?”

I walk closer to the other frame.

“Jorgen, is this you?”

There’s a little kid in the photo. He’s maybe four, and he’s holding a fish that’s almost his size.

“Yeah, my first catfish.”

“Is that your dad?” I point to a man in waders helping to hold up the fish.

“Yeah, I think he was more excited than I was. Don’t let him fool ya; he’s a sentimental old fart.”

I stare at the photo some more and then glance back at Jorgen. “You were cute.”

“Were?” he asks. He’s wearing a sideways smirk, and it’s as sexy as hell.

I playfully roll my eyes. If he only knew.

He walks closer to me and takes my hand.

“Jorgen, was that you?” A woman’s voice echoes through the hallway, but for a moment, it does little to faze Jorgen.

His stare lingers in mine, and all I can think about is kissing him. When I’m not lost in his eyes, I can make up all the excuses in the world for why I shouldn’t just devour those prefect lips of his. But in those eyes…it’s a whole different ball game.

“We should probably go say ‘hi’ before she convinces herself she’s hearin’ things and checks herself into the loony bin too soon.”

“Yeah,” I agree, slowly nodding my head. “We should.”

I don’t really agree, simply because I want to stay in his eyes, but I follow him out of the room and down the narrow hall anyway. The floors are wooden, and they creak with each step. But with each step, I’m also a little more excited. I know I’m still nervous for some reason because I still keep trying to brush out my hair, but at the same time, I also can’t wait to find out more about this man, whose stare and lips have taken over my mind.

We get to the end of the hallway, and suddenly, there’s an overwhelming smell of apples and cinnamon.

“Jorgen!” I hear a woman exclaim.

Jorgen hugs the woman and then goes to hug a shorter, older woman with gray hair.

“And you must be Ada.”

The younger of the two women closes in on me and instantly throws her arms around my shoulders.

“Hi,” I say, as she squeezes me tight.

The woman pulls away and then goes to brushing off one of my shoulders.

“Oh, I’m sorry, dear. I’m covered in flour. We’re baking for the church picnic tomorrow. That’s why I don’t have a sit-down dinner. But I did whip up a salad, and there’s some pasta that Grandma made in the Crock-Pot.”

She points to a table in the center of the room.

“Mom,” Jorgen says, “it’s fine. We’re just stopping by. We’re headed to the fair.”

“Hogwash,” the older woman chimes in. “You can’t feed this beautiful girl candy apples and popcorn for dinner.”

The old woman ambles over to me and takes my hand with both of hers.

“Hi, dear, you’ll stay and eat something before you go, won’t you?”

I look up at Jorgen. His eyes are already on mine as if he’s waiting for my response. I send him a smile to let him know it’s okay with me.

“All right,” he says. “But she’s got to save room for dessert. So, no tempting us with any of whatever you got back there.” Jorgen gestures toward a counter lined with baked goods.

“Oh, we won’t,” the older woman says, squeezing my hand, and at the same time, giving me a sly wink.

I try to hold in a laugh. Something tells me this woman was a force to be reckoned with before her first gray hair.

Jorgen and I sit down at the little table, and Jorgen fills my plate, and we eat and listen to the older woman talk about the key to a perfect pie crust, which somehow involves keeping the men out of the kitchen. And every once in a while, Jorgen’s mom finds an open space in the conversation to ask about me and what I do and where I’m from, but I get the hint that she already knows all the answers. She reminds me a lot of my mom. She seems gentle on the outside but also like one of those people, who, if you pulled back a layer, all you’d find was pure strength and determination.

“Oh, and Jorgen, your dad and grandpa finally found your old toy riding tractor. How on earth did it get to that old house on the Steelman’s place?”

Jorgen almost chokes on his salad. “I completely forgot about that.”

His mom is staring at him now, presumably waiting for his answer.

Jorgen swallows and then moves his head back and forth a little, as if he’s trying to play it off. “Lindsey and I threw it on the back of the five-wheeler one day and took it over there.”

His mom doesn’t look satisfied, and Jorgen seems to notice that.

“Okay,” he huffs. “We put a piece of plywood on the steps and took turns ridin’ down it.”

I force myself not to laugh as the woman instantly tosses her hand to her heart and shakes her head.

“I swear, I’m not asking any more questions. I don’t even want to know how many times you kids could have killed yourselves growing up.”

