Every Second With You

No Regrets - 2

by

Lauren Blakely

This book is dedicated to my readers, to every single one of you lovely, awesome, amazing people.

Thank you for making dreams come true…

xoxo

Lauren

Chapter One

Harley

The moonlight streams across his beautiful face, but I can’t bear to look at him. I stare out the window; the slats of the blinds chop silver streaks from the moon that shine through my room, and I wish I were anywhere but here, on top of the covers, in bed with the man I love, on the night of my twentieth birthday. I don’t know how to be false or fake with Trey, but I don’t know how to tell him the truth right now, either.

“Hey,” he says softly, brushing strands of hair from my forehead. “Are you feeling better?”

I wince inside, but put on a brave face for him, adjusting the pillow to busy myself, as if it’s absolutely vital to find the perfect alignment for my head. Anything to avoid eye contact as we lie side by side, the pinball machine sounds of late-night New York City mingling with Sara Bareilles playing on my phone.

“My head still hurts,” I mumble, rubbing my palm roughly against my forehead to exorcise the headache I don’t have. I couldn’t very well tell him that my stomach hurt. That I’d thrown up my birthday cake. I might as well put an advertisement on my forehead saying “I’m preggers.” And that’s the one thing I can’t tell him. Not yet. Not tonight.

I claimed I had a migraine from the stifling August heat, and it had made me nauseous. I only wish I had a migraine. I’d welcome a headache from hell with open arms, because a headache would go away.

Instead I will spend the night in this strange twilight state of hiding the truth from Trey on the outside, while on the inside I’m grappling with the massive detour my future just slammed in front of me. And it’s so damn unfair. I’ve been running a race for so long, an endless, ragged one, and I finally crossed the yellow tape of the finish line, triumphant on the other side of love, and hope, and possibility. And now it’s as if an invisible hand has plucked me from the ground and sent me straight back to the starting line.

Only this time I have even more to lose. I have everything to lose.

“Do you need an ibuprofen?”

He believes me. Of course he believes me.

“I took one already. Just waiting for it to kick in,” I say, but there’s nothing true in those words.

I want to be honest with him, but I don’t have an earthly clue how to say the only words that could scare him off. Not just far, far away, but to another time zone. Another continent. And not for the usual reasons a guy would be freaked out to have a pregnant girlfriend, but because of what it means to him.

Loss.

I cling to the faint hope that the test was wrong, that I can retake it tomorrow morning. I exhale hard, wishing for one pink line so desperately I feel as if I’m clutching the possibility of it in my hands, a precious, fragile thing.

Trey skims his hand along my bare arm. “I hate that you don’t feel well. Not just because it’s your birthday, but because I don’t want you to ever hurt,” Trey says. His touch feels so comforting and reassuring, and yet I don’t deserve it because I’m lying to him. I shift my gaze around the dark room to the closet door, the open window, and the sky blue dresser I snagged from a woman in the building next door when she was moving out.

“Hopefully it’ll be gone in the morning,” I say; and that’s more than a hope, it’s me begging the universe.

He leans in and kisses my forehead, pressing his soft lips against me in the most tender, caring way. “But I’ll take care of you. You know that, right?”

“Sure,” I say, but I don’t actually know that. That’s what people promise to each other, but words are easy. Backing them up is the hard part. Will he take care of me if he knows why I don’t feel well? Will he take care of me when I’m big and round and fat? Will he take care of a kid?

“Because, you know, I could be a really good nurse, don’t you think?” he says with a sly smile, then raises his voice, affecting a high-pitched tone. “Do you need a cold compress, sweetie? How about a sponge bath?”

Despite the ominous feeling in my chest, I manage one small laugh. I try not to let on that I’m withering inside. I play along with him instead, making eye contact finally. I nearly melt when I look into his beautiful green eyes—eyes that know me inside and out, that make me want to spill everything to him. But I know how to pretend, so I fake happiness. “Nurse Trey now, is it?”

He lowers his voice, making it deep again as he runs his hand along my hip, tugging me close. “I’ve got just what the doctor ordered.”

I want to laugh. I want to be fun and silly. I wish we were having just a normal night, so I try it on for size. “What did the doctor order?”

“The doctor says you need another birthday present,” he says into my ear, his breath hot against my neck. He presses his lips to my skin, and I’m tempted to let my mind go blank, to drug myself in the moment as he burns a trail of kisses to the hollow of my throat. His lips find mine, and he brushes me softly, then in seconds, he deepens the kiss. I nearly cry because I want terribly to stop time and kiss like this all night long, and all my life, too, but it feels like an injection of a false reality, and I know it’ll all fade by morning.

I break the kiss.

“I think I just need to sleep,” I say, and then I turn over, and stare at the shadows crawling across the wall, my companions in furtiveness.

He kisses the back of my neck gently, easily shedding the heated potential of a moment ago. “Feel better, Harley,” he whispers. “I loved spending your birthday with you. I love you.”

“I love you too,” I say as I close my eyes.

Then he tucks the covers around me. He spoons me, his strong body curving around mine. For the first time since we’ve been together, we’re going to bed to sleep. In minutes, his breathing turns slow and rhythmic. He’s never had trouble falling asleep, nor have I.

But tonight, I don’t sleep. I lie awake, my mind both a speedway and a traffic jam. I’m racing, darting, but I keep returning to the same stalled-out shoulder on the road. Replaying how this could have happened. Trying to pinpoint the time when the condom failed.

The night in his tattoo parlor? Or maybe the time after we all went out to see a band? Or the quickie in the bathroom at the coffee shop a few weeks ago? Because we don’t hold back–we come together. Over and over, bodies slamming into each other, lips joining in a frenzy, consumed with need, and want, and heat.

But when it happened is irrelevant.

What matters is what’s next, and where we go from here. I don’t have a clue how to be a mother. Hell, I don’t even know what I want to do with my life. I’m only halfway finished with college, and having a baby isn’t anywhere on the curriculum. But this is the real kick in the pants—I can’t think of two people less equipped to be parents than Trey Westin and me. The former sex addict, and the ex-call girl. We’re the butt of a joke.

* * *

When the sun blares through the window the next day, it might as well be shouting Life’s a bitch, sucker. Try to hit this curveball.

I shower and dress quickly.

Trey stretches languidly in bed, his arms rising above his head, the covers snaking down to his waist. His beautiful chest is on display, his body a canvas for art, from the birds on his pecs to the sunbursts on his shoulder.

Usually, I savor this sight. Now, as I stand in the doorway, I want him out of my bed so badly. I want to kick him out of my apartment with my combat boots, and then run, run, run like a madwoman to Duane Reade.

He smiles lazily at me as if this is just another day. Not Judgement Day. “Want to get some bagels?”

I shake my head. “I forgot I had a paper due. I need to go turn it in.”

He sits up. “Summer classes suck, huh? I’ll go with you.”

I shake my head. “No, it’s okay. I really need to take care of it. Can I meet up with you later?”

He narrows his eyes at me. “Um. Sure. But do you even have to ask that question? Don’t we meet up every day?”

I force a laugh. “Yeah. Of course. I just don’t like to take anything for granted.”

That’s the truest thing I’ve said to him in the last twenty-four hours.

I lean in to give him a kiss on the cheek. “Bye. I need to run. You can hang, or let yourself out. Or whatever.”

He loops his arms around my neck, holding me close, and I resist the desire to squirm away. “Is your headache better?”

“Getting there,” I say, as I slip out of his embrace, and furrow my brow, affecting my best I-still-have-a-headache look.

I dart into the bathroom, close the door and grab the plastic bag with the test in it. I hid it under the sink last night; I wasn’t about to leave the evidence in the wastebasket. I jam it to the bottom of my purse.

Then I’m gone. Out the door, down the stairs, around the block, heart pumping wildly, feet pounding the concrete, the high summer heat relentless in its assault. Beads of sweat drip down my back.

Two more blocks. One more block.

I toss the plastic bag into a trashcan on the corner, and it nearly slips onto the sidewalk from my sweaty palms.

I wipe my hands on my skirt and grab the door of the drugstore. I yank it open, glancing once behind me. I don’t see anyone I know.

I find the aisle with the pregnancy tests, snag two, and rush to the counter. I tap my foot as I wait for the woman in front of me to buy gum. Spearmint or cinnamon? She lifts each pack, considers them. My heart jerks with sick envy. Spearmint, I want to shout. See? It’s easy to make that decision. But she picks cinnamon, unwrapping it and popping in a piece as the clerk hands over her change.

When it’s my turn, I plunk the boxes on the counter and scan the perimeter, hoping Trey doesn’t have a sudden need to buy gum or anything else. The woman at the register looks exceedingly bored as she rings me up, and I want to reach across, shake her shoulder and say, “Don’t you know my life is about to change? And I just want spearmint, okay?”

Instead, she dumps the tests into a plastic bag without a word and thrusts it at me.

“Thanks,” I mumble, then swivel around and march to the restroom at the back of the store. I lock the door and press my hand against it, trying to steady myself as a wave of fear tackles me. I breathe out hard through my nostrils, offering a plea to anyone who’s listening to tell the universe to stop mocking me.

But ten minutes, two more tests, and a fresh wave of morning nausea later I have my answer – and it’s neither spearmint nor cinnamon.

Chapter Two

Trey

Paper?

She has a paper due?

She’s taking a writing class, and I’m pretty sure the assignments are of the creative story variety, not “papers.” Strange answer, but as I brush my teeth, I realize something seemed off about Harley all morning. I stop brushing, rewind the last twelve hours—her headache, her rush to leave, and most of all, her not wanting to have sex. Come to think of it, she’s seemed out of sorts ever since we were watching that movie last night, after we ate the birthday cake.

I tense for a moment, shoulders tightening, as a one-syllable name flashes through my head like a blaring neon sign.

Cam.

Is she talking to him again? Is that why she’s being so weird? Is she toying with going back? She better not be. Because that’s a line she can’t cross.

I grip the sink with my free hand, take a deep breath, and try to settle my jump-to-conclusions nature. I listen for the sound of my shrink’s voice in my head, telling me to slow down.

I won’t assume the reason she’s weird is that she’s talking to him again. Maybe it’s because this is the first time she’s ever celebrated a birthday without her mom being a part of it. Even though the woman is a witch, I bet Harley misses her. And I suspect she doesn’t want to admit that, either, tough girl that she is. I finish brushing my teeth, ready to pat myself on the back. My shrink would be proud that I didn’t act on my fears. I spit out the toothpaste, and leave my toothbrush in the cup holder, next to Harley’s.

Seeing my green toothbrush next to her red one, carbon copies of the ones at my apartment, reminds me of how ridiculous having two places is. The back and forth is pointless, since she’s at my apartment or I’m at hers every night. That’s what I should have done for her birthday. Asked her to move in with me.

I file away Harley’s skittishness for the rest of the day, instead plotting the best way to ask her to live with me as I work the afternoon shift at No Regrets, inking a trio of frat brothers by imprinting Greek letters onto their biceps. It’s usually the kind of tat you see three dudes decide to get on a dare when they’re wasted, but they’re stone-cold sober, so I guess this is what they want.

“Dude, this is awesome,” one of the guys says and high-fives me.

“Looks good, man. See you later.”

Then I head to my parents for the weekly dinner visit. School starts in less than a month, and I have one semester left before I earn my degree. Translation: only one more semester of these visits, and then the parental handcuffs come off.

The maroon uniformed doorman nods at me. “Good evening, sir.”

