Laura Miller - For All You Have Left

“You tricked me,” I shout. “You acted like this didn’t hurt.”

I try to sound playful, but I’m pretty sure it only comes out pained. Andrew scrunches up his face in pity.

“I’m sorry, babe,” he says, sandwiching my hand in between both of his.

I close my eyes, and I feel warm tears welling up behind my eyelids.

“Okay,” Andrew suddenly rattles off. “A. A looks good. We’re stopping at A.”

The needle guy picks up his torture device.

I look up from my agony and stare down at my hip. “But he’s not finished.”

“Baby, I think the A looks cool by itself. My whole name will be too much.”

I look down at my hip again and then up at the guy holding the needle. He clings to my gaze for a second, seemingly waiting for my permission to proceed. But then, I notice him glance at Andrew and then back at me, and then his mouth opens.

“Just the A looks pretty cool too.”

The needle guy is frozen in his place. His face tells me that Andrew got to him. I sigh and look one last time at the unfinished tattoo before I find Andrew again. He’s smiling; it seems pained, but he is smiling.

I know having Andrew in the little letters would have looked just fine because it looks just fine in the stencil that’s already there. But I’m also kind of happy that Andrew hates watching my pain just as much as I hate going through it.

“The A it is,” I finally say to the man holding the big needle.

* * *

Jorgen lifts his head, and the old memory vanishes just as quickly as it had appeared.

“You ready to go?” He whispers low and near my ear.

I tighten my arm around his chest. “Do we have to?”

He pauses for a moment.

“No,” he says and then lays his head back down. I feel his hand brush down my body and stop at the small of my back. “I could stay like this forever.”

“Are you singing?”

Oh, God, he heard me. How could he have heard me?

“No…” I scrunch up my face and cringe a little — hoping maybe he’ll believe me, even though I know he won’t. I already hear him smiling over there.

“You were.” He looks over at me, flashes me a big, toothy grin and then sets his eyes back on the road.

I try to hide my smile as my own gaze gets stuck too on the solid, white line guiding our way.

The interstate is quiet. It’s dark outside the truck. It’s dark inside too, except for the little blue light coming from the dash. I watch as Jorgen glances over at me again, then switches his hands on the wheel and reaches for my hand. I let him take it and cradle it in his as another song comes on the radio and I turn my attention back to the dark highway. My heart skips a little in my chest. I press my lips together and try not to make it obvious that I’m smiling to myself. I just can’t seem to get over the way my hand feels in his.

A moment goes by, maybe, before I hear Jorgen mumble something, and it forces my eyes back to the driver’s seat. Then, all of a sudden, a string of lyrics rolls off his tongue: “You and me goin’ fishin’ in the dark…”

He says the lyrics more than he sings them, taking every chance he gets to look over at me.

“Lyin’ on our backs and countin’ the stars,” he sings, growing louder as the song goes on.

It’s cute the way he tries to make the words sound like the original singer. He’s no rock star, but then, neither am I. I just look at him and smile. The song is by Nitty Gritty Dirt Band. I don’t know most country songs, but my grandpa used to listen to this one, so I know this one.

“Where the gre-en grass gro-ws,” he continues, dragging out each word.

My eyes dart to his, and I start to laugh. “Those aren’t the words.”

He just flashes me a crooked grin and keeps going, but now, I can’t help but join in. At least I know all the words.

“Stayin’ the whole night through,” we sing together. “Feels so good…to beeee…withhhh…you…”

We sing the rest of the song. He adds his own words at random, and eventually, I do too. And then we laugh until the next one comes pouring through the speakers. It’s a ballad and not nearly as easy to sing to. The cab grows quiet again — but only for a few seconds.

“This was so much fun,” I say, turning so that I can get a good look at him and his dark, wavy hair. He’s got a strong, five-o’clock shadow now, and only one hand is on the wheel. And there’s a blue tint to him because of the lights from the dash, but it only seems to add to his smoldering look.

“Pretending we know how to sing?” He chuckles.

“No, well, yeah, that too,” I say. “But I mean this whole weekend. I had my first funnel cake and went to my first tractor pull, and believe it or not, petted my first sheep.”