“They were kids, Diane,” the older woman chimes in. “They survived. You don’t want me to get started on half the shenanigans you and your sister put me and your father through when you were little.”

Jorgen’s mom hardly bats an eye at the older woman, but she does smile at me before she goes back to kneading her dough. I can only guess that smile confirms the truth in the old woman’s words.

“Why were they lookin’ for that old thing anyway?” Jorgen asks.

His mom pats the dough and then lets out a breath. “Oh, they want to ‘restore’ it.” She uses her fingers to make quotation marks. “You know, paint it, oil it, whatever they do.”

“A toy tractor?” Jorgen asks.

“Well, it was yours when you were little,” she says, bringing a plate of brownies to the table and setting them down in front of us. Jorgen takes the plate and pushes it aside.

“We’re getting dessert at the fair,” he whispers to me.

He winks then, and I just smile to myself.

“So, why are they fixin’ it up again?” Jorgen asks.

His mom stops and touches his shoulder. “They’ll never admit it, but they miss it sometimes.”

“It?” he questions.

“You’ll understand when your kids are grown someday, dear.” She walks back to her station behind the counter. “God knows your father and grandfather didn’t worry half as much as I did about just getting you and your sister to adulthood in one piece.”

Jorgen narrows one eye at me, and I just snicker. I’m beginning to see that our childhoods really weren’t that much different.

We finish our meals a few minutes later, and Jorgen takes my plate.

“Mom, where’s Dad?”

“We sent him outside,” the older woman puffs.

Jorgen looks at me and then at his mom. “Okay, well, we’re going to take off so we can get there before they shut the fair down.”

We say our goodbyes and then head out a back door off a little room attached to the kitchen.

“Dad.” I hear Jorgen say before we’re even out the door. “Truck’s in town. Can I borrow yours?”

“Sure, Son.” The man squeezes Jorgen’s arm but continues toward me.

“Victor,” the man says.

“Ada,” I say, meeting his outstretched hand.

“Well, now I can finally say that I’ve met someone famous.”

My eyes dart to Jorgen. He just smiles, and I shake my head.

“And Son, you didn’t warn me of how pretty she is.”

My smile quickly turns bashful, and heat rushes to my cheeks. I pray that I don’t turn beet red right in front of him.

I manage to find Jorgen’s stare again through my hooded eyes. It’s locked on mine, and for the first time, I notice a certain softness in his eyes that I don’t think I’ve ever noticed before.

“You meet Grandpa yet?” Jorgen’s dad asks me.

I start to shake my head. “No, not yet.”

“Where is he?” Jorgen asks.

“In his rocking chair,” his dad says.

Jorgen takes my hand. “Okay, we’ll head over there. But then, we’re takin’ off.”

“Ada, it was so nice to meet you.”

I smile at his dad and then feel Jorgen tugging me along toward a big, unattached shed or garage or something. Its bay doors are open, and the first thing I see is a little, old man sitting in a green, wooden rocking chair.

“Ada, this is my Grandpa E,” Jorgen says, gesturing toward the aged man.

“Hi,” I say. “Nice to meet you.”

“No, no, dear, the pleasure’s all mine,” the old man says with a sweet smile.

“Grandpa E, how’s it going?” another younger voice calls out from behind us.

“Still vertical,” Grandpa E shouts over his shoulder and then goes back to his rocking.

“Did those women kick you out of the house again?” the younger man asks.

“No, I left on my own accord.” The old man chuckles to himself.

The younger man laughs too and then sets his eyes on Jorgen and me.

“Hi,” he says, planting his feet in front of me. “Marcus.”

He holds out his hand, and I habitually place my hand in his.

“Ada,” I say.

“Ada, this is the buddy that plays on the softball team I think I mentioned before,” Jorgen says.

I take a second, remembering.

“Oh, yeah,” I say, starting to nod my head. “How are you guys doing?”

Marcus immediately lowers his head.

“Well, we’re 2 and 4, but I think we’re still all trying to get used to playin’ with each other, you know? We’ve got a bunch of these newbies, and Jorgen over here up and left us.”

He stops then and puts a finger to his chin.

“Hell,” Marcus goes on, “I think Jorgen has been here the two times we’ve actually won this season.”

He raises an eyebrow at me.

“Maybe you could convince him to get back here for our next game,” he says, sending me a wink.

I laugh and find Jorgen’s stare, already on me.

“I’ll see what I can do,” I say.