“Hey there,” I say. It’s strange, so strange that he has to act all deferential to everyone who comes and goes through the lobby of this Upper East Side building. I want to say Dude, I’m just like you. But once I’m inside the building, I lose all thoughts of the doorman because I see a pair of legs I’d recognize anywhere. Even from the back—maybe especially from behind, because that was her favorite position. Me, nestled up against her as she bent over the white marble bathroom counter of a $5 million apartment, all long, lean, shapely legs, her underwear at her ankles because she couldn’t wait to be fucked. Her long brown hair flows down her sexy back and she’s wearing workout shorts, sneakers and a tank top. I rub my eyes as the elevator doors close, sealing her inside. I don’t even see her face, but I know those legs belong to Sloan McKay in 15D.

She moved out three years ago, only a few weeks into our affair. The only woman I wasn’t the first to leave. My heart pounds furiously at seeing her and I want to slap it, tell it to have zero reaction, because my heart belongs to Harley and it’s fucking embarrassing that anyone else would cause this sort of uncontrollable chaos in my chest.

I duck into the nook with the mailboxes, close my eyes briefly, and slump against the wall, reminding myself that even if I run into an ex, it’s nothing I can’t handle. I’m about to have another meal with my parents, and that’s nearly as pleasurable as having my teeth pulled, so seeing Sloan is nothing.

Sloan, and her long legs.

Sloan, who used to show me the paintings she was working on for the gallery show she hoped to land someday, who liked to talk about art and passion, who always told me I made her feel things no one else did.

Sloan, who dropped hints she was thinking of leaving her husband before she just took off one day from the building. I hadn’t seen her since.

But Sloan isn’t Harley. Sloan isn’t the one I’m in love with. She’s not the girl I’m asking to move in with me.

I turn around, and head upstairs to my parents’ floor.

“Good to see you, son,” my dad says, offering a hand to shake, then clapping me on the back. Like I’m just another good old pal here to visit. “We ordered Chinese food tonight. Your mom didn’t have time to cook.”

Like this is news? My mother never cooks.

“Chinese is cool,” I say.

“Great,” he says. “Let’s go get her. Let her know you’re here.”

Inside her office, she’s tapping away on her desktop. She holds up a finger, the sign to wait. “Just sending in this prescription for Vicodin for a tummy-tuck patient. Be one more second,” she says, and then hits the button on her online prescription software that will send the recipe for numbness to the nearest pharmacy

I wouldn’t mind a Vicodin right now—anything to take the edge off eating scallion pancakes, cold noodles, and pepper steak while making fake conversation with my parents. Nothing has changed since the night a few months ago when I showed her the tats all over my body to remember my dead baby brothers, the ones she pretends never existed. Nope. It’s business as usual. Come to dinner. Talk about school. Be a good boy. See you later.

“So, Trey,” my father says when he’s done, folding his napkin and pushing away his plate. “Final semester. Have you given some thought to what happens come December when you graduate?”

I clear my throat and take a drink of water, wishing it were beer. “I thought I might go to nursing school,” I say, and I manage it with a straight face, flashing back to my joke last night with Harley.

My mother’s eyes brim with curiosity, and it’s the greatest evidence of an emotional reaction I’ve elicited from her in years. “Nursing school. That would be fantastic,” she says, and I want to roll my eyes and say, “You can’t think I was serious?” But they’d be thrilled if I became a nurse, because I’d at least be in the right field. And as far as they’re concerned, the field I’m in is the wrong one. I don’t tell them that when I graduate in December, I want to do what I’m doing right now: designing art on bodies.

We talk more about school and nursing, and it’s kind of amazing in a sad, pathetic way that my mom can chat endlessly about medicine and never about the losses that sliced our family into a before and an after. When she’s done, she surprises me by saying, “Your father and I would like very much for you to bring Harley over sometime.”

I nearly spit out my water. “What?”

“Yes, we’d like to meet her. Can she join us?”

“Um, okay,” I say, and soon after that I head out, texting Harley in the elevator, but when I reach the lobby I stop the message because there she is again.

Sloan.

On the street. Sliding into a cab. She’s not alone. I can’t see whom she’s with. But I feel dirty for even noticing her, and I hope to hell she’s not around when I bring Harley with me. I don’t want my present running into my past.

Chapter Three

Harley

A stick-skinny mom in khaki shorts pushes a blonde girl in a swing, and I catalogue the mom’s blasé attitude. Her listless hands on the chains. Her cell phone pressed hard against her ear. Her eyes rolling as she half-heartedly gives the kid a push on the back. The girl kicks her legs, pumping them, trying to fly higher, to touch the yellow ball in the sky with her toes.

“No,” the mom says into the phone, her lips a pink slash across her face. “I asked you to be home by five thirty. I have Pilates class, and you said you’d be home.”

Her voice makes my chest hurt, a deep hollow ache all through my bones.

I’m in Central Park at the playground, and the sun is baking my shoulders. Sweat drips down my tank top so I tug it away from me, but the relief is temporary. The sky is in a punishing mood, lashing the city with brutal heat.

“But that’s not what we decided earlier. Don’t you remember?”

The mom has claws in her voice, but I bet the person on the other end is just as pissed off. I bet they go round and round like this every day, fists raised, two boxers in a ring. Jab, jab, hit, hit.

“Higher. Push me higher,” the kid shouts.

The mom ignores the request.

I drop my head into my hands, and my forehead is slick against my damp palms.

This could be my life. Not the playground, because I don’t mind that. Not even kids, because I guess they’re fine, all things considered.

But fighting with Trey.

Arguing, over who’s doing what.

Getting annoyed.

Rolling my eyes.

Not loving, not caring, not cherishing the other person.

Look what happened to my parents when they had me. Dad cheated, they split, and now he’s so far gone I don’t know where he is.

Look at Trey. The babies his parents lost decimated their family.

That could happen to us.

I can’t stand the thought of us being ripped apart. I finally righted the sinking ship of my life, and now it’s capsized again, with one stupid mistake. My phone rings, and it’s probably Trey, so I grab it from the pocket of my jean skirt, sliding my finger across the screen.

“Hello,” I mumble into the phone. I must be a sight. Hanging out at the playground, hunched over, and sweaty.

“Darling.”

My skin crawls. I swear there are fire ants all over me hearing her voice. The sound I’ve avoided since she tried to buy me back.

“Yes,” I say, stripping my voice to its bare necessities. “What is it?”

“Your registration form for the fall semester arrived,” she tells me. My mom used to pay for my school, so she received all my forms. She doesn’t pay for college anymore, but the university hasn’t quite gotten its records updated.

“Just put it in the mail, please,” I say, but my throat hitches, and I can feel tears pricking the back of my eyes. Great. I’m barely pregnant, and I’m already hormonal. This is going to be a fucking fiesta. But the one thing I won’t do is let her hear me cry. I suck back the tears.

“I think it would be easier if you stopped by to pick it up.”

I shake my head, even though she can’t see me. “No. Just mail it to me.”

“It’s overdue, Harley. You need to turn it in.”

“Then I’ll go to the school and pick up a new form.”

“Well, darling. It’s Friday, and it’s due at the end of the day, so perhaps it would just be easier if you stopped by to pick it up. You can even fax it in from here.”

I breathe out, hard. I don’t have any fight in me right now. I don’t need to be pregnant and kicked out of school. “Fine. I’m at the park. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

I stand up, and my stomach roils for a moment, and I’m sure I’m going to yak again. I clasp my hand over my mouth, but the feeling subsides quickly, and I walk away.

“Let’s go. Your dad is in charge of you now,” the mom says sharply to her kid.

My god, parents suck.

I’m going to suck so fucking soon.

* * *

My plan was to meet her at the door, hold out my hand and take the form. But then I had to pee, so mother nature won. Now I’m washing my hands in the hallway bathroom, and then I dry them on a soft, and surely expensive, lemon yellow hand towel.

When I return to the living room my mother waits for me, perched on the edge of her royal blue couch. Her eyes are red, like she hasn’t been sleeping well. She’s usually so sure of herself, but she’s clicking and unclicking the band on her watch, a strange little tic that tells me she’s not the Barb Coleman who conquers the world right now.

Still, I want to rip that nervous look off her face because I hate all that she did, all that she didn’t do. But then there’s a primordial part of me that longs for what we never had. That wishes I could drop down on the couch next to her, lay my head in her lap, and tell her that my life is about to change irrevocably. What should I do, Mom? She’d smooth my hair, offer some wisdom, and tell me she’d help me through it. That she’d be there, every step of the way.

“Can I have the form now?”

“Of course,” she says, reaching for it on the table and handing it to me. I grab a pen, spread out the form on a paperback from my purse, using it as a hard surface as I fill in the boxes while standing. I don’t want to sit down. That would imply I’m comfortable here. I’m not, and I never will be.

“Harley?”

“Yes?” I ask, glancing up from the boxes and blue ink.

Hope sneaks into her eyes, and nerves steal into her voice. “I’d like to try again.”

I shake my head, return to the form. “Mom. We’ve been there. I told you there’s no starting over.”

“I know. You did.” Click of the watchband. Unclick. Metal against metal. Like her and me. “And I’ve thought long and hard about what you said. And I’ve made a grave mistake.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, keeping my guard up as I finish filling in the last few boxes.

She sighs, and then clasps her hands together. “You were right,” she says, her lower lip quivering slightly. Barb Coleman is rattled. Call the presses. “You said I should have confronted Miranda about what she did to you. About the blackmail.”

“Yeah. You should have,” I say, jutting my chin out, reminding her of how she dismissed me so easily.

She nods several times. “I should have. I own up to that, Harley. I do. And I want to confront her now. To do everything I can to stop her from publishing that—” She stops, and it’s as if she can’t finish the sentence. She’s reached the part in her bizarre act of contrition that she can no longer stomach. “–that book.”

But I have no problem saying the name. “Memoirs of a Teenage Sex Addict.”

She winces, her nose crinkling. “Yes. That one.”

“So, you’re going to do what? An article on how she blackmailed a former call girl? Expose her?”

“What would you like me to do, darling? What would make you happy?”

Erasing one of those two pink lines would make me happy. We’re talking erupt into a tap-dancing, heel-clicking fool kind of delight. But while I used to care deeply about hiding her secrets and closeting all of my own, this book isn’t important anymore.

“You know would what would make me happy, Barb?”

She straightens her spine, sits up taller, a puppy dog wagging its tail for a treat. “What would make you happy, darling? Anything. Name it.”

“I would like to use your fax machine and send this in.”

“Oh.” Her shoulders fall, but she gestures to her office, and I head into it. I position the paper in the fax machine to send, but the light is flashing red. It needs ink. Typical. The woman can expose wrongdoings of any high-ranking public official, but god forbid she actually maintain the technology in her office.

I grab some toner from the cabinet, open the machine, remove the used toner, drop the old toner into the recycling box, and slide in the new one. I set the box on her desk, next to her laptop, but the box knocks the corner of the computer askew, exposing a vintage card the color of eggshell.

I quirk my eyebrows. It looks like a birthday card. My mom hasn’t had a birthday recently. But I have.

I don’t think twice about snooping. I want to know why there’s a card hidden under her laptop. I grab it, open it, and gasp when I see my name on the inside. Then I cover my mouth so I don’t make a sound as my eyes roam the words.

There’s no envelope. No return address. But this is a card from my grandparents, who had promised to send me a birthday card every year.

Who never did.

Who always did?

My hands shake as I slip the card inside my purse, tucking it into the inside pocket. I check it once, twice, three times, and then zip it up. I slide the form through the fax machine, tapping my foot, urging it along, waiting for the sent notice. Once it’s there I rip it out, leave my mom’s office, and nearly run for the door.

