For All You Have Left Read online

  I nod my head. “Mm hmm.”

  He flashes me a content smile and then continues his trek down the hallway. “I’ll see you later then,” he says.

  I laugh quietly to myself and turn back toward my locker. There’s only one textbook and a notebook on the shelf. I grab them both and go to close the locker before I stop and spot a note taped to the inside of the door.

  I quickly peel the folded piece of paper off and fall back against the locker door. It latches shut with a click as I press the books against my chest and open the note with both hands. And instantly, my eyes go to reading the familiar handwriting:

  Logan,

  I can’t believe we walk down that aisle in a cap and gown together tonight. I really wish it was a church and you were in a different kind of white dress, but I can wait, I guess. But not too long, okay?

  Logan, if I haven’t told you today yet that I love you, find me and kick my ass. Because Logan, I’ve loved you ever since that rainy afternoon I showed up at your door. And I loved you that Monday too when you were that scared, little new girl in the third grade. I wanted to take your hand then and tell you that I’d walk with you for the rest of my life—that I’d hold your hand, so you’d never have to walk alone, so you’d never have to be scared. And the only reason I didn’t is because Doug Sorenson said you had some kind of reptile (yeah, reptile) disease and that if I even went near you that I’d die in three seconds flat.

  Reptile disease? I laugh to myself, then continue reading:

  And, yeah, I believed him until he made you that dumb Valentine’s card the next year and stuck all those lame hearts all over it. Damn Sorenson. Anyway, Logan, the point here is that I love you. I love you forever and a day. Happy graduation day!

  P.S. You’re still coming with me to Jenson slab afterward, right?

  P.P.S. You look as sexy as hell in those shorts. I’m really happy that no one gives a shit about dress code today!

  Love,

  Andrew

  I take in a deep breath and let out a happy grin as I refold the note and slide it into the back pocket of my jean shorts. The ring of the first bell makes me jump, but before I can start my hike to my last class, I catch the number on the locker right next to mine. It’s his locker. The number on the little, metal door is 92—our anniversary. We don’t really have a real date—a date when we first started going out or dating or whatever. I guess because we just kind of always were. Andrew picked the day we would use though. It’s the first day we ever had lunch together—September 2—in a little cafeteria at Cedar Elementary. He says I traded him my milk for his cookie. I don’t remember the trade, and I have no idea how he remembers the exact date—I barely remember it was even September when I moved here—but he swears he does.

  I pull my books closer to my chest. God, sometimes I still can’t believe I fell for that messy-haired little boy with the plastic Wiffle ball bat slung across his shoulders. But more so, I guess, I can’t believe just how much I love him because in the end, I absolutely love that crazy boy with everything I am.

  Chapter Three

  Graduation Night

  “Marry me,” he whispers.

  His hat and tassel are long gone, but his black gown is still draped around his body.

  “What?”

  I keep my eyes planted in the black sky and the sea of stars as I lace my fingers in his and make myself comfortable against the metal grooves of the truck bed.

  “Marry me,” he says again.

  I don’t say anything. I just smile. And out of the corner of my eye, I watch him turn over onto his side and play with the quilt beneath us.

  “Logan, remember when we were kids, and I always used to say that even if you were the last girl in the world, I’d never marry you?”

  I laugh softly.

  “Yeah,” I say, meeting his eyes.

  “Logan, I said it, but...”

  He pauses, then reaches behind him and pulls out from the darkness a little journal and holds it out to me.

  I stare at it for a second before I slowly reach for it. The journal is small, and its edges are worn away, and down the front of its soft, leather cover in big, block letters are the words: KEEP OUT OR DIE!

  My eyes dart to his. “Andrew, I don’t have a death wish.”

  He rolls his eyes and sighs playfully.

  “It was for the little brother. It worked...I think.”

  I watch his gaze wander off as he seems to get stuck on a thought. Then, all of a sudden, his eyes snap back to me.

