For All You Have Left

Chapter Twenty-Four Come Over

I glance at the clock on my nightstand. It’s 5:30 and still dark outside. The sun hasn’t even come up yet, but I’m wide awake — thanks to my dream and evidentially, the chains of my past. I rub my eyes and reach for my phone. The light from its screen blinds me — as if I were looking straight into the sun. I snap both eyes shut and wait a second. And when I finally get the courage to peek through one eye again, I notice there’s a message waiting on the screen. It was sent at 2 o’clock in the morning. I click on it and read:

Can’t sleep. Thinking about you. Had the best weekend! Can’t wait to see you today!

I stare at the words for another minute before I set the phone back down. I feel torn — torn between my old life and my new one, between letting go and moving on. Images of my dream are still playing in my head — images of Andrew and the way his lips moved when my name — my birth name — came tumbling off of them — and Paris. I force my eyes shut, swallow hard and lie back down. I lie there until the images in my mind start to fade and eventually disappear.

People say it all gets better in time. And I think it does. Each day is a little better than the last; each dream pulls me back just a little bit less. But what they don’t say is how much time it takes. They don’t tell you how many more moments your heart will race, sink, tear or ache. They don’t tell you how many more breaths you’ll lose over a memory, a dream, a scent, a spoken name. They don’t tell you how long it will take to heal. They don’t even tell you what being “healed” actually feels like because I’m pretty sure I’ll never feel like I did when I was sixteen — years before my world crashed in on me. But what they do tell you is that it does get better and that time is part of that equation. So, I guess for now, I’ll just wait on time.

I lie there for another minute, until I feel as if I just can’t lie there anymore, and I pick up the phone and read over the message from Jorgen again. And this time, a smile instinctively dances to my lips.

I type in a few letters asking him if he’s up yet and hit send. Then I wait. And within a couple seconds, there’s a response: Yes. You?

My fingers go to typing another sentence before hitting send again.

Seconds later, the phone beeps and lights up, and I look down at the screen: Get your cute butt over here then!

I laugh to myself, then stand up and make my way to the door. On the way out, I tame my hair into a ponytail and grab a piece of gum sitting on the counter and shove it into my mouth.

Three steps later, I’m at Jorgen’s door. I knock softly a couple times and wait, but no one answers.

“Jorgen,” I softly say.

I wait a few more seconds. Then, I slowly turn the knob, and the door cracks open.

I hesitate but then step inside. The little rooms are dark, and there’s still no sign of him. So, either he sleeps with his door unlocked, which is completely crazy, or he’s already unlocked it and gone back to bed. How long was I messing with my hair?

“Jorgen,” I say, barely over a whisper, as I make my way to the back of the apartment. Now, I think I’m expecting him, at any moment, to jump out at me from some dark corner.

There’s no answer.

“Jorgen,” I whisper again.

I wait. Nothing.

I finally get to his bedroom and freeze in the doorway when I see him.

He’s there — in his bed. He looks perfect. His eyelids are covering his eyes, and his thick eyelashes are resting on his cheekbones. His short, barely-there curls are tossed every which way on his pillow. The covers are strewn all about him; one leg is sticking out. I lean up against the door frame and just watch him sleep for a few moments. I love him. I’m scared to say it out loud. I’m scared to even think it, but I do. I have fallen for the paramedic across the hall — the normal, motorcycle-driving, blue-eyed, abs of steel paramedic that lives exactly three steps from my door.

He turns over, and it snaps me out of my trance. I watch him tuck the comforter under his chin and stop moving again. Then, I tiptoe over to the side of the bed closest to me and lie down beside him. He doesn’t even flinch. I lay my head on the pillow next to his head and blow a gentle stream of warm air onto one set of his eyelashes. It doesn’t faze him. I wait a second and then blow a gentle breeze onto the other set. His head rolls the other way but then returns to mine a second later. I’m trying not to laugh as I blow another stream of warm air onto his lips. He twitches and then suddenly, his eyelashes flutter open.