“Thanks for the fax machine,” I say.

“Darling, do you want to talk more about next steps? How I can make this right for you? Can I take you out to dinner? Chat over sushi?”

Her voice is static, a late-night radio background blur to the noise and chatter of the last twenty-four hours.

“Another time,” I say, and leave her behind.

Chapter Four

Harley

The first words on the card are like a headline, in big, thick letters: The Stories We Promised to Tell You.

Then, under them:

And the city girl returned to the sand, and the sea, where the sun warmed her shoulders and the sky rained silver and gold sparkles . . .

And that’s all. It’s signed Nan and Pop.

I read the words again on the muggy subway platform, waiting for the downtown train. I read it on the subway car as it slaloms through underground New York, its lights flickering once around a bend, blasting us with darkness for a few seconds. I read it once more as I walk the few blocks to my apartment, weaving in and out of the early evening crowds who are returning home from work, their earbuds or their phones keeping them company.

The card is odd, too, on some sort of vintage letterpress paper, with a raised drawing of a red aardvark in the sand. Something you don’t find in the Hallmark section of Duane Reade, that’s for sure.

But the more I repeat the words, the less I understand them. They feel like a code, and I don’t have the key to decipher this strange sort of story from my grandparents, made stranger because I thought I was persona non grata to them.

I don’t know where they live, or if they’re still in San Diego. I don’t even have the same last name as my dad’s parents. When my parents split, my mom returned to her maiden name, and changed my name, too. A neat, clean break, severing me from his side of the family.

The two of us against the world.

Now, I am untethered from her, but tied to someone I don’t even know who is using my body to build limbs and lungs and nails and eyes, all from the DNA of mine that clung wildly, and unexpectedly, to Trey’s.

* * *

The air conditioner in the window chugs loudly, then spews a thick blast of icy air into the living room. As I deliver my news to Kristen, I welcome the chill. It suctions the day off me.

“I’m a train wreck, don’t you think?”

Kristen shakes her head. “No. You’re not. I swear I don’t think that.”

I don’t know if she’s more shocked now than when I told her I used to be a call girl in high school. “That’s because you expect me to be a fuck-up.”

“You keep my life interesting, that’s for sure,” Kristen says sweetly, petting my hair as I flop down on the couch and rest my head in her lap.

“What am I going to do? I want to finish college. I want to get my degree. I don’t want to be one of those girls on a reality TV show.”

“So don’t be.”

I scoff. “How?”

“Don’t be,” she repeats. “Be different. You don’t have to be messed up. You don’t have to quit school. You somehow found a way to be a call girl and get good grades in high school,” she says, and if anyone but Kristen said it I’d punch them. But she says it admiringly.

“Like that’s an impressive accomplishment?”

“In a way, it is. You balanced crazy-ass shit. You’ll do that here, too. You don’t have to quit school to have a baby. There are a million ways to deal with this. And you’re not alone. I will help however I can.”

I reach for her hand and squeeze it. “How did I get so lucky to have you as my bestie?”

“I could say the same. And you know, there is a father involved to help, too,” she says, looking at me pointedly. “And you need to tell Trey.”

“Obviously.”

“When are you going to tell him?”

“He’s at the gym right now. He texted earlier that he wanted to see me when he was done.”

“You need to tell him soon,” Kristen adds.

But telling him feels like dropping the blade on my own neck. Insert head in guillotine. Pull the rope. Watch head roll. “I’m so scared to tell him,” I say, a thick sob lodging in my throat.

“I know, sweetie. But he’s stronger than you think.”

I don’t know if he is, though. I don’t know if he can handle this.

A few minutes later, the phone rings. Trey’s name flashes on the screen. It’s past nine, now.

“Kristen, can you tell him I have another headache and I went to sleep?”

She shoots me a sharp stare from above her red glasses. “Really?”

I sigh heavily, and another tear roadblocks my throat. “I get a pass right now. Don’t I?”

She huffs. “Fine. But this is your one and only I-haven’t-told-my-boyfriend-I’m-preggers-so-I’m-asking-my-roomie-to-lie-for-me pass. Got it?”

I’d like to laugh. Really, I would. “Let’s hope I don’t have to use it again.”

Chapter Five

Trey

Headache? What the fucking fuck?

I know she’s lying. I know it. Harley doesn’t get headaches. Something is up, and if she’s back with Cam and is dicking me around I want to know sooner rather than later. Actually, fuck sooner. I want to know now.

I clench my fists as I walk home from the gym, trying to quell this treacherous ball of anger that’s building inside me. When I reach my apartment and turn on the shower, my hands are shaking. Only, it’s not anger that’s won squatting rights in my heart. It’s fear of the unknown. Of the absolutely terrifying uncertainty of something I never thought I’d know.

Love, and losing it.

Because this isn’t like the others. This isn’t Sloan McKay, where she could walk off and I’d hook up with someone else the next day.

Harley is my whole fucking heart, and then some.

I step out of the shower, dry off and pull on fresh jeans and a T-shirt.

Maybe I’m overreacting. Maybe I’m scared for nothing. Maybe she’s truly suffering from the mother of all headaches. If she is, I need to do something for her.

Fifteen sweaty minutes later, my T-shirt is sticking to me, thanks to the hottest August on record. I call her when I reach the stoop of her building, but there’s no answer.

I inhale deeply, and hold my breath, count to ten, remembering what my shrink Michele told me. Don’t jump to conclusions. Speak only your truth.

But I don’t feel like speaking.

I slam a fist against the railing of her building. The metal rattles against my hand, which now hurts like a motherfucker. I shake it a few times.

Where is she, and why is she lying to me?

My head is muddy, and I can’t tell up from down or left from right, and I definitely can’t tell if what I feel is normal or just plain wrong. This is all so foreign to me. I wish someone would diagnose this state of my mind right now—declare it one way, or the other. I don’t know if this is new or old. I have never known true consequences for my feelings, and maybe this makes me seem naive or just plain fucking dumb, but I never thought I could get hurt.

Because I’ve never been in love before.

I try her one more time. It rings and rings, but then someone picks up.

“Hey, it’s Kristen.”

“What’s going on? Where’s Harley?”

“She’s asleep,” Kristen says in a quiet voice.

“I don’t believe that,” I fire back.

Kristen laughs, a sharp sarcastic sound. “You don’t believe she’s asleep?”

“You’re covering for her, aren’t you?”

“Oh my fucking god. I want to strangle you sometimes. Come up and see for yourself if you don’t believe me.”

Then the buzzer sounds, and I push open the door.

Once I reach the fifth floor, Kristen is standing in the hallway, one hand on her hip, the other on the open door. She shakes her head at me, tsk-tsking under her breath. “Oh ye of little faith, prepare to be strangled when you set eyes upon your sleeping Harley. And do not wake her up. She has a massive migraine.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, holding my hands out wide. “I’m an ass.”

She nods. “You can be.”

“Is she okay?”

She swallows, looks away then back at me. “She’s fine. I mean, she’s not. But,” Kristen says, stumbling on her words. Fuck, maybe something’s going around causing all the women to act weird. “But anyway. You can see her, or whatever you need to verify she’s asleep.”

“It’s not that I want to verify it,” I say, with a heavy sigh. “I just want to see her.”

“Go.” She points down the hall.

My knuckles sting from pounding my hand against the metal, but I deserve it.

Gingerly, I push open the door to Harley’s room, and I melt when I see her. All the sharp metal edges in me turn liquid. She’s sound asleep, curled up on her side, the blanket kicked down to her waist even though her apartment is doubling as a refrigerator showroom right now. Harley is my kind of girl in every way. She loves to blast the AC. The room is dark and silent, except for the hum of the cooling air. I pad quietly to her, bend down and kiss her forehead.

She stirs, and murmurs something unintelligible. The sound of her sweet, sleepy voice is all the evidence I need that I’m an idiot, and that I should start trusting this strange and unusual feeling of loving her, that I can survive even when I don’t know what happens the next day.

That’s life and there are zero guarantees, and I need to get used to it.

Then her eyes flutter open. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

“What time is it?”

“Late. How are you feeling?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t want to talk.” She stops all conversation when she reaches for me, ropes her hands around my neck and kisses me.

A quiet, goodnight kiss. A come-join-me-in-bed kiss, so I answer its invitation. I untie my boots, kick them off, and slide under the covers with her. The kiss starts to fade out, her lips barely touching mine, just the faint trace of her softness on me. Then I taste something salty on her lips, and she hitches in a breath, a small stifled gulp. I break the kiss to look at her, arch an eyebrow.

She shakes her head, and silences me once more with her mouth. This time, it’s not a goodnight kiss. She is fevered and frenzied, and she kisses me like she wants to devour me, to render me useless to anything but the power of her kiss. My mind goes hazy, and my body takes over, and all that uncertainty has packed up and rocketed off to Pluto. Because nothing is unclear between the two of us now. Her frantic hands tug at my shirt, and in seconds she’s yanked it over my head. Then her nimble little fingers find the button on my jeans, and the whole time she kisses me like she owns me.

Which she does.

She fucking owns me, and I want her to stake her claim to me always.

We reconnect with our bodies with our want, our need.

“Harley,” I say, my voice rasping as she pushes my jeans down, and I help her, kicking them off the rest of the way. Instantly, her hand is on my cock, and it’s like someone lit a fire inside me and it’s torching my whole body. She strokes me through my underwear, and I swear I might combust.

I am helpless in her hand.

“Take them off,” she whispers, and I oblige as she pulls off her tank top.

I slide a hand between her legs, and her panties are damp already. I know I shouldn’t rely on sex as a barometer for our relationship, but I can’t help it. I’m so damn happy that she’s this turned on. That I can do this to her. That she wants me as much as I want her.

I won’t last long tonight, and I don’t think she will either.

“Let me get a condom,” I say, and she makes a strange little squeak when I say that last word. I grab one from her nightstand drawer. I hand it to her because she loves putting them on me.

“Just put it on,” she says, looking away as I do, and if I wanted to dissect the moment, I’d probably ask why, but I don’t want to examine anything anymore. I want to reconnect with her, and she’s been veering away, and if this is how we come together, I’ll take it. I’ll gladly take it.

She parts her legs wide for me, and there’s something needy and sad that flashes in her eyes, as I sink into her, but then every worry is snuffed out at the feel of her surrounding me.

“Oh, fuck, Harley. You feel so good.” I ease out, and then rock back in, and she moans and clasps my back. “I missed you today. I know I saw you this morning, but I fucking missed you.”

“I missed you too,” she says, her voice breaking.

* * *

Harley

It feels like the last time. At least, for me. Because I fully expect him to run when I tell him, and so I want this—one last time. One last moment. One last connection. I want to hold onto him, to never let him go.

So I grab him tighter, harder, tugging him as close as close can be. Then even more. I am lost in him, and I don’t want to be found. I don’t want anyone to discover that I’m hiding out with him right now, under the covers, in the dark, the drone of the air conditioner the soundtrack that mingles with my sighs and his groans as he buries himself in me.

“Deeper,” I whisper, and grab his ass, pulling him into me, needing the feel of him like I need air and breath and sun. He rolls his hips and pumps into me, filling me so completely that I gasp loudly at the sharp, sweet ache of this sensation. He’s all the way in me, fucking me hard and slow at the same time.

I want to cry, I want to sob, I want to hold him close and never let him go. I am in heaven with him, and I have one foot in the hell of my own fear, so I need to lose myself in sex, in love, in connection. Maybe this is the druggie in me, the junkie that doesn’t know how to deal without her fix.