  “Go ahead,” he says, gesturing toward the book.

  He’s wearing a boyish grin. I keep my stare in his for a second or two longer. Then, I slowly pull back the journal’s faded cover and look back up at him for further instruction.

  “Read.” He holds his phone’s light to the book.

  I turn the first, blank page and then stop. I stop at the big, sloppy handwriting that scrolls crooked down the next page. There’s a date at the top. It reads September 2, 2000. I take a second to add up the years. He was nine. We were nine.

  “Andrew, is this really yours?”

  I just can’t bring myself to believe that Andrew Amsel kept a journal. I mean, he had his moments—those moments when I could maybe find it believable that the spirited, little boy I knew when we were nine wrote his thoughts down. But a journal?

  I watch his eyelids fall over his eyes as he lowers his head.

  “My mom made me keep it. Believe me, I protested. I even tried to flush the first one she gave me down the toilet.”

  He stops and laughs.

  “I flushed it six times without it going anywhere before she caught me. And in the end, Mom won, and I remember her telling me that someday it would be fun to read it. I didn’t give a shit about that back then, but now that I think about it, I guess she was talking about today—that maybe today, it would be fun to read it.”

  I can’t help my eyes from turning suspicious.

  “Go on.” He gestures toward the little journal again. “Read it.”

  Again, I force my eyes to his little-boy words barely hanging on the page:

  There’s this new girl in my class. She lives down the road. Her name is Logan. It’s a funny name. Anyway, she can’t hit a ball. Her hair stinks like flowers, and she’s too tall.

  I finish reading over the words and look back up at him with pretend narrowed eyes.

  “My hair stinks...like flowers?” I ask.

  He laughs.

  “And apparently, you could be too tall,” he says.

  “There’s still more.” He gestures with his eyes toward the bottom of the page.

  I look closer. I wouldn’t have noticed the tiny letters scribbled upside down along the bottom of the page if he wouldn’t have pointed them out.

  I turn the journal upside down and squint my eyes to see the writing:

  She can hit a ball. Flowers don’t smell that bad, and I wish I was as tall as her.

  I peek at him through my eyelashes. I’m pretty sure there’s a questioning look plastered to my face.

  “I never wanted to find out what my mom would do to me if she caught me being ugly or worst yet, in a lie,” he explains. “She promised she wouldn’t read it, but you know my mom.”

  I shrug my shoulders and then nod my head in agreement. Over the years, Mrs. Amsel has become like a second mom to me, so I do know her. And I know she loves her boys, but I also know she could never resist the temptation to learn more about them if an opportunity in the form of, say, a discarded, open journal presented itself.

  “Go on, keep reading,” he says.

  I laugh and turn the page. It’s dated the next day, September 3, 2000:

  I told Logan today that I wouldn’t marry her even if she was the last girl in the world. She’s annoying, and I hate her.

  I suck in a big breath but then notice the tiny letters again at the bottom of the page and quickly train my eyes to them:

  I would marry her. She’s not so bad,
and I don’t hate her. I don’t hate her at all.

  I look up at him again.

  “It kind of goes on like that for another hundred pages or so,” he says. “Every once in a while there’s a rant about how much I hate the lunch ladies’ beef stroganoff or how much I wish my brother was a puppy, but for the most part, it’s all about you.”

  He stops and chuckles to himself.

  “And there are no disclaimers about the stroganoff or the puppy brother either,” he adds. “I wasn’t lying about those things.”

  I shake my head and laugh before I catch his stare again. And in that short moment, his eyes seem to have turned serious all of a sudden.

  “But there’s one more I want you to see.”

  He pulls out another journal. And from what I can tell, this one isn’t so tattered. Its edges aren’t really worn, and it still has a bright-colored cover.

  “Yeah, so it’s kind of addicting,” he says. “I’m still a hard-ass. Don’t be fooled.”

  I give him a sarcastic look and then carefully take the journal from his hands.

