For All You Have Left

Chapter Twenty-Five Love

“Well, what do you want to do today, Ada Bear?”

Jorgen picks up my plate and sets it into the sink, while I take in a deep breath and breathe out a smile.

“Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

He nods his head. “Absolutely nothing sounds pretty good to me.”

He comes up behind me and kisses me softly on my neck, sending goose bumps down my arms and legs. Then, all of a sudden, he scoops me into his arms.

I laugh out loud and tighten my arms around his neck. He carries me to the couch and lays me gently down, then lies next to me and rests his forehead on mine.

“I do love you,” he says.

I let go of a wide grin. “So I’ve heard.”

“You know, I pictured it being more romantic when I said it — like maybe there were fireworks in the background or rose petals on the floor or there was this plane writing it in big cloud letters in the sky. But you just looked so darn cute in my sweatshirt, and you said you liked my bacon; I just had to say it.”

I laugh. “I did like your bacon. And I liked that you said it over breakfast.”

He’s quiet for a moment, but he keeps his eyes in mine. I wish sometimes I could tell what he was thinking.

“I don’t know what it is about you, Ada, but I want to be around you all the time. I mean, I know it’s only been a few months, but I just know, you know?”

My eyes drop from his. I can feel the heat rushing to my face.

“You’re just so dang beautiful,” he goes on, brushing a strand of my hair out of my face with the back of his hand, “with your green eyes and your pretty lips and your little nose.” He presses his lips to my nose, then pulls away. “But it’s not just that. Ada, you make me laugh. And you’re grounded. And you really see people, you know?”

My eyes venture back to his. I’m still blushing, but now my eyebrows are also knitting together a little. I’m not sure what he means.

“In your stories — every day — you see more in people,” he explains. “You see more than just an old man owning a bunch of old tractors or an eccentric woman who might or might not harbor strange illusions about cats. You can appreciate that some things are strange and you can laugh about them, but you can see past it all too. You see a soul, a life, a heart that beats.”

He lowers his eyes. “That sounds really corny.”

“No,” I say. “It doesn’t.”

Now, he’s blushing. It looks cute on him.

“Well,” I say, “if you had my job, you’d learn to do that too.”

I watch him slowly shake his head.

“You didn’t learn that, Ada. People don’t learn that sort of thing. That’s a heart thing. You either got it or you don’t. That’s what my dad always said, anyway.”

My gaze gets stuck on the leather in the couch.

“Well,” I say, “I might be able to see well enough to tell someone’s story, but you actually put your hands to people. I admire that.”

I find his blue eyes.

“I really admire what you do — more than you know,” I continue. “I can’t imagine how much courage it takes to see what you see every day and to still put a smile on your face at the end of it and to still want to get up the next day and do it all over again.”

I stop and look away. I don’t want him to see my emotions betraying me.

“Thank you,” I say.

“Why are you thanking me?”

The words are on my tongue. I want to tell him that someone like him once rescued me, but I let the moment pass instead. I’m afraid I’ll fall into a billion, tiny pieces, and I won’t be able to put myself back together again.

“Because you probably don’t hear it enough,” I say instead.

I lock onto his eyes again and fall deep into their shade of blue. Then, all of a sudden, I feel his strong arms tighten around me.

“I had a crush on you even before I saw you naked outside my apartment that first day, Ada Cross,” he whispers into my ear.

He loosens his grip on me, and I pull away a little.

“Before?” I question.

“Yeah,” he admits, nodding his head. “From afar — from the other side of a magazine article.”

He stops and laughs to himself.

“No you didn’t,” I say, shaking my head.

“Oh, but I did,” he confesses. “I fell in love with a writer who saw the good in strange people.”

His sexy, crooked grin makes me smile.

“Jorgen.” My voice is almost a whisper. “I love you.”

He meets my longing gaze and then leans in and kisses my lips. I wish he knew how much those words mean to me and how hard it is for me to say them — not because I don’t love him but because I love someone else too — someone who I know will never say the words back to me.

“I love you too, Ada Bear,” I hear him whisper into my ear as he pulls me into his arms again. “I love you too, my Ada Bear.”