I loop my hands around his neck, bring his face close to mine, his chest damp with perspiration as he slides into me, rocking deeper. I kiss his lips, his cheeks, his scar, his earlobe, and then I wrap my legs tighter around his hips, my body inviting him to sink in.

There is a slow urgency tonight, a mournful desperation in both of us as we grasp at each other, needing to hold on to skin, to muscle, to flesh.

“So fucking good,” he moans in my ear.

“Make me come, Trey. Make me come,” I say, because I want to see stars. I want to black out with pleasure. I want to be awash in the exquisite agony of an orgasm, one so intense it can make me forget all the words I don’t want to say.

“Always, Harley. I will always make you come. I fucking promise,” he says, and drives deeper, and I cry out as my belly clenches and my climax hits me hard and furiously, like a wave slamming the shore, drowning the sandcastles that were built, then washing all the grains of sand out to sea. And I am tugged under, sinking, the water blotting out the sounds of my frantic heart, immersing me in its warm, wet embrace until I can’t surface—I only float underneath the edge of the ocean, drifting away from him.

Chapter Six

Trey

The plastic edge of the Bed, Bath and Beyond card digs into the back pocket of my jeans.

Like it’s laughing at me, poking me. I must have lost my mind when I stopped at that store this morning to buy her a “let’s move in together” gift. Because that’s all I could come up with, and I’m sure it’ll make her eyes glaze over when I hand her the white $100 gift card.

“Hi Harley. Want to go shop for towels, like a bunch of domestic assholes?”

I want to ask her to live with me and give her something that shows we’re together, but not that we’re a bunch of home-decorating yuppies, who fight in the aisles over the thread count of sheets. I don’t give a shit what the thread count of sheets is. I’m not even sure what a thread count is.

When she steps out of the bathroom at the Starbucks, I make a vow to buy her something right now that says I know her. I understand her. Maybe a leather jacket, badass and cool, like her.

She looks pale, her eyes dark.

“You okay?”

She nods.

I grasp her hand, slide my fingers through hers, and we leave. “Can I take you shopping?”

She arches an eyebrow. “Since when do you like shopping?”

“I don’t. But I want to buy you something.”

“Trey, my birthday is over.”

“I know. But it’s for something else,” I say as we hit the sidewalk, and are instantly covered in a blanket of wet heat, knitted by August’s fireball hands. “Let me take you to that store you like that has the awesome T-shirts and combat boots.”

“Now?”

“C’mon. It’s just a few blocks away. I want to get you a gift.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I want to. Just let me, okay?”

She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.

I squeeze her hand. “You haven’t been yourself since your birthday. Is it seeing your mom yesterday that upset you?”

Harley’s mom is pretty much the human equivalent of a downer.

“No. But when I was there I found a birthday card from my grandparents,” she says, and her voice is bright again.

“Whoa. I thought you never heard from them,” I say as we cross the crowded avenue when the light turns green.

“Yeah. Me too. I thought they cut me from their lives when my parents split. But I found a birthday card hidden under her laptop when I was sending in my registration form, and it had a strange message on it,” she says, and roots around in her big purse for it.

“Like a cryptic?”

“Not Da Vinci Code style stuff, Trey,” she says and rolls her eyes, and that small gesture makes me feel like she’s returning to herself.

She hands the card to me, and then wipes the sweat off her brow. “I hate New York summers. I wish I were anyplace but here,” she mutters.

“Music to my ears. You know I want to get out of here,” I say, and then run a thumb over the raised lettering of the aardvark in the sand as we walk past a dry cleaner on the way to the shop. “To our Harley.” I look at her. “They really did send you a birthday card?” I say but it’s more like a question of wonder. “I thought you hadn’t talked to them since you were six and spent the summer there.”

“I haven’t. Haven’t seen them, haven’t been there. And now, this. Is it out of the blue, or do you think she’s hiding other cards from me?”

“This is your mom we’re talking about. Anything’s possible. You should look for them at her house.”

“Snoop?”

“Uh, it’s not snooping when she’s been hiding it from you. It’s hunting down what’s yours,” I say, as we reach the store. It’s all black and punk on the outside, and has racks and racks of cool T-shirts with funky sayings. Maybe it’s not the typical “Will you move in with me” gift, but I don’t even know if you give gifts when you ask someone to move in with you. And I don’t care. We’re kind of making up the rules as we go along, new ones that fit us.

She hunts through the racks, and when she finds a shirt she likes she tells me she’s going to try it on. She opens the curtain to the dressing room that is probably half the size of an airplane bathroom, and I wander around the store, listening to the music that’s playing overhead. The dude behind the counter nods at me as he flicks through a magazine.

“Need anything?” he asks, barely glancing up from the pages. He has huge plugs in his ears, and a spike in his nose.

“I’m good.”

I check out some leather jackets Harley might like as the music shifts to Arcade Fire. Our favorite band. We always seem to hear them when the moment is right and meaningful. Like the night we met, then the night we finally admitted how we felt for each other, and hell, this feels like another moment, another crossroads, maybe because we’re back on solid ground. She’s opening up, talking to me about things that matter after the last two days of disconnects. This feels like the moment to ask her to move in. I walk straight to the dressing room. “Best. Band. Ever.”

She peeks around the curtain. “No. Questions. Asked,” she says with a sexy smile, and it’s our saying, it’s our words, it’s us. “Come in.”

I walk in and close the curtain as she pulls on the shirt. I catch a glimpse of her flat stomach that I want to press my lips against.

I can’t resist. I am so drawn to her it’s ridiculous. I brush my thumb across her flesh, tracing a line along the waistband of her jean skirt. “You have such a sexy stomach.”

Then I drop to my knees and kiss her belly, like she’s a goddess and I’m worshipping at her feet, and maybe I am. Then, the moment that had been turning the inside of this dressing room as hot as the New York asphalt is blurred out with sudden waterworks. Tears rain down her cheeks, and she tries to cover them by hiding behind her fingers.

I spring up, and press my hands on her shoulders. “What is it, Harley?”

“I’m pregnant.”

In an instant, all the noise and all the music has been vacuumed out of the store.

My ears are ringing, my head is clanging, and I stumble back against the wall of the dressing room. Stars circle my vision, turning me woozy and weak. The inside of my chest is a black hole. All I can figure is I’m hearing things, seeing things, and I’ve slipped into my own worst nightmare where I’m tumbling into the endless dark.

Only I’m not sleeping. I’m wide awake in a dressing room in the East Village, and the love of my fucking life has shot a bullet through my chest.

Chapter Seven

Harley

Trey paces from the window to the door of his studio. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. How many times do I have to tell you? I took, like, twenty tests.”

From the door to the window, and back again. He can’t stop moving, can’t stop shaking, and all I can think is that this is the start of the running. This jittery back-and-forth, like a caged animal, is a harbinger. He’s going to walk. He’s going to sprint, and leave me alone with a baby in my belly, and a kid in my life.

“Did you go to the doctor?”

He asked me that already. He asked me that on the way back from the store. He’d grabbed my arm, gripped it so tight his hand was a blood pressure cuff, and then practically dragged me to his nearby apartment.

“I told you. No, I didn’t go to the doctor. Pregnancy tests work.” I cross my arms over my chest, standing firm against the wall. I have no clue where my certainty is coming from, but it’s as if all that prior fear zipped out of me, and now I am resolute.

He shoves his hands into his hair, like they’re bulldozers. More pacing. Past the futon, wearing a tread to the bathroom, then he swivels around and back to me.

“Are you keeping it?”

My brain rattles, tries his question on again for size. But it’s like he’s given the computer a command it doesn’t understand. “What?”

“Well?”

His green eyes are dark, bottomless, and I can’t read them. All the gold flecks that sparkle are blotted out. “How is that even a question?”

He raises his hands defensively. “Because it is.”

“And how can you say it?” I spit back at him. My voice rears up like a viper, hissing. I press my hands against my belly protectively. My eyes follow my hands, and it hits me what I’ve done for the first time. Protected my baby. I’m winded by my own motherly instincts that materialized out of nowhere. “Of course I’m keeping the baby.”

He turns on his heels and stalks over to the window, gripping the windowsill so hard he could crack the wood in his hands. I march over to him, grab his shoulder, and spin him around.

My steely eyes glare hard into his dark ones. “And for the record, it is a baby. It is a he or a she. A boy or a girl. It’s not a fucking it, Trey.”

“You don’t have to get like that with me. It’s not like we’ve even talked about abortion. It’s not as if we sit around and debate abortion, or the death penalty, or anything like that. I mean, I don’t even know if you believe in abortion.”

I scoff, cold and dry. “Believe in abortion? It’s not a religion. It’s a fucking medical procedure.”

“So. Do you believe in it?”

I grit my teeth, wishing I had something in my hand—a glass, a phone, a hairbrush—that I could gun to the floor. “I am not having an abortion, and I want to smack you so hard for even suggesting it. How could you? You want to kill my baby?”

His eyes fall shut, and he rocks back on his heels, his shoulders hitting the window. His body sags, as if all the bones in him have crumbled to dust and he’s only air and tenuous breath. His lower lip trembles, then he licks it once, and swallows. I don’t know what’s going on inside him, and I wish I could crawl up into him, feel his heart, read his mind, and know what’s happening.

He opens his eyes, and then parts his lips to speak, but no words come. His apartment is starkly silent, and the quiet has become a living creature in this room, a shadow animal wedged between us. Then, he whispers, so low I’d need some kind of machine to pick it up if I weren’t staring at his lips, and the words that take shape on them.

“Our baby.”

He pulls me to him, and I tuck my face into the crook of his neck, placing a hand on his chest, his heartbeat wild and terrified under my palm.

* * *

Trey

Two words I never thought I’d say. Not now. Not yet.

But they’re here, levitating in the air between us, another presence in my apartment, and then inside me, an echo reverberating in my cells.

Our baby.

I can honestly say I never thought this would happen. Maybe that makes me stupid, but we were so careful, and I’ve never knocked up anyone before, so it makes no logical sense why it would happen now.

But there’s no point in trying to apply reason. Logic has been factored out of the equation.

So, what’s next? Are we supposed to talk about baby names? Parenting philosophies? What hospital she wants to give birth at, like responsible adults discuss? Or the fact that we’re in college and this is happening? That we’re recovering addicts, junkies, fuck-ups with the worst possible parental role models ever?

I don’t know, I can’t know, and my feet feel unsteady and my breath is thin, but there is one thing I can hold on to—that I don’t want to lose touch with her. She is my rock, she is my hope, she is my every-fucking-thing, and so I don’t let go of her. I cling to her, my chin against her hair, her body gathered in my arms.

We stand there for minutes, our arms tangled so tightly together, our bodies snuggled close as if we can erase the distance and the fear if we’re entwined.

Soon, I pull apart, look her in the eyes, and opt for the naked truth. “I don’t have a clue what we’re supposed to do next. Or talk about. Or if I’m supposed to take you shopping for baby clothes, or touch your stomach all the time. All I know is, I fucking love you, and I’ll do whatever you need.”

Her shoulders seize up, and her eyes well, but she nods, seeming strong, steadfast. That’s my girl. My tough, badass, brave girl.

“I love you too. That’s all that matters, right? We’ll figure it all out somehow. As long as we’re together.”

“We will always be together,” I tell her, locking eyes with her, making sure she knows these words are the absolute truth. They are the foundation of how I live my life now. With her. With the certainty I have in this crazy love that we found in the most unlikely place. “Remember? Staying.”