  “The last entry,” he says.

  I fall into his soft, brown eyes then, and my heart melts a little. I really do love this boy—even more than I did a moment ago. How is it possible to love someone so much and then to love them even more? And it’s not just any love either. It’s that kind of love where you know you would do anything for him, go anywhere, even take on his pain if you could—that kind of love.

  I return my attention to the journal and flip to the last page with words on it. It’s dated June 5, 2009.

  My eyes quickly venture back to his.

  “That’s today,” I say.

  I watch him slowly nod his head before I find the words on the page again and follow over them:

  I’ve known this girl Logan for nine, miserable years now. Her eyes are too green. Her smile is all wrong. I wouldn’t marry her if she were the last girl in the world. And she still can’t hit a ball.

  I playfully narrow my eyes at him before I catch the tiny letters again at the bottom of the page:

  I’ve known this girl Logan for nine, happy years now. Her eyes are beautiful. Her smile is perfect. I would marry her every day of my life if I could. And she can still hit a ball—better than I can.

  I can feel my heart breaking into a million, little pieces as I follow over his tiny words at the bottom of the page one more time. And I think it’s those same, tiny words that remind me that he’s no longer the little boy I shared a childhood with.

  “I know in my heart that you’re the one,” Andrew whispers low and near my ear.

  His words are breathy and passionate. And instead of seeing his perfect, boyish grin when I look up, I catch a box. And inside the box is a ring. And above the ring are two longing eyes.

  “I know I’m going to spend the rest of my life with you. Please, marry me, Logan Ada Cross.”

  I search his eyes for a moment, but only for a moment. That’s all the time I need.

  “Okay,” I whisper.

  “Wednesday,” he adds, with a hopeful plea in his dark brown eyes.

  I press my lips together, until I just can’t hold back a smile any longer.

  “Okay,” I whisper.

  Chapter Four

  Bells

  “Logan.”

  I open my eyes to a shadowy figure hovering over me, blocking out the sun.

  “You look beautiful.” Andrew leans down and kisses me on the cheek.

  I smile and sit up.

  “You like it,” I ask. “I have another one if you don’t like it.”

  He shakes his head. “I love it.”

  My stomach fills with butterflies. I’m glad he likes it. After four long days of deciding what to wear today, I came to the conclusion that this one was the one; this one was perfect. It’s simple—no lace, no crazy cut-outs, just a simple, white sundress. I would have been crushed if he had showed even the slightest sign that he didn’t like it. I wanted to look perfect today. I wanted to look perfect for him.

  “The dress is new, and the earrings are my mom’s, so they’re old.” I pull on one of the earrings. “And these shoes are Hannah’s.” I point to the little, white boat shoes on my feet. “She won’t miss them—today anyway.” I send Andrew a mischievous grin, but then it slowly fades. “But I don’t have anything blue.”

  Andrew stares at me for a second, then falls into the hammock beside me, puts his elbows on his knees and his fists under his chin and just sits there quietly.

  “I got it,” he says, after another second. And I watch him pull his baseball state championship ring off his finger. “It’s blue.”

  He takes my hand and slides the ring onto my thumb. There’s a spark in his eyes. He looks so happy.

  I hold my hand out in front of me and fixate on the dancing sparkles in the blue jewel.

  “It’s perfect,” I say, as I look up at Andrew. And for some reason, it’s as if I were looking at him for the first time because I notice him—like really notice him—as being a man and not just a boy. He’s wearing dark slacks, a light blue collared shirt and a gray vest with his black motorcycle boots. It just might be the most dressed up I’ve ever seen him.

  “You look really good,” I say.

  He looks down at himself.

  “You think so?”

  It’s cute the way he seems so unsure of himself all of a sudden. I rarely see this side of him.

  “Mm hmm,” I say, nodding my head. “You look perfect...ly sexy.”

  He flashes me a wide grin.

