For All You Have Left by Laura Miller

I’m secretly wondering if he somehow was able to stick a tracking device to me.
    “It went well actually. Eighty-seven-year-old. Nice guy.”
    I look down to make sure I don’t have any crumbs on my jeans from the granola bar I inhaled on the way back. When I look back up, Jorgen’s staring at me with a questioning smile.
    It takes me a second, but I eventually catch on.
    “Steam-powered tractors,” I say. “He has nine of them.”
    He nods his head. “To each their own.”
    I laugh in agreement and then find my tiny, metal box, stick my key into it and eventually pull out a newspaper from the next town over and a couple pieces of junk mail. But before I do that, I steal a glance at the name on the envelope in Jorgen’s hand and memorize it. Then, I shove my mail into my bag and start my walk up the stairs. Jorgen follows me.
    “How was dinner?” I ask, angling back toward him.
    “Good.” He’s nodding his head. “A little quiet, but good.”
    I get to the top of the steps and stop in front of my door.
    “Well, next time you get pizza, maybe you can bring it over,” I say, shrugging one shoulder. “We could watch...the Food Network or something. Then it won’t be so quiet.”
    I turn and push my key into the lock. What the hell did I just say? I swear there’s something wrong with me. I open the door and slowly spin back around. He hasn’t said anything, but he’s got a boyish grin hanging off his lips and a questioning look plastered to his face.
    “Really?” he asks, finally.
    I think about it for a second. I could take it all back. I should take it all back. He’s a stranger. And he might think I’m hitting on him. Am I hitting on him? No, I’m definitely not. Make up an excuse!
    “Or I have some really girly movies,” I offer.
    He laughs. “I love the Food Network.”
    I could have taken it all back, but I didn’t. There is definitely something seriously wrong with me.
    “But you’ll have to share,” I add.
    He’s silent then—just long enough for me to realize that maybe I hate the quiet just as much as he does.
    “That sounds nice,” he says.
    I’m not sure what “sounds nice” exactly—sharing, the lack of quiet over pizza or watching the Food Network. Any way, it doesn’t matter. I’ll probably regret this whole thing if it ever pans out later anyway.
    “Well, have a good night,” I say, stepping into my apartment.
    “Good-night,” I hear him say before I close the door behind me.
    I quickly turn the lock on the dead bolt, then set my bag onto a barstool, bolt into the next room and plop down in front of my laptop. I’m on a mission.
    I Google Jorgen Ryker —the name on the envelope—and then search the arrest records. After that, I search his name with his hometown and his name with the hospital he said he worked for. I search everything that might be connected to his name. And after an hour, all I’ve found is that he had a reserve champion steer at the state fair when he was thirteen and that his high school football team won the state championship his senior year. He was a running back, evidentially, and also not too shabby of an athlete, which is not that surprising judging by his arms and abs. But other than that, nothing—no arrests, no crazy or embarrassing photos on Facebook, no Twitter account. Nothing.
    I rest my elbows onto the surface of my desk and stare into the screen and at an old, black and white newspaper photo of a gangly thirteen-year-old proudly standing next to a really, really big cow.
    I take in a deep breath and then slowly force it out.
    “Hmm. You’re either really good at hiding your crazy, Jorgen Ryker, or maybe you really are just...normal.”

    Chapter Ten
    Pizza
     
     
    I hear a knock at the door, and I make my way over to the peep hole.
    After one glance through the tiny window, my heart is racing. It’s Jorgen, and he’s holding a box of pizza.
    I kind of figured he’d take me up on my offer. I just didn’t expect it to be