“Hey,” he says in a deep, sleepy voice. “What took you so long?”

I plant a light kiss on his unshaven cheek.

“I had to wait for you to finish dreaming evidently.”

He squints his eyes and wrinkles his brow.

“Come here,” he says, grabbing my hips and pulling me closer to him. “I had a dream about you.”

“You did?” My cheek presses up against his bare chest.

“Yeah, I dreamt you wore something other than that sweatshirt and those boxers to bed.”

I lift my head.

“That was your whole dream?”

“Well, no, but the rest is R-rated.”

I laugh and rest my head on his chest again. “Jorgen Ryker,” I scold playfully.

He’s quiet for a second before I hear his raspy voice again.

“My mom ordered your magazine.”

“Yeah?” I ask.

“Yeah. She loved you. My whole family loved you.”

“Really?” I scrunch up my face and timidly peer up at him.

“Really,” he confirms.

A little wave of excitement overtakes me. I wanted them to like me. And if I were being honest, I wanted them not only to like me but also to think of me as a good match for their son too.

“I really liked them too,” I say.

We’re both quiet again for a moment.

“Ada.”

“Hmm?” I ask.

“You’re my summer night.”

I feel my face molding into a question mark. For a second, I wonder if he’s still dreaming.

“I am?” I ask, peeking up at his sleepy face. His eyes are closed, but there’s a faint smile hanging on his lips.

“Yeah.” He nods. “And my blue-sky afternoon and my rainy Sunday…and…my open road.”

I push out a laugh.

“All those things?” I ask.

“Every one,” he confirms.

“Well…” I lace my fingers in his. “You’re my…” I think about it and let a few silent moments pass. “My sea otter.”

“What?” he asks.

“My sea otter,” I say again, with more confidence.

“Are you trying to tell me something?”

“Well,” I say, playing with his thick hair, “if you puffed up your hair a little, and if you grew out your whiskers a little more…”

“Oh really?”

He laughs, and I do too.

“No, I mean you’re my figurative sea otter.”

“Your figurative sea otter?” He narrows a playful eye at me.

“Yeah,” I say, “when they sleep on the water, one holds the other’s hand so she doesn’t drift away from him.”

I feel his hand squeeze mine a little tighter.

“I won’t let you drift away,” he whispers near my ear.

I can tell he rests his head back on the pillow, and then he’s quiet again. His last words mean more to me than I think he knows because drifting, for me, is dangerous. It only leads me back — to memories and a broken heart.

“Whose shirt is it anyway?”

My thoughts break instantly, and my eyes fall to my sweatshirt as I let a few seconds pass.

“It’s mine,” I say.

He laughs. “No, I mean before it was yours.”

I don’t say anything for a moment. I just swallow — hard.

“It was my high school sweetheart’s,” I say, at last.

I don’t look at him, and he doesn’t say anything more about the shirt.

“The boxers?” he asks, sheepishly. “Should I assume the same person?”

I take a second before slowly nodding into his chest.

“Why do you wear them?” he asks.

I angle my face up toward his. “I thought you liked this outfit.”

His head lifts slightly. “I said you look good in it. I never said I liked it,” he clarifies.

“Aah,” I say, sending him a playful smirk. But his eyes only widen, as if he’s still waiting for my answer.

“Why do I wear them?” I ask myself, my voice fading off.

My eyes fall to a spot on his tan chest and get stuck there for nearly a minute before I look back up at him and shrug my shoulders. I could tell him why. I could tell him everything right now, but I just can’t seem to find the first word.

“You don’t still…,” he starts but doesn’t finish.

I know what he wants to ask: You don’t still love him?

I shake my head. It’s not the true answer to his question, but it is the right one. It’s the one that matters.

“Do you want some new pajamas, Ada Bear?”

Ada Bear? I feel a slight smile edging up my face again. I go by a lot of names, but Ada Bear has never been one of them. I catch his eyes, and then suddenly, I feel my head slowly nodding. I don’t know if it’s the new nickname or the way his blues hypnotize me, but I nod without any real thought.