  “Now, save that thought for later, my dear,” he says, giving me a wink.

  His confidence is back now.

  I laugh softly and try to smooth the wrinkles, which the little eyelets in the hammock made, out of my dress.

  “I don’t think you’re supposed to see me before,” I say. “It’s bad luck.”

  Not even a second goes by before I feel the tip of Andrew’s finger touch my chin and then start to lift my face.

  “Who believes in luck?” I watch his lips light up his handsome features. “You?” he asks.

  I shake my head.

  “Me neither,” he says.

  I start to smile too, but then it slowly fades.

  “Andrew.”

  His soft eyes catch mine.

  “When we get married, you’ll still love me like you do now, right?” I lower my eyes. “It won’t change us, right?”

  I peek through my eyelashes and notice Andrew’s face turning serious—not scared or anything—just as if he had thought about it too maybe.

  “It more than likely won’t change you,” he says.

  My gaze quickly darts up toward his again.

  “But you?” I ask it as if I’m scared to hear his answer.

  He nods his head.

  “You’ll change me all right, Logan.”

  I stare at him with questioning eyes. I don’t want him to change, and I sure don’t want to be the reason he changes.

  “You’ll make me a better man,” he says, before I can say anything.

  I suck in a deep breath and command my heart to beat again. I love him so much. It scares me sometimes when I think about how lucky...blessed...I am to have found the love of my life the first time around. I never had to cry the tears that my best friend Sara had to when she broke up with her first boyfriend our sophomore year. And I never had to experience the indecision or the what ifs that my sister Hannah talked about every time she climbed into my bed and said she just needed me to listen. There was always some boy whom she wanted to date and always another one whom she had second thoughts about letting go. I got them all confused, but like I said, it didn’t matter; I just needed to listen. But I did always wish that Sara and Hannah could have found someone like Andrew when they were nine too. Then, maybe they could have saved some of their tears. Life was a whole lot less dramatic for me. I liked it that way. But more than I loved a simple existence, I loved Andrew Amsel.

&nbs
p; “You ready to get married?”

  I force my eyes to his.

  “More than ready,” I say.

  He stands up and holds out his hand. I rest mine—the one with the little diamond on my ring finger and the big blue jewel on my thumb—in his. He helps me to my feet, and we start off toward his bike in the driveway. But we only get a few yards before I hear his soft voice again.

  “You tell your parents?”

  I feel my lips instinctively push to one side as I shake my head.

  He doesn’t say anything; he doesn’t ask why. He already knows why.

  “You?” I ask.

  “Nah.”

  I slowly nod my head. I already knew his answer too. And it’s not that I didn’t want to tell my parents. I did. I really did. And it’s not that they don’t love Andrew because they do. And it’s not even that I don’t think they would understand because they will. My mom and my dad got married when they were eighteen too. And they were nineteen when they had Hannah. My mom was a freshman in college, but after she had Hannah, she never went back to school. I think that everyone might have that one what if in their life, and I think a college degree is my mom’s. And I know she wants that for Hannah and me. I know she wants us to become teachers or doctors or something like that. And I wish I could tell her that I can still do something like that—get some degree that will make both of my parents happy—and be married to Andrew and have them believe me, but I know they’ve got good reason not to. That’s why I didn’t tell them though. And I’d ask Andrew why he didn’t tell his parents, but I already know the why to that too. He was afraid they’d tell mine.

  “You still want to do this?” His voice is timid and almost broken.

  I immediately stop walking and narrow in on his face. He’s looking at me through hooded eyes now. And even though I can’t tell if he looks more nervous or sad, I just want to comfort him.

  “Andrew, I love you so much. I just can’t wait another day. And plus, I imagined myself probably a million times in the last few days standing with you in front of that judge in this dress on this exact day. It already feels so real; I can’t even imagine not actually living it.”

  I make sure to look deep into his soft, brown eyes. “I want to spend forever with you, Andrew.”