He glances over at me and gives me a sexy wink. “You never knew this country boy was so cultured, did ya?”

I squeeze his hand and smile.

“What was your favorite?” he asks.

I think about it for a second. Then, I close my eyes and contemplate it a little bit longer.

“Ol’ Red,” I finally say.

He laughs once, and I watch his eyes venture away from the road and onto me. “Why that old thing?”

“I don’t know. Because I like the way you look in it.”

“What?” He sounds surprised.

“I like the way you look in it,” I repeat, with more conviction this time. “You look like you belong, you know?”

“Like I belong in an old truck?”

His scrunched-up face makes me laugh.

“Yeah…no. Well, sort of,” I stumble. “You looked comfortable, like you didn’t have a care in the world — like you were home.”

He takes his eyes off the road and just smiles at me.

“What?” I ask. “That sounds crazy, doesn’t it?”

His face shifts back to the highway, but then I notice his head slowly shaking back and forth.

“It wasn’t the truck, Ada.”

I furrow my eyebrows. “Hmm?”

“It wasn’t the truck that made me feel like I was home,” he says again. “It wasn’t even being home that made me feel like I was home.”

Little wrinkles form at the corners of his eyes as his slow gaze ventures away from the highway and lands on me. And just like that, his eyes are soft again.

“It was you, Ada. Being next to you in Ol’ Red made me feel like I was finally home.”

I take a second and let the moment sink in, and before long, it almost feels as if my heart is shattering into a thousand tiny pieces and just falling to the floorboards at my feet. His words are so raw, so honest. They remind me of a way I used to feel. And without another thought, I unsnap my seatbelt, then slide into the little seat next to him and snap the lap belt over my legs. And suddenly, it’s as if I’m seventeen all over again.

He lifts his arm and wraps it around my shoulders. Then, he pulls me closer, and I rest my head against him and listen to the new song that’s now softly pouring through the speakers.

I don’t tell him — only because I think he already knows — but he’s beginning to feel like home to me too.

“You’re so cute when you sleep.”

I turn my head over on my pillow.

“Andrew,” I whisper.

He’s standing in the doorway. His honey-blond hair with its sprinkled russet streaks sweeps across his forehead and covers the tops of his ears.

“Let’s run away together,” he says, taking the few steps from the door to my bed.

Instantly, I feel a happy grin shoot across my face.

“Okay,” I whisper.

He lies down beside me, puts his arm around my waist and pulls me closer to him. I let him do it, but as he does, I stare into his dark brown eyes. I just keep searching them, trying to make sure they’re real, until suddenly, I feel tears start to fill my own eyes.

“Baby, don’t cry,” I hear him say, bringing the back of his finger to a place under my eye and wiping away my tears.

I try to laugh because his eyes are real, and he’s really here with me, and I have nothing to cry about.

“We were a small-town scandal, weren’t we?” I ask, through my tears.

He keeps his eyes in mine for several moments. He’s wearing a smile, but it’s faint.

“What if we never would have…,” I begin.

“Shh,” he says softly, as he breaks his stare from my eyes and moves his lips to my ear.

“Logan, we weren’t a scandal,” he whispers. “We were in love.”

I take a minute and let his last word echo through my ear, and then through my mind and finally, through my soul. Then, I grab a hold of it and tuck it away inside my heart.

“Andrew,” I say and then stop and wait for his eyes to find mine again.

“What, babe?”

“Is there hope for us?”

He pauses and draws a long breath.

“For us…I don’t know, baby,” he says, at last, forcing the air out of his lungs. “But for you, yes.”

I watch his lips gradually turn up at one end.

“Hope is a funny thing when you think about it,” he goes on. “It’s always right in front of you.”

My gaze falters and falls to the pillow.

“You just have to see it,” he whispers.

I look back up into his eyes and then sigh.

“Andrew.”

“What, babe?”

“I miss you,” I say.

He squeezes me tighter, and I can smell his cologne on his tee shirt. I breathe it in until I feel as if my lungs are going to explode.