“Staying,” she repeats, nodding. “Always.”

Then her hands slip up my shirt, and she runs her fingernails across my arrow tattoo. I rub her shoulder and bring my lips to kiss her heart and arrow. It’s like we’re sealing a promise. One that neither of us ever expected to make; not now, not like this.

But what choice do we have?

Somehow we manage through the rest of the day, and when her stomach rumbles in the evening, I laugh.

“Hungry much?”

“I guess so,” she says with a sheepish grin.

“Bet you didn’t know I am amazingly proficient at making grilled cheese sandwiches.”

Her eyes light up. “Ooh! I bet you didn’t know that’s my favorite kind of sandwich.”

I show off the extent of my skills in the kitchen, making her a grilled cheese sandwich for dinner, the melted cheddar drizzling over the crust of the bread.

She takes a bite and rolls her eyes in pleasure. “This is so good I’m going to call it the Cheesy Miracle.”

“That is an excellent name.”

I whip up a Cheesy Miracle for myself, and damn, it tastes good, and it’s almost enough—the dinner, and the banter—to make it seem like we are the same people we were this morning, or yesterday, or a week ago.

Almost.

But not quite.

Because as the hours turn into days, and the week ticks by, I start to feel uneasy, as if I’m living on borrowed time. Because that’s what we’re doing. We’re playing pretend, avoiding reality, talking about sandwiches and saying I love you so much we’re a broken record.

I want to live in this make-believe state forever and ever. But then time does what time does—it marches onward—and reality sets back in. The tape starts playing in my head, a highlight reel looped over and over, and I see myself at age fifteen with my baby brother, Will, dying in my arms when he was only three days old. His tiny chest, rising and falling for the last time. It was hard to pinpoint the exact moment when he left this world. Everything had slowed, all his breaths, all his blood, and he slipped from life to death sometime as I held him, his tiny little body no longer working, his heart no longer pumping blood.

I didn’t even know him, and still, it hurt so damn much. It hurt like someone was shoveling out my heart, scooping out my organs, the metal edges grinding against my bones.

The aching, the awful aching emptiness of those days. Of that life. Of no one to talk about it with. I’ve worked so hard to move on: to live, to love. To not see death in front of my eyes every time someone says words like pregnancy or baby, but now it’s all I can see. It’s the picture I can’t stop looking at.

My mind starts to agitate like a washing machine stuck on an endless spin cycle, as I feel the hope and the happiness and the future draining out of me.

On the first day of her junior year of college, and my final semester, I walk her to campus. Her hand is in mine, and it feels so right to hold her hand, so I know—I fucking know—that I shouldn’t feel as if my blood is on speed. I try to settle my hyperdrive heart. I look down and see her fingers in mine, intertwined. See? It’s all fine, I tell myself. I can do this. I can manage. I can survive all my fears. I don’t have to be scared. We can keep doing what we’re doing.

I grip her hand tighter, needing the familiar, as we press past throngs of our fellow students returning to school, chattering about their summers away from New York, or their summers in New York, or the classes they took, and the jobs they tried on for size. A guy in a brown T-shirt has his arm draped over his dark-haired girlfriend and they turn the corner, debating whether to bestow six stars or seven to the movie they saw last night.

They’re not talking about the baby in her belly. The kid they’re going to have. The child they might lose.

My lungs are pinching, and it’s like my organs are being crammed into smaller-sized storage containers.

We reach the building where she has her creative writing class. “Go write something good about talking animals,” I say, and I flash a smile, trying to keep it light so she won’t know I’m withering inside.

“I always love writing about talking animals. Meet me after class?”

“Of course,” I say then I kiss her on the forehead, and she opens the door and disappears. When she’s gone, I slump against the wall and sink to the ground, my head resting on my knees.

My insides are threatening to pour out of me, to spill all sorts of fears, and that’s the last thing I want. I can’t handle that kind of mess right now. I clench my fists; I squeeze them tight. They’re a vise, holding in all the doubts that want to ensnare me. I picture the walls closing in, compacting this messy stew in my head.

Because I know how to shut down.

It is my greatest skill, it is the subject I’ve mastered, and the class I excel in. And, as I head off to my history seminar, it’s as if my veins have stopped pumping blood, and now there’s some kind of strange coolness flowing through them, as if the blood cells are made of blue liquid distance.

I don’t meet Harley after class. I don’t answer her calls. I send her a text telling her I forgot I’m meeting Jordan for lunch. I lie to her for the first time.

Then I do it again that night when she comes over after I return home from No Regrets. She tries to snuggle up close with me in bed, but I don’t want to be close to her, so I pretend I’m asleep. She wraps her arms tight around me, her warm little body against mine, and it’s almost enough for me to turn around and kiss her and tell her all the things I’m feeling, except I don’t want to feel anymore. Not a thing. Not for anyone.

Not at all.

Chapter Eight

Trey

There are five stages to grief: Denial. Bargaining. Depression. Anger. Acceptance.

I learned them all from Michele, my shrink. I went though some of them each time one of my three brothers died. I bypassed many of them.

But what the shrinks don’t tell you is that there is a sixth stage.

Faking it.

“Let’s break this down. Piece by piece, because that’s the only way to tackle something so big,” Michele says, folding her hands in her lap, taking my news so coolly, so calmly that I’d bet the house on her being on Xanax. How the hell else can you explain the fact that she’s not pulling out her hair, or sitting there with her jaw hanging down on the floor? She’s acting like this is all too normal. Have an emotion. Have a reaction. Fucking feel this with me.

Or don’t. Whatever. I don’t care. I can’t care. I don’t want to care.

“I need you to be straight with me right now, Trey.”

“Sure,” I say, settling into her couch. Her office, with its abstract paintings of red squares, yellow brushstrokes and blue lines, is my bomb shelter, safe from shrapnel. No bad news can hit me here. No one can touch me.

“I don’t want anything but the truth. Promise?”

“Got it,” I say, nodding.

“What is your biggest fear? Being a father? Committing to Harley? Or are you—”

I cut her off. “What? Committing to Harley? I’m committed. I’m with her. There’s no one else.”

She shakes her head, crosses her legs. “That’s not what I’m saying. But having a family and being parents is a huge step and it tethers you to someone for life. You’ve only just started having a relationship with her, it’s the first one you’ve ever had, and now this. You’re not even living together yet,” she says, leaning forward in her chair. “Did you ask her like you’d planned to?”

The window of her office is suddenly fascinating. The way the afternoon light slants through it. How the glass is spotless. “Do you clean that window every day?”

“No. The cleaning crew does.”

“Damn, they do a good job. Don’t you think?” I ask, turning back to her.

She gives me that look. The one that says she knows I’m stalling. “So, what did she say when you asked her?”

“I didn’t ask. I meant to. But it didn’t seem like the right time.”

She nods. “I can imagine. But then, maybe it would have been the best time. Are you afraid to ask her to move in now? Afraid to be close?”

I sneer. “No. Not afraid of that whatsoever. We’re already close. It’s just . . .” I say, but my voice trails off.

“Just what, Trey?”

“I just need space to process this, okay? It’s kind of like a big fucking deal.”

“Right,” she says firmly. “It. Is. Like, the biggest deal of your life. That’s what having a kid is. So are you pulling away from her?”

“No! I’d never do that to her.”

“Then I need to ask you the next question. We need to talk about the elephant in the room.”

My chest rises and falls. I know what’s coming. I don’t want to know what’s coming. I hold up a hand, but she asks anyway.

“Are you thinking the baby won’t make it?”

Armor. I put on my armor.

I scoff, like that’s a ludicrous suggestion. “That’s crazy. There’s no way that would happen. I mean, how could it? We’ve done our time, I’ve fucking paid for it. That doesn’t happen. Does it?”

Michele sighs deeply, and fixes me a look I’ve seen before. One I know well. Kindness, laced with sympathy. She feels sorry for me already?

“Trey,” she says in a soft, gentle voice, “it’s unlikely it would happen again, but there are never any guarantees of that sort. I’m not going to lie to you and tell you that prior loss is a hedge. That it preempts the possibility of any future problems. Because that’s not true. Anything can happen at any time, though I hope your baby will be fine.”

I draw a sharp breath, and push my palms hard against the couch. “It won’t happen. I won’t let it, Michele. Everything will work out fine.” The more I repeat it, the more it becomes true. “There’s no way that could happen. The universe won’t let it. Everything will be picture perfect.”

I try to impress this upon Michele for the rest of the session, and by the time I leave, I nearly believe it. I press hard on the down button in the elevator, then rest my forehead against the panel and close my eyes. It will all be fine. Lightning doesn’t strike twice. Or in my case, four times.

See? That’s the proof there. There’s no way on earth it could happen again.

I have immunity now. Absolute and utter immunity from loss.

The cool of the panel feels good against my skin, cocooning me in a protective bubble. Because I am safe. Even when I leave Michele’s building and the late August heat smacks my face, it doesn’t faze me because: Everything. Is. Fine. Here.

A cabbie slams on his horn, the crude sound blasting into my ears, but it doesn’t bug me. Because I know how to protect myself.

I have a shield from pain.

I turn the corner, and a burly guy smoking a cigarette crashes into me, nearly knocking me against a building, but I sidestep him nimbly. See? Nothing can hurt me. Nothing can touch me.

I make my way to Third Avenue and turn left, heading north, heading somewhere, passing familiar shops. Florists peddling bouquets that rich husbands bring their beautiful wives to say they’re sorry for working late, but then they do it again the next night, then the next, the lure of the deal, the boardroom, the negotiation more potent than her. Then they buy diamonds from the jewelry shop on the corner here. Or send them to this spa for the day, where it’s tranquil and calm, as the women lie with cucumbers on their eyes, drifting off to the memories of pleasure.

Then I walk past doormen I have seen before, town cars pulling up, ladies spilling out. And then, finally, the maroon-uniformed man greets me with a nod, and holds open the door, since he’s known me for years.

And I’m honestly not sure how I got here, but this is where I am: my medicine cabinet, where I keep my pills. This is where my robot feet have taken me, where my cool, perfectly modulated heart is beating. Across the rose marble lobby, into the elevator. Doors close, I press the button, fifteen floors later, a whoosh, and here I am. The plush brown carpeting, the cool quiet of the hallway, the doors ready to reveal naked bodies. What’s behind door number one? How about door number two?

Or maybe, just maybe, 15D?

That one. Yeah. The fucking painkiller that’s going to make everything fine, sliding down my throat like a couple of Vicodin. There’s only one thing that can that can erase uncertainty, that can take away pain, and it’s calling to me in its siren song that blots out the sounds and noises of old New York.

I step out of the elevator onto Sloan’s floor.

Chapter Nine

Harley

The key slides into the lock. Of course the key slides into the lock. The key is made for this fucking lock.

But my heart is sputtering, and I can hear it loud in my ears. I still feel like I’m slipping a credit card into a door, all clandestine and furtive, because I might have a key, but this is not my home anymore.

I used to come and go as I pleased. Not only when I was younger, but also my first two years in college. I’d stop by for dinner, or pop by in the mornings, or crash here at night every now and then.

The door groans as I open it, inch by inch. I glance down the stoop to the sidewalk, across the street, up and down the block, making sure no one sees or hears me.

The house is silent, except for the low purr of the dishwasher. She always sets it to run mid-day so the dishes are done when she returns home. My heart aches the tiniest bit as I remember this detail about her; a meaningless detail in the scheme of things, but one of the many pieces that add up to her. How she likes order. How she likes neatness. I know so many things about her. Too many things. Except not enough, and that’s why I’m here, sneaking in after my last class of the day.

