“The insiders wave…,” I start.
“The outsiders don’t,” he finishes.
“Aah,” I say, allowing my head to fall gently against the back window. “I know all your secrets now, Jorgen Ryker.”
He just smiles. “Just about.”
It’s another mile on the blacktop before Ol’ Red climbs a levee and then wanders down a gravel road. It’s flat on the other side of the levee too, with more fields for miles and only a few houses in view. And one house, in the far-off distance, even looks as if it might be abandoned. Its outside is gray and through its windows, all I can see is a dark and sleepy inside.
We finally get to a long, white-graveled driveway, turn into it and eventually stop in front of a two-story farmhouse. It’s made of wood and painted white, and I think it still has a tin roof.
Jorgen gets out and then jerks open my door. It squeaks again but not nearly as bad as the first time.
“They’re all probably inside,” Jorgen says, helping me out of the truck.
“They?” I try to ask without sounding terrified.
“Oh, don’t worry, it’s just my mom and my grandma. I’ve just got to run in for a second. You wanna come?”
“Of…course,” I stutter. Of course home would mean meeting his family. I don’t know why that never crossed my mind. I silently put myself back together. I can do this. I meet new people every day in my job. I tell myself it’s just like that as I tug at the bottom of my tank top and try to brush out my wind-blown hair with my fingers.
I follow Jorgen up three concrete stairs to a little porch lined with hanging baskets full of bright red flowers.
“Mom, we’re here.” Jorgen pushes through a screen door.
There’s a room to the left; stairs in front of us; and a hallway to the right. We go right, and I follow Jorgen down the hallway, but an open door to a den-like room suddenly makes me stop. Hanging on the wall, there’s a framed newspaper clipping of the same photo I uncovered of him standing next to the cow. I stop and stare at it. Underneath the frame is another photo. It’s of his sister. She’s wearing a crown and a sash.
“What’d you find?”
Jorgen’s facing me again.
“I just…Is that you?” I feign ignorance, point to the frame and wait for him to walk back to me.
When he sees the photo, he lowers his head and chuckles, then walks into the room.
“That would be me.” He examines the photo more closely. “All one hundred pounds of me.”
I laugh and join him in the room.
“And that’s Lindsey?” I ask.
His eyes fall to the frame.
“Yeah. She was homecoming queen her senior year. You wouldn’t know it by this picture, but she hated every moment of it.”
I cock my head to the side.
“Lindsey’s not really the girly type,” he says. “And I think that’s why she won. Everyone knew that.”
I laugh again, but this time, my eyes catch another photo on the opposite wall.
“Wait, who is that?”
I walk closer to the other frame.
“Jorgen, is this you?”
There’s a little kid in the photo. He’s maybe four, and he’s holding a fish that’s almost his size.
“Yeah, my first catfish.”
“Is that your dad?” I point to a man in waders helping to hold up the fish.
“Yeah, I think he was more excited than I was. Don’t let him fool ya; he’s a sentimental old fart.”
I stare at the photo some more and then glance back at Jorgen. “You were cute.”
“Were?” he asks. He’s wearing a sideways smirk, and it’s as sexy as hell.
I playfully roll my eyes. If he only knew.
He walks closer to me and takes my hand.
“Jorgen, was that you?” A woman’s voice echoes through the hallway, but for a moment, it does little to faze Jorgen.
His stare lingers in mine, and all I can think about is kissing him. When I’m not lost in his eyes, I can make up all the excuses in the world for why I shouldn’t just devour those prefect lips of his. But in those eyes…it’s a whole different ball game.
“We should probably go say ‘hi’ before she convinces herself she’s hearin’ things and checks herself into the loony bin too soon.”
“Yeah,” I agree, slowly nodding my head. “We should.”
I don’t really agree, simply because I want to stay in his eyes, but I follow him out of the room and down the narrow hall anyway. The floors are wooden, and they creak with each step. But with each step, I’m also a little more excited. I know I’m still nervous for some reason because I still keep trying to brush out my hair, but at the same time, I also can’t wait to find out more about this man, whose stare and lips have taken over my mind.
We get to the end of the hallway, and suddenly, there’s an overwhelming smell of apples and cinnamon.
“Jorgen!” I hear a woman exclaim.
Jorgen hugs the woman and then goes to hug a shorter, older woman with gray hair.
“And you must be Ada.”
The younger of the two women closes in on me and instantly throws her arms around my shoulders.
“Hi,” I say, as she squeezes me tight.
The woman pulls away and then goes to brushing off one of my shoulders.
“Oh, I’m sorry, dear. I’m covered in flour. We’re baking for the church picnic tomorrow. That’s why I don’t have a sit-down dinner. But I did whip up a salad, and there’s some pasta that Grandma made in the Crock-Pot.”
She points to a table in the center of the room.
“Mom,” Jorgen says, “it’s fine. We’re just stopping by. We’re headed to the fair.”
“Hogwash,” the older woman chimes in. “You can’t feed this beautiful girl candy apples and popcorn for dinner.”
The old woman ambles over to me and takes my hand with both of hers.
“Hi, dear, you’ll stay and eat something before you go, won’t you?”
I look up at Jorgen. His eyes are already on mine as if he’s waiting for my response. I send him a smile to let him know it’s okay with me.
“All right,” he says. “But she’s got to save room for dessert. So, no tempting us with any of whatever you got back there.” Jorgen gestures toward a counter lined with baked goods.
“Oh, we won’t,” the older woman says, squeezing my hand, and at the same time, giving me a sly wink.
I try to hold in a laugh. Something tells me this woman was a force to be reckoned with before her first gray hair.
Jorgen and I sit down at the little table, and Jorgen fills my plate, and we eat and listen to the older woman talk about the key to a perfect pie crust, which somehow involves keeping the men out of the kitchen. And every once in a while, Jorgen’s mom finds an open space in the conversation to ask about me and what I do and where I’m from, but I get the hint that she already knows all the answers. She reminds me a lot of my mom. She seems gentle on the outside but also like one of those people, who, if you pulled back a layer, all you’d find was pure strength and determination.
“Oh, and Jorgen, your dad and grandpa finally found your old toy riding tractor. How on earth did it get to that old house on the Steelman’s place?”
Jorgen almost chokes on his salad. “I completely forgot about that.”
His mom is staring at him now, presumably waiting for his answer.
Jorgen swallows and then moves his head back and forth a little, as if he’s trying to play it off. “Lindsey and I threw it on the back of the five-wheeler one day and took it over there.”
His mom doesn’t look satisfied, and Jorgen seems to notice that.
“Okay,” he huffs. “We put a piece of plywood on the steps and took turns ridin’ down it.”