And as if the earth all of a sudden shifts, Jorgen jumps up, grabs a pair of basketball shorts lying on the floor and pulls them over his boxers, then runs to his closet. I sit up on his bed and dangle my feet over the side. I listen to him root around the little room for a while until he finally emerges a minute later. He’s holding out a gray sweatshirt with his high school football team’s name stretched across its front and a pair of blue, checkered boxers.

I take the shirt and boxers and stare at them clutched within my fingers and lying against the backdrop of the gray and red, checkered cotton of my old life. And when I look back up, Jorgen is smiling a wide, goofy grin, and I can’t help but smile too.

“Thank you,” I manage to say. “These are perfect.”

If it’s possible, he looks even more content.

“You want some breakfast?” he asks.

I take in a breath and then nod my head.

“Comin’ right up,” he says.

I watch him hurry off into the kitchen, and then I hear some clanging of pots and pans before my eyes travel down again to the sweatshirt and boxers in my hands. Then, slowly, I feel my stare moving to the old sweatshirt I’m wearing. I pull its collar up over my nose and breathe in. It doesn’t smell like Andrew anymore. It used to smell like his sweat and his cologne. It did for a long time, until one day, it just didn’t. And after several days of not being able to smell him, I finally laid the shirt down inside the wash machine, closed the lid and pulled the knob. But as soon as I heard the water pouring into the machine, I flung open the lid and tried to retrieve it. But it was too late. I cried for almost an hour that day, hovered over that soggy sweatshirt. And I still pull it up over my nose every once in a while, just to see if I can smell him again. They say the strongest sense connected to memory is smell. And I believe it because sometimes, if I closed my eyes and breathed him in, I could almost feel him next to me.

I swallow hard, forcing the lump in my throat back down, before standing up and sliding Andrew’s boxers off and then sliding on Jorgen’s. I fold the red boxers and carefully set them onto the bed. Then, I pull off Andrew’s old baseball sweatshirt and force Jorgen’s old football shirt over my head. After Jorgen’s shirt is on, I carefully fold Andrew’s and set it on top of the boxers.

I stare at the folded pile then. Andrew’s hooded sweatshirt no longer has a drawstring for its hood. And the cuffs at the ends of each sleeve are tattered and torn. The word baseball across the front of the shirt is now just a faded and broken semblance of the word, and there’s a tear at the end of one leg on the boxer shorts where I caught it on the arm of my Adirondack chair one day. The pile looks sad and discarded, and all of a sudden, there’s a ripping at my heart, and I want to throw Andrew’s sweatshirt and boxers back on as quickly as I can. But instead, my eyes fall to the clothes I’m wearing and get stuck on the blue in my new boxers. I love the color. It reminds me of Jorgen’s blue eyes. I tug on the sweatshirt that now all but hangs off my shoulders. It’s larger than Andrew’s, and it almost feels as if it’s swallowing me. I kind of like the way it feels.

“Ada, do you want your eggs scrambled?”

My eyes travel to the kitchen and then eventually fall back onto the little pile of clothes sitting on the bed.

“Yes, please,” I call out to him.

I stare at the pile for another minute before scooping it up and making my way into the kitchen. But I only get two steps outside the bedroom door when Jorgen’s hungry gaze makes me freeze. His sexy eyes narrow in on mine, and within an instant, he drops the skillet and starts a slow saunter toward me — looking as if he has a million thoughts running through his mind but only one clear goal.

When he gets close enough to touch me, he wraps his strong arms around my body and lifts me off the floor.

“Now, that outfit I love.” He trails a soft, deep whisper into my ear.

A shiver runs down my spine, and I almost gasp when he presses his lips to mine and gives me a long, hard, slow kiss. I take it all in — as much as I can — until our lips part, and he gently sets me down again. A strand of my hair has come to rest over my left eye; he takes it and tucks it behind my ear before flashing me a crooked grin and leaving me for the kitchen again.