Jorgen smiles at me and then turns his attention to Marcus. “So, what are you up to?”

“Oh, I’ve got a tree that was hit by lightning a while back. I’m finally gettin’ around to cuttin’ it down, and I’m borrowin’ your dad’s chainsaw.”

“Aah,” Jorgen says, rocking back on his heels and catching my gaze again.

“So, you guys going to the fair tonight?”

I hear Marcus’s voice, but everything else about me is stuck on Jorgen’s stare.

“Yeah,” Jorgen eventually says, making sure to keep his eyes on mine. “We’re headed out there now.”

“Okay,” I hear Marcus say in the background. “I’ll see you out there then.”

I press my lips together and finally lower my eyes. He’s killing me. He has to know that with those eyes and that forever crooked smile of his, he’s irresistible. Any other guy, I don’t think I’d be here right now. In fact, I know I wouldn’t be here right now. It took him to get me here.

I look up and catch his awaiting smile. God, he’s beautiful.

“You ready?”

I think it takes me a second, but I eventually force myself out of my trance.

“Hmm?”

“To go?” he asks.

“Oh. Yeah,” I say, nodding my head.

“I’ll just have to get the keys to my dad’s truck. I’m not quite sure Ol’ Red will make it into town.”

I laugh softly, as my eyes suddenly get stuck on something in the corner.

“What about that?”

I point to a motorcycle in the back of the garage and watch Jorgen’s eyes follow my gesture to the bike.

“Oh that?” he asks.

I nod my head.

“That’s my old Harley. I bought that before I even got my license and fixed it up. It runs pretty well.”

He stops and shoots me a sideways smirk.

“Do…you…want to take that?” he asks, timidly.

I think about it for a split second. Then, before I have the chance to change my mind, I nod my head.

“But you’re in a dress.”

I shrug my shoulders. “Well, technically, it’s a skirt, but I’ll make do.”

I watch his smile carve a wide path across his face.

“All right, let’s go,” he says.

He disappears into the garage for a second and comes back out with two old, black helmets. My heart jumps at the helmets’ color.

“Come on,” he says.

I slowly follow him over to the bike. There’s a part of me that can’t believe what I’m about to do, and then there’s another part of me that just can’t wait to feel the wind on my bare arms and legs again.

I watch Jorgen swing one leg over the bike and straddle it. Then, he turns and pats a part of the black leather seat behind him. I try to move, but I’m frozen. I just can’t seem to pick up my foot and take the first step.

“Come on,” he says again, smiling and waving me closer toward him.

I suck in a big breath. My heart is racing now. I can feel its thuds hitting hard against the wall of my chest. I even feel as if I can hear its beats. But Jorgen’s eyes are comforting somehow in a weird way. I haven’t figured out why yet. Maybe blue is just a comforting color. I try to pick up my foot again, and this time, it moves. And before I know it, I’m swinging my leg over the bike and resting a foot on each peg. I take a second then and let it sink in that I’m on the bike — that I’m on a bike for the first time since… I stop the thought, close my eyes and let the breath I’ve held hostage in my lungs for the last minute slowly escape my lips.

“Helmet,” he says, handing it to me.

I take it and carefully squeeze it over my head before he twists around and takes the straps underneath my chin and snaps them together.

“It fit okay?”

I nod my head. The big helmet nods with me.

“Good,” he says. “First time you’ve ever been on a bike?”

I will my heart not to drop to the bottom of my stomach.

“A Harley…yes,” I manage to say.

“Okay, you should probably hold on,” he says, smirking back at me.

I wrap my arms around his midsection, somewhere between his waist and his chest. I purposefully lay my hands flat against his body so that I can feel every muscle.

“You ready?”

I think about his question, but clearly, not long enough because the next thing I know, my head is nodding yes—even though I’m not so sure if I’ll ever truly be ready for this.

“All right,” I hear him say. “Nice and tight.”

I squeeze him tighter and then hear the puttering start of the engine. A few moments later, I feel the force pushing me backwards and the loose gravel on the driveway giving way under the tires. But then, I also feel the wind hit my arms and legs, and I close my eyes. There’s adrenaline, and there’s fear, but mostly, I just feel the wind. I feel the parts warmed by the sun and those pockets cooled by the shade. Every breath of summer air brushes over me, dancing and swirling, and ultimately, carving new memories deep into the pores of my skin.