“Hello?”

I call out, but am greeted by my own echo. Instinct kicks in, and I leave my purse on the table in the living room where I always leave it, then I find myself heading for the kitchen to grab a soda. But I stop in the doorway. Nature is a powerful force, and I fight back. I’m not here to make myself at home with a Diet Coke. I’m here to find things she kept from me.

“Anyone home?” I try again, just in case.

One of the last times I came here in the middle of the day I ran into her latest suitor. Naked. I cringe at the memory of Neil’s furry parts. I don’t even know if she’s with him anymore.

I head straight for her office. Her laptop is gone, but that’s not a surprise. She probably took it with her to the office today. I take a deep breath and picture myself as some cool, calculating Angeline Jolie soulless spy. I imagine slipping on leather gloves, then methodically exploring each drawer with ruthless efficiency till I find what I need.

I open the top desk drawer, and flip through papers, Post-its, scissors, and tape.

Nothing.

The next drawer is crammed with old bills. Another one contains folders full of her pay stubs over the years, then her royalty statements from her publishers for her bestselling books. I narrow my eyes at those, because her editor is a witch.

But that’s it. Nothing out of the ordinary. No letter from my grandparents. No telltale note from my dad. Nothing special, just the necessary documents to run her business. I scan her bookshelves, run my fingers over the edges, hunting for a card, or something poking out between pages.

I don’t even know what I want it to say. But I know I want more. I want something more than her.

The books are only books though. Stories of politics. Tales of war-room negotiations. Tell-alls about campaigns marred by bad behavior.

I try the drawer under her fax machine, even though I rummaged through it the other day and it only included paper. I yank it open, but there’s still only paper.

And a package of batteries, now.

Double A batteries.

My stomach curls. She always bought them online. Kept herself well-stocked in batteries. And the things her batteries go in aren’t in her office. They’re in her bedroom.

Her room.

The one room I stopped going into when I was a teenager. I didn’t hang out in her bathroom anymore to prep for parties; I didn’t help her pick clothes for parties. I had my own room, my own bathroom, and we’d meet in the hall.

If I were her, and I were trying to hide something from me, I wouldn’t hide it in the office. That’s a harmless room. And I wouldn’t stow it away in the kitchen. It would be in her bedroom. Sure, the card I found the other day was hidden under the laptop; but that was a way station, I bet. She hadn’t yet shuttered it away.

I reach her room and the door’s wide open. I walk in, and my nostrils are assaulted with her lingering perfume, the scent marking her territory: Obsession.

Her bed dominates the room, a huge king-sized creature that has claws and a heartbeat. It’s living, breathing, and watching me from beneath the red satin sheets. I tiptoe around the bed on quiet feet, keeping a distance, as if it might bite me. I reach the nightstand, wishing I had rubber gloves from the doctor’s office.

Because I bet the cards are in here. Her private drawer. Her secret hideaway.

I pretend I’m wearing a nose mask as I gingerly tug on the handle, sliding open the drawer. I peer out of the corner of my eyes, terrified of what I see: thick purple plastic, a red one with metal balls, a slim blue number with ten different speeds, one with straps, another with leather.

I gag, and slam the drawer shut.

I can’t do this. Whatever she’s hiding from me isn’t worth seeing this. I broke away from her for a reason, so I’d never have to know about her sex life again. I rush to her bathroom, crank on the faucet and scrub my hands, lathering up to my elbows like a surgeon, as I cough. It’s like I’m choking on fumes, and it’s merely from the sight of her pleasure toys. I wash harder, as if I can slough off all the layers of dirt.

Then my stomach clenches, and a wave of nausea hits me again.

Just my luck. I breathe deeply, as if I can will it away with a calming inhalation as I finish washing my hands. But the nausea is stronger, so I drop down to the toilet and yak up my breakfast.

Great. Just great. So far, pregnancy is really fucking fun.

I return to the sink and wash my face, cupping water in my hands to clean out my mouth. I squirt some toothpaste onto my finger and scrub it against my teeth. I turn to the towel rack to dry my hands, but it’s empty. When I open the cabinet to hunt for one, I spot a wooden box tucked under the fresh linens. It’s the kind of box that holds mementos.

Shrugging, I take a chance.

What have I got to lose now? I open the lid, and there’s a small padded manila envelope inside. On the outside of the envelope my mother has written 21 in a sharpie.

21?

The envelope isn’t sealed, and a thick pang of guilt stabs me, but I ignore it and peer inside. My heart springs inside my chest—I’ve found the buried treasure. I nearly squeal as I paw through more cards. All have different designs of animals in that vintage raised ink. I open one quickly; it’s a card for my thirteenth birthday. Then my ninth. Then my seventeenth. All with strange little notes and tales from the grandparents who supposedly never kept in touch with me, but always did.

They kept their promise.

I take the manila envelope, close the vanity, and race downstairs, my heart skittering angrily in my chest. She crossed so many lines, but this is something she took from me—the chance to know them. To know someone else in my family besides her.

* * *

Joanne pours ample amounts of cream into her latte, stirs in some sugar, and takes a drink.

“Are you sure they’re really from your grandparents?” Joanne asks. She leads the Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous Group I still attend regularly, and she’s also my sponsor, so we meet one-on-one after the meetings.

“As opposed to?”

“Maybe they’re notes your mom wrote.”

“Why would she do that?”

“I don’t know. I’m trying to look at all the angles.”

“They are definitely from my grandparents. I don’t remember details, but I know they told me they’d write to me every year. And they are signed Nan and Pop.”

“So, what do you think you should do about it?” Joanne asks, her hands wrapped around the mug, both her pinkies tapping the ceramic. She’s not knitting right now, and it’s strange to see her needle-free, but her fingers seem to cry out to be busy. Tap, tap, tap.

“I wish I knew what the cards meant. I don’t even know how to find my grandparents. I don’t know their last name, or my dad’s. She never told me.”

“She kept that from you? Your father’s last name?”

Even Joanne, cool, unflappable Joanne, seems perturbed by this.

I nod. “Yep, and there are no envelopes with the cards, and it hit me why as I was walking to the meeting. She doesn’t want me to know the return address. She doesn’t want me to know my grandparents. Not only did she keep them from me, she never wanted me to know.”

“But, to play devil’s advocate, if she wanted you to never find them why not throw out the cards? She kept them,” Joanne says pointing to the evidence, the manila envelope inside my purse.

“All I know is she hid these cards and my grandparents from me. For my whole life.”

Her finger taps the handle. “How does that make you feel?”

“Like she wanted to own me,” I say, narrowing my eyes, the words tasting sordid. “She wanted to box me in and make me hers, and not let anyone else near me.”

Joanne nods. “I agree. But the thing is, you don’t want to slip in your recovery and start letting these new discoveries about her cause you to return to your drug. You’re at a very critical time. You’ve been doing great battling your addiction, all while moving forward in a new relationship, and moments like this can cause a relapse.”

I look at her like she’s crazy, because that’s how she sounds. “You think I’d go back to being a call girl because of this? Give me a little credit, please.”

She shakes her head, her pink hair swinging back and forth. “No. But I’m saying it’s tempting at times of uncertainty, when we are hit with information that rocks us, to want to use sex, or love, or romance as a drug. You’ve only just broken free from her, but clearly she still has claws in you somehow. With each new discovery it can feel like another loss of control, and losing control can be a trigger. We crave control, and now, when your world feels unsteady, you could be tempted to get it back through old habits. But you want to be able to break your patterns. You want to end the cycle.”

“Okay. I get that. So what do I do?”

“You know you can call me anytime to talk. Pick up the phone, fly the Bat flag, I’ll try to help you. But you should also decide if these letters are important right now. Are you going to drop back into your mother’s life to learn about these cards?”

I don’t have to think about her question, because I already know the answer deep in my gut. It feels terribly important to find my grandparents. “I need to understand my family. I can’t be like my mom. I want to know what they’re saying to me,” I tell Joanne, then I decide now is as good a time as any. “Especially since I’m pregnant.”

She blinks several times, like a machine processing new data. Her index finger twitches faster against the mug. “Oh, my. Is that good or bad?”

I shrug, and a tear threatens to escape, but I manage to keep it together. Each day, each time it’s getting easier to say. “It is what it is. I guess it’s bad and it’s good, and you take them both. You can’t just say it’s bad. Because it’s this life inside of me that’s scaring the shit out of me, but it also must have happened for a reason.”

“Are you keeping the baby?”

I nod.

“What about college?”

“I have to find a way to finish it.”

“And how is Trey dealing with this?”

I smile once, flashing back to the other day in his apartment. Our baby. He’ll be a great father. “Surprisingly well.”

“That’s good then. And like I said, there’s a lot going on in your life. So be aware of triggers and temptations. And in the meantime, I’ll knit you some booties.”

“Good,” I say glancing at her hands. “Because I can tell you’re jonesing to be knitting something right now.”

“Like you can’t even believe.”

When I leave, I look at one of the cards, and the words written on the eggshell paper, wondering what mysteries lie behind this story that they promised to tell me . . .

Once upon a time there was a girl from the city who had sand and seashells in her hair, sun-kissed cheeks, and a smile as wide as the sun . . .

Chapter Ten

Trey

I am a statue. Frozen on Sloan’s floor. Her door—15D—looms ominously at the end of the long hallway. I’ve been standing outside the elevator for five minutes, maybe ten. I don’t know anymore.

All the while, I’ve been remembering how she liked it. How she wanted me from behind, standing up, how she said she came easily like that. How she was a fiery one, wanting it hard, wanting it rough. Rocking back into me, moaning, groaning, shouting, screaming, her sounds erasing all the feelings inside me, taking me away to a land of nothing but pleasure. Fucking Sloan was like that perfect buzz. It erased all the images in my head, all the cruel, cold memories of last breaths, of death staining my arms.

I want to be buzzed again. I want to be drunk out of my mind. I want to shut off all the pathways to my heart.

But I can’t seem to move my feet. I can’t walk this hallway. And I can’t knock on that door. Because the pathway to my heart is blocked, by the girl I love. By the one person I can’t shut off. And I can’t fucking believe I took the elevator to Sloan’s floor, like some kind of junkie on autopilot.

I stare at my traitorous feet, and they shame me because they brought me here.

I am the alcoholic who walks into the bar, who asks for a beer, who brings it to his lips, then spits it out. Because that’s what I have to do now. Walk the fuck away. My limbs are quicksand, but somehow I turn around and stab the elevator button, hitting it over and over.

“Come on. Come on.”

I run my hands through my hair, ashamed, so ashamed of how close I came. I need my getaway car. I need to escape. I can’t have temptation writhing at my feet, trying to trip me.

I push the button one more time, rewarded by the chug of the elevator shooting up to save me.

The doors open and I fucking jump into it, bang hard on the lobby button and pray the doors close quickly, like chains on my wrists to save me from me.

The elevator begins moving, and I can’t even think about what I almost did. As soon as I make my way out of the lion’s den I call Harley. I have to see her, to wrap myself up in her, to hold her close, breathe her in, feel safe the only way I can.

With her.

“Where are you? I want to see you,” I tell her, grateful that we can talk in this shorthand.

“Leaving Joanne’s.”

“Meet me at my place?”

“Sure, I found more cards. I want to tell you about it.”

“Great. I want to hear everything,” I say, but that’s a lie.

