For All You Have Left

Chapter Thirty-Two Secrets

I knock on his door and wait a couple seconds.

“Jorgen.”

I knock again. I know he’s here. His truck and his bike are still in the parking lot, and anyway, it didn’t take me that long to grab my stuff and run after him.

“Jorgen, we need to talk.”

I wait another minute, but still he doesn’t come to the door.

“I’m sorry,” I say, into the wooden frame.

I wait there for a few more agonizing moments.

“Jorgen,” I plead one last time.

After another minute, I sadly realize he’s not coming to the door. So I quickly venture back into my apartment and grab an index card and a pen. I go back to Jorgen’s door, scribble the words I love you onto the card and then slide it in between the frame and the door until it sticks.

I step back then and stare at the little piece of paper with my honest words written on it. I might not have any other words together, but I do have those.

And a few more heartbeats later, I find myself slowly turning and inching my way back into my apartment. But I only make it to the couch before I just collapse and fall straight into the leather. All of a sudden, I feel weak and scared, as if I’m on the verge of losing everything — again. My eyes travel to a blank spot on the wall and fall quickly into a trance. I love Jorgen. I might be in love with another man — or the ghost of one — as well, but I love Jorgen. I love him with everything I am. In such a short time, he’s become my world. And he’s helped me to live again — to get back on the bike again, to do things I never thought I would ever do again. I can’t imagine life without him. But it’s also just hard to let go — so hard.

Suddenly, there’s a knock at the door. The few thuds make me jump. I sit up and force my eyes to the sound. And within the next second, I’m jumping up and running over to it. I don’t even bother looking through the peep hole before I throw the door open.

“Jorgen,” I exhale when I see him.

He doesn’t say anything. He just steps past me and plants his feet in the middle of my living room floor.

“Tell me it’s not what it looks like,” he demands flatly.

I slowly shake my head. “It’s not.”

His expression doesn’t change.

“Will you sit with me?” I ask in a timid voice. “I’ll explain everything.”

I watch his chest rise and then fall. Then, he looks at the couch, takes a step toward it and sits down.

I try to smile, but smiling just doesn’t seem right. So instead, I just make my way over to the couch and sit next to him.

“Jorgen,” I say and then stop.

I take a deep breath and then force a steady stream of air over my dry lips. Somehow I know once I say it all, it will all finally be real.

I clear my throat and swallow hard.

“I was married.”

His blue eyes rush to mine.

“Was?” he questions.

I pause and bite my bottom lip.

“The guy I saw you with,” he starts. “He’s the same guy. He’s been here before.”

He stops and turns his face away from me. I can see his jaw tighten.

“God, am I really that stupid?” he asks, rubbing his temples with his fingers, then balling his hands into fists. “You have this whole, other life, and I was too blind to see it.”

It takes a second for it all to click.

“Amsel?” I ask.

He looks at me, and his eyes seem eerily cold now.

“Yeah, whatever his name is,” he says, turning his face away from me again.

“Jorgen, it’s not at all what you think.”

His head snaps back toward me.

“Really, Ada? Because it looks pretty damn bad.”

I lower my eyes and gather up my courage.

“Amsel is James — James Amsel,” I say. “He’s my husband’s brother. He was…is my husband’s brother. He’s…he’s Andrew’s brother.”

Everything just stumbles out of my mouth. I’ve never had to explain who James is. I’ve never even had to explain who Andrew was. And now, I can’t seem to get the words out and put it all in the right tense. I look up at Jorgen. He seems to be processing everything.

“I just need a minute,” he states, standing up.

I close my eyes and take a breath. When I open my eyes, he’s staring at my hand.

“I just need some time, Ada,” he says, as he makes his way to the door.

His words come out so soft, almost broken.

I look down at my hand and the ring still on my finger.

“Jorgen,” I call out after him.

I try to say more before he escapes back into the hallway, but I can’t. I can’t say it all to his back. I can’t say everything I need to say to him as he’s walking away.

I stop and feel the tears freely cascading down my cheeks as I realize that even if he had stopped — even if he had stopped and turned around — I’m not so sure I would have had the courage to say: My husband left me, but not on his own time.