I have to catch my breath. Sometimes, without warning, he just takes the air right out of me. He’s always surprising me somehow — there’s always a new, softer or funnier or sexier side of him — as if each day, I’m discovering him all over again. I’ve really never met anyone like him. He really is an interesting — and beautiful — creature.

I take a moment just to stare at him. A white, sleeveless undershirt stretches across his broad chest now, making his tan biceps look huge. And with his dark, messy hair and scruffy five-o’clock shadow darkening his jaw, he looks as if he just stepped out of an ad for men’s cologne or something. Sometimes I wonder if he’s even real.

I eventually peel my eyes away from him just long enough to situate the sweatshirt and boxers I had been holding on one stool, and I take a seat on the other.

I don’t say anything. I just go back to watching him as he puts two pieces of bread into the toaster and then moves to the stove, adjusts the flame and then turns the bacon over in the skillet with a pair of tongs. He’s done this before. Every movement is like clockwork.

“Do you need any help there, Ace?”

I’d rather just watch him and his sexy self, but I also feel a little guilty not helping.

He glances back at me. “Nah, I’ve got it all under control. You just sit back and relax, baby.”

I smile and then prop my elbows up onto the counter and rest my chin in my hands.

“Where’d you learn to do all this?”

He keeps doing what he’s doing, but he does find a moment in between flipping and placing some scrambled eggs onto a plate to look back at me.

“This?” he asks, eyeing the stove.

I nod my head.

“My grandma,” he says. “She’s one hell of a cook.”

“What about your mom?”

He laughs. “She’s one hell of a woman, but she’s no cook.”

I laugh to myself as he sets a plate and a tall glass in front of me.

“Scrambled eggs, bacon, toast and orange juice,” he says, smiling proudly.

I look down at the plate and breathe in the aroma of breakfast. It’s a foreign smell. Breakfast for me is usually just a strawberry cereal bar from a generic, cardboard box.

“Jorgen, this smells and looks so good.”

He turns back to the stove, and after another minute, sets another plate and another glass of orange juice onto the counter next to mine. Then, he picks up my old sweatshirt and boxers from the stool and places them on the couch behind us. He’s careful with the clothes — almost as if he knows what they mean — meant — to me. The simple gesture makes me feel better somehow.

I wait for him to take a seat in the barstool next to me before I dig into the bacon.

“Mmm,” I say, chewing. “I think I’ll keep you.”

I swallow, and Jorgen finds my big, cheesy grin. I take another bite of the bacon and flash him a quick wink. And just like that, he seems to freeze. I start chewing slower and slower and then finally force myself to swallow. His eyes are serious now.

“I love you, Ada.”

I lower my head and feel my heart start to race. I don’t even think. I just say what I want to say in this very moment.

“I love you too,” I say, lifting my eyes to his.

A grin slowly crawls across his rugged morning face, and then, I watch as he picks up a piece of bacon and takes a big bite.

“You know, this really isn’t so bad,” he mumbles to himself as he eyes the bacon.

I’m still staring at him when his wide-eyed gaze finally falls onto mine again.

“What?” he asks. “I’ve loved you since the moment you showed up at my door naked.”

Without warning, a soft laugh escapes me. I swear I don’t know what I’m getting myself into. I go back to my plate and stick my fork into some scrambled eggs, but I keep an eye on him. And all the while, I can’t stop smiling. The three little words I thought I would never be happy to hear again from a man just melted my heart. And he had said them over eggs and bacon, as if it were just another day — as if I should have known all along how he felt about me — as if I should have known all along that he loved me. And I had said them too, and I hadn’t shattered; I didn’t break. I’m still fully intact. I mean, I had every reason to, but I never gave up on love, not even after… I stop and push the memories back.

I still believe in love. And now, in one morning, I had woken up with my first love, crawled into bed with my new love, shed a layer of my old life, had grown a new one and had said I love you—all before finishing my eggs, bacon and toast.