I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to play detective. I need to numb these feelings, surround myself with her, her scent, her smell, her taste, so I can rid my brain of the onslaught of memories. Harley can do that for me. Right?

“Can you meet me at my apartment?”

“Sure. I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” she says.

“Me too.”

On the subway, I crank up the music and push in my earbuds, blasting some tunes to drown out the thoughts that I don’t want to let infect me. I don’t want to think about what’s next, what’s ahead, how to deal, how to be, how to love, how to handle.

When I reach my stop, I walk quickly to my building and she’s there, waiting outside, looking sexy as fuck in a tank top, skirt and combat boots. Her legs are bare, and already I’m picturing turning her around and hiking up that skirt.

“So, you’re never going to believe this,” she says when I’m a few feet away, rolling her eyes. “Actually, you will believe it.”

But I silence any more words with a hard, hot kiss, cupping the back of her neck in my hand, threading my fingers through her hair, needing contact, needing pleasure to mute the pain.

She’s startled at first, but only for a second because she’s used to my kisses, completely accustomed to how much I want to touch her, everywhere, anywhere, in public, in private. I can’t keep my hands off her, and that’s why she’ll never know where my mind is right now. She’s into it, parting her lips, welcoming my tongue sliding over hers, letting me crush my lips against her mouth. Her purse slips down her arm, dangles on her elbow as I kiss her so hard my head starts to turn cloudy.

Ah, perfect.

It’s like the first sip of a cold beer, and I want another drink. Besides, I can take endless drinks from the tap of Harley, and it’s not addiction, it’s not a problem, it’s not an issue what-so-fucking-ever because she’s the only one, she’s not married, she’s not someone else’s. She’s mine, so I am allowed to let her wash over me.

Make me forget.

Make me feel no pain.

“Let’s go inside,” I say, and a minute later we’re in my apartment and the door is shutting.

“So, how was your day? Did you see your parents?” she asks. She’s in a chatty mood again.

I shake my head. “I don’t want to talk. I just want you.” I fall into her again, the press of her body some kind of balm for my fearful heart. Because it’s working. It’s fucking working. The feel of her is an anesthetic. “I love you,” I murmur in her ear, as much to remind myself as to get her in the state I need her in. Because I want her blissed out, drunk from sex, too. We can get wasted together. “I love you so fucking much,” I say, and she moans softly from the words. I know her, I know this girl.She loves hearing it, she can’t get enough of it, and it turns her on to no end.

“I love you too,” she says, roping her arms around my neck, and her voice is so honest, so pure, that it nearly jolts me from the haze that’s coating my brain. But my body is taking over, and I want her, I want to fuck her, I want her to take me away from me. I want to escape in sex.

I pull apart, grab her hand and lead her to the tiny alcove of the kitchen. She raises an eyebrow. “Are we going to do it on the counter?”

I love the idea. I want to someday. But not today, because I’d have to look at her.

And I don’t want connection. I want contact.

“Against the counter. You against the counter,” I whisper roughly in her ear, then lick my way from her earlobe down to the hollow of her throat, kissing her there where it makes her gasp and arch her back even while she’s standing.

“Okay,” she says and she sounds the tiniest bit nervous.

We’ve had tons of sex, countless rounds, and we’ve tried many positions, but I’ve never fucked her from behind. That’s the only way I want her right now.

“I like looking at you though,” she says, and she’s so damn sweet, and so damn kind, and so fucking perfect, I can’t take it, because I don’t want it right now. I bend my head to her neck, lay a kiss in the spot that drives her wild.

“I know, but it will feel so good this way. Do you trust me?”

She nods. “You know I do.”

“Then let’s do it this way, okay?”

She nods. And hell, I like to look at her too. But I can’t right now. I turn her around.

“Put your hands on the counter,” I tell her, and she listens, pressing her palms down.

“Like this?” She asks, all sweet and willing to try.

“Yeah.”

I slide a hand between her legs, and her underwear is wet, and the feel of her heat makes me even harder. I peel off her underwear, letting it fall to her ankles. She starts to step out of them, to shimmy them over her boots, but I stop her. “Leave them on. You look hot like that.”

She wiggles her ass once, then turns to me, an eager look in her eyes as if she’s asking me if she did it right. God, it kills me. Because she does everything right. “Beautiful,” I say, as I hike up her skirt. I unzip my jeans, push my briefs down, and guide my hard-on to the Promised Land, rubbing my dick against her wetness, and I start to push in.

“Fuck,” I say, cursing myself. “I’ll grab a condom.”

She laughs, drops her head in her hand. She turns back to me. “Don’t know if you got the memo, Trey, but we don’t have to use those anymore.”

I take a sharp breath, the reminder I don’t need or want right now. “Right,” I say, managing a laugh as I press my thumbs against her ass, spreading her cheeks, lifting her up a bit for the perfect angle. I sink into her, and close my eyes.

The feel of her heat is almost too much, but I know how to control myself, because I’ve had sex without condoms before. Some of my ladies liked it that way. Mrs. Fitzpatrick had her tubes tied, and Sloan was on the pill. I was sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, and when the thirty-year-old hottie told me it was fine to fuck her without a rubber, I didn’t question the wisdom of an older woman. I slid home. So this isn’t my first time riding bareback, but it’s one of my first few times like this with Harley, and she’s so tight and hot against me that I have to still myself so I don’t come too soon. I don’t want to come yet. I don’t want to come for hours. I want to fuck her for as long as I can, for as long as it takes to numb me again.

So I do, taking slow, deep strokes. In. Out. Hot. Wet. Deep. I close my eyes, let my instincts take over, fucking her against the counter like I did the others. Bent over their bathroom sinks. Up against their walls. In elevators. On the counter while no one was home. Them telling me how good it felt, how much they loved it, how I took care of them like no one else did.

They took care of me, too. They turned my mind blank, and they coated my neurons in pleasure and ecstasy. And I’m going back there now.

“You look so fucking hot in this position,” I tell her, because they all did, and that’s what they all wanted to hear.

She moans, and pushes back, letting me fill her.

“You like that?”

“Yes,” she says, and I can hear the desire thick and hot in her voice. But she’s not Harley anymore to me. She’s anyone.

“Do I make you feel good?” I ask, falling into my old persona, the things I said and did, even though they were the ones who talked more. They were the ones who said you make me feel so good.

“You always do,” she says.

“Rock back into me. You’ll come easily like this.”

“It feels so good,” she says, all breathless and needy.

“Because you love this position,” I say.

She flinches, but I keep going, the words spilling out of me of their own accord. “It makes you come so fucking hard.”

She says nothing.

“I want you to shout so loud it drowns out everything.” I hardly know what I’m saying, but the words are flying from my mouth like I have no control over them.

Then she stops moving.

“Everything,” I repeat, losing myself in the rush, in the feelings, in the ecstasy of fucking her.

Her shoulders tense, but I can feel the blood racing faster in my body, tearing through my veins, the sparks building, and I start to pump harder, faster, and I can feel it building, and it’s going to wash away the pain, the fear, the worry, the five stages, the way I’ll never hurt again. It’s going to do the job, and if it doesn’t we’ll do it again and again and again, and then once more.

“Fuck,” I shout, as I drive deeper into her, coming inside her. Then I slump against her back, resting my cheek against her shoulder, savoring the way I’m buzzed, and no longer worrying about anything.

But she wriggles away from me. She turns around and stares sharply at me. A noise catches in her throat, but then she buries the tears, and her brown eyes are blazing mad. She grabs her underwear, yanks them up, adjusts her skirt, and pushes me away.

Hard.

“Don’t fuck me like that. Don’t ever fuck me like that again.”

I stumble against the wall, my underwear and jeans at my feet. “What are you talking about?” I ask, playing dumb, or maybe I’m not playing because I feel pretty stupid right now.

She points a finger at me. “You know what I’m talking about, Trey Westin. I’m not one of them. I’m me. I’m the woman you’re supposed to love. Don’t ever fuck me like that again.”

Then she grabs her purse and marches to the door.

“Wait!” I call to her, grasping for my briefs and tugging them up. “Don’t go.”

She breathes in through her nostrils. Breathes out, hard. “I’m going, and it would be really great if you don’t come after me. If you don’t show up at fucking midnight acting all sorry. And if you don’t call Kristen and convince her to let you in.”

My heart plummets. Shit. “Harley, I’m sorry.”

“I’m so impressed you remembered my name,” she spits back.

“You’ve gotta let me apologize.”

“I am letting you. That doesn’t mean I want to see you again tonight. You can say you’re sorry six ways to Sunday, but that doesn’t change what you just did to me.”

“You act like I raped you.”

She rolls her eyes. “Get over yourself. I never said that. You fucked me and pretended I was one of your women. You love this position. We’ve never done it in that position, you fucking ass. Did you think I would forget? You come hard like this? What the fuck is wrong with you? You pretended I was someone else. You used me like a drug. Just because you have more experience having sex than me doesn’t mean you can pull the wool over my eyes.” She taps the side of her head, her eyes dark and filled with fire. “You might be the only guy I’ve ever slept with, but I’m not stupid. Don’t forget—I’m an addict too, so you can’t fool me.”

Deny. That is all I know. It is all I can rely on. It is my only recourse. I have a fucking master’s degree in it. It’s been a daily practice of mine. “I didn’t, Harley, I swear. Jesus, I just wanted to do it against the counter. You act like it’s such a big deal.”

She parks her hands on her hips. “It is a big deal. Us. This. You and me. It’s the biggest deal. Sex between us is a big deal and if you can’t handle that, then sorry, Trey. But it’s a big deal for a million fucking reasons, not the least of which is this,” she says, pressing her hands to her belly. “Everything matters.”

“You are seriously overreacting and you need to calm down. Is this preg—”

She holds up her hand. Her palm could stop a truck right now. “No. Just don’t, Trey. Just don’t.”

She turns around, grabs the door handle and pulls it open. She looks back at me one more time. “I need a break. I don’t want you to show up tonight saying you’re sorry. Or tomorrow. Or Sunday.”

This is the real bullet, and it shoots straight through my chest. “Are you breaking up with me?” I ask, my voice wobbly.

“I’m saying we need a break right now. Goodbye.”

Then she leaves. She doesn’t slam the door. She closes it quietly, and walks away, leaving me alone with all my terrible loneliness.

And I don’t feel an ounce less pain. I feel everything, all the weight of my stupid decisions, and it hurts so much, because my trick didn’t work. I didn’t fool myself. I didn’t fool anyone. She is gone, and the memories and the images play on a reel in my head. Each one. Each brother. Each death.

It’s on a punishing loop that I deserve.

Chapter Eleven

Trey

Michele would kill me if she knew what I’d done. Okay, maybe not kill me. More like wallop me verbally. So I don’t call her the next day. I don’t crawl on my hands and knees begging for her to solve this problem the day after, either. I made the mess. I fucked things up. I need to fix my shit.

I give Harley the space she needs, though it takes all my resistance to do what she asked. I become a zombie, clunking to my history class, to No Regrets, to the gym, to hang with Jordan. But the whole time there’s this persistent ache in my chest, a hollowness that longs to be filled with her. That can only be filled with her.

At work one night, a punkish-looking girl comes in to plan out a tat she wants on her shoulder, and I’m shot back in time to the night I first inked Harley, to all the things we shared in the coffee shop, on the train, at my place. Then when I redid her ink and made it ours.

“I was hoping you could do a cherry blossom tree,” the punk girl says, showing me a photograph she took of a tree in Japan, then running her hand from her back across her ribs and to her belly. She explains her vision, and the tat will be huge and incredibly intricate.

“Give me a few days to work on the design,” I say, and when she leaves I tell my boss, Hector, about her request.

“It’s way more complex than the stuff we usually do,” I tell him.

“Hell yeah. That’s going to take hours. I hope she can sit still for that long,” he says, shaking his head in admiration.

“I hope I can do it,” I say.

“Of course you can. You’re my best artist. Just sketch it out. But you should see my buddy, Ilyas, at Painted Ink in Brooklyn. He can give you some pointers. He’s a real artiste.”

Hector calls Ilyas and sets a time for me, and I’m grateful for the potential guidance and the fact that I just passed another hour without Harley.

But she’s never far from me. She’s a part of me, and when I leave the shop and walk home, my neck is bent the whole time as I scroll through pictures of Harley on my phone. Harley on the Staten Island Ferry this summer, leaning over the deck railing, her long blond hair wild in the sea breeze. Her at the Jane Black show we went to at the Knitting Factory, singing along to her favorite songs from the rock star. Then, this one where she’s all tucked up on my futon, wearing only a long, clingy shirt as she’s reading a book, a worn and tattered paperback about characters in a play that come alive.

Our summer together.

I nearly cave one night when I walk over to her block, stare up five flights to her window, and will her to sense me, to fling open the window, and joyously call me up. Throw her arms around me and tell me I’m forgiven for being a dick. That doesn’t happen, so I sink down to the stoop and park my ass there for a few minutes, drawing in my sketchbook, mapping out the cherry blossom tree.

But I feel like a stalker, so I stand, glancing one more time at her window. The pangs of being near her but not near enough stab like little knives.

I walk away, leaving her alone like she wants, and I wander around Chelsea, stopping in a bodega, grabbing a bag of chips and munching them on my way home. But I don’t want to go home and be without her, so I head for the gym, even though it’s midnight, and I work out for two hours until my body is so tired I have no choice but to crash.

My arms feel empty all through the night. And even though I’m tempted to knock on Sloan’s door to say hi, only to say hi, just to prove I can resist because I’d never ever cheat on Harley for real or in my head again, I know this isn’t about Sloan.

This is about my brothers.

I go to see them the next night.

To their tree.

A delivery truck backs up along Eighth Avenue, ready to unload food to the all-night grocery store near the park, its persistent beeping mingling with the sounds of cab horns that never stop, cell phone conversations that flood the sidewalks, and music filtering out of bars. I cross the street and reach the park on the next block, stopping at the entryway. Abingdon Square Park is tiny, a triangular patch of greenery that straddles the top of Chelsea and the bottom of the Village. There are benches and a circular walkway, and trees and flowers that line the grass. There are no playgrounds or swings, so it’s a park for contemplation. And, to be honest, for late-night drunk pissing, and the homeless, because this is New York, after all. There’s no purity in the city; even a park like this could never be a place of respite.

I head for the tree I planted four years ago for my dead brothers – to remember them. I’ve visited it many times. I even took Harley here a few months ago and she kissed the tree, and I think that was the moment when I knew I was wildly in love with her, and that the love would never stop; it would only grow. And now it’s really growing, and I’m a fucking mess.

I touch the tree. The bark is rough against my hand. But I run my palm along the small trunk, remembering how awful I felt when Will died. How hard it was to tell Harley. How much I miss three people I never knew.

It makes no sense sometimes; how could I miss a baby? But they were my blood, they were the brothers I never knew, and I miss the lost chance. I miss the chance to have been a family.

I grip the branch harder, and then I sink to my knees, the grass cool against my jeans. I lean my forehead on the branch and close my eyes, flashing back to the best piece of advice Michele ever gave me. “You can shut off and shut down, but none of those reactions are ultimately going to heal your heart. What will help you is speaking your truth. But don’t jump to conclusions. Don’t make assumptions. Say only what you know to be true.”

I bite my lip, as if I can hold it all in. But it’s simmering inside me, bubbling up. The ground feels uneven, like it’s swaying and ready to crumble under me. I grab harder onto the branch, trying to hold on. But it’s no use. I can’t hold on. I have to let it out. A thick giant tear that rolls down my cheek. “I’m so fucking scared,” I whisper. “I’m so scared the baby is going to join you, and I don’t know how I’m going to get through this in one piece. Because if I lose someone again, I don’t know that I can handle it.”

A nearby car somewhere slams on its brakes, causing a chain reaction of honking horns.

“You can.”

Someone is speaking to me, and I stand and swivel. I see a guy leaving the park, nodding at me, tipping his cap. “You can,” he says again, and walks off into the night.

I shake my head, because maybe I’m seeing things. Maybe I’m hearing things. But maybe this is the kindness of strangers saying what you need to hear.

Fate. It works like that, right?

I take out my phone and snap a picture of the tree. Then I tap out a message to Harley, speaking my truth.

Chapter Twelve

Harley

“Let me try. Move your fat ass,” Kristen says, bumping my hip.

I roll my eyes as I scoot over on the carpeted floor of our apartment. “Oh my god, how long are you going to make fat jokes? I’m eight weeks. I’m not even showing, beyotch.”

She strokes her chin, adopts a contemplative look. “Hmm. Let’s see. If my calculations are correct, I’m going to make jokes for the next seven months. Now, watch what happens when a pro with the camera takes the shot.”

Kristen is a film major, and I’m not sure that means she takes better cell phone pictures, but I’m just glad to have a partner in crime.

Kristen centers her phone in her line of sight, and snaps a photo of one of the vintage cards. Our coffee table is littered with them.

Kristen has been playing detective with me for a few days now. I started by Googling my father’s first name—John—and San Diego. But, big surprise, I wasn’t able to narrow it down. Then we stopped in a fancy stationery store in the Village and I showed the owner the cards, but she shrugged and said she had no clue where they were from. After that, Kristen pretended to hypnotize me into remembering my grandparents’ names.

The added benefit of playing detective? It helps me to not think about Trey. I have a focus for my too-busy mind. This is a puzzle, this is something to be solved, this is a task that I can figure out.

“All right, the weird owl that’s looking at me is done,” she says, pointing to the card with a raised illustration of an owl with huge eyes.

“That’s what they do. Owls stare.”

“Spoken like an ornithologist. Now that one.” She snaps a picture of an orange fox with a bushy tail. “And how about the hedgie?”

I slide the chubby-hedgehog card across the wood, and she captures its likeness.

“All righty,” she says, wiggling her fingers. “Let’s have Google do its magic.”

She emails me the pictures. I flip open my laptop, download the images, and then upload them into Google image search.

I cross my fingers. “Dear Google: please tell me everything.”

But Google returns a search result for an online store that sells rubber stamps with the owl design.

I try the others. The hedgie yields a craft shop. And the wise old owl? Nothing but related images of cartoonish owls. I flop down on the carpet. “This sucks. I was hoping to find out who made the cards, or if this is some crazy business my grandparents own and then I could call them.”

“I know. And I hate to suggest this, but do you want to try your mom?”

I snort. “If she kept them from me since I was six, why would she tell me now?”

“Because she wants you back in her life,” Kristen says, matter-of-factly, looking at me over the top of her red cat’s eye glasses. “And you can use that as leverage.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Really?”

She nods, several times. “They do it in all the movies. Trust me.”

“But I can’t stand her.”

“Obviously. But she has information you need and want, so we need to figure out how to get it from her. Call her for dinner and let’s come up with a plan,” Kristen says, rubbing her palms together.

As I’m about to dial her number a picture pops up on my phone. A text message from Trey. I hate that my heart bangs wildly when I see his name, because I’m still pissed about what he did. But when I slide open the picture, I clasp my hand against my mouth. It’s a picture of a tree. And a note from him. This is why I’m afraid.

Chapter Thirteen

Harley

The second I hear the screechy sound of the outside door, I buzz him in. He’s in the building entryway now, and then he’ll be on the stairs, and I can’t wait to see him. I fling open the door, and I’m wearing only a T-shirt and leggings and big fluffy socks, but I run for the stairwell anyway. I can hear him, his boots hitting each step, quickly, so quickly, matching my stride. He’s faster than me, and I make it down one flight and he’s there, scooping me up, wrapping me in his arms, and nuzzling my neck and my hair.

“I’m sorry, Harley. I’m so sorry. You were right. I was terrible. I used you that night and I’m sorry. I’m so fucking scared. I’m so scared, and I don’t even know what to do with it.”

I kiss his face, his lips, his cheek, tasting saltiness, and I know he must have cried, and that makes me start to cry. I cup his cheek, stroke his stubbled jawline, and try to reassure him with my touch. “I’m scared too, Trey. We can be scared together.”

He pulls me closer. “We can do everything together. I don’t want to be without you. I know it’s only been a few days, but I can’t stand it. You have to let me apologize sooner if I’m an ass again.”

I push his chest. “How about just don’t be an ass again?”

He shoots me a smile that melts me, that crooked grin that lights up his beautiful face, his green eyes sparkling, the gold flecks in them doing a happy dance. “Yeah, I can do that too. How about I start right now on Project Don’t Be An Ass to the Only Girl I Will Ever Love in My Whole Life?”

“Okay, show me what you’ve got, Project Manager.”

He loops a strong arm around my waist and picks me up. I shriek. Then he carries me, Rhett-Butler-carrying-Scarlett-O’Hara style up the final flight, two by two. My eyes widen. “You’re strong.”

“Yeah, I am,” he says, and then he elbows open the door and deposits me on my feet. He closes the door. “Is Kristen here?”

I shake my head. “She went to Jordan’s when she heard you were coming over.” He takes my hand, brings me to the couch, and sinks down on it, facing me.

“Talk to me,” I say. “Just because I let you carry me, doesn’t mean I’m that easy. I’m so glad you’re here, but you can’t fall into me and use me again. You need to tell me what you’re feeling. Don’t bury it in your head, or in sex.”

He reaches for both of my hands, clasps them in his, leans his forehead against mine. “I don’t want to go through something horrible again, Harley,” he whispers.

“I don’t want to, either.”

“And it would be worse this time. Not just a brother, but a son, or a daughter.”

“I know,” I say softly. “I know.”

“I can’t lose someone again. I don’t know that I can survive it.”

“We just have to hope. We have to hope for the best. Because there are no promises.”

“I don’t want to be scared, though. I don’t want to live each day remembering how awful it was to lose them.”

“So don’t, Trey,” I say, meeting his gaze, and not letting go. I place a hand on his cheek, so he has to look at me. “Make a choice. Make a choice to live going forward. We don’t get to have a protective suit.”

“Some days I just want to escape.”

“And when you feel that way, you need to talk to me, okay?” I grasp his hands harder for emphasis.

He squeezes back and nods. “I will.”

“One day at a time, right? Isn’t that what they all say?”

“Yeah, but sometimes the fear feels so insurmountable, and I want to be strong for you.”

“You are strong, Trey. You are.”

“And then there’s the whole matter of, you know, being twenty-one and having a kid.”

“This isn’t what I would have chosen for us. Not now, at least. But it’s our reality, and we have to deal with it,” I say, then a dark thought crosses my mind and I tense and pull away. “Wait. You didn’t come here to end it with me?”

He stares at me like I’m a puzzle that makes no sense. “Seriously? Did you seriously ask that?”

I nod, jutting out my chin. “Yes. I seriously asked that.”

“Let me ask you a question. Do I look insane?”

I pretend to inspect him, peeking behind his ear, checking out his face. “No.”

“Then no. Never. You’re not getting rid of me. Because here’s the thing you need to know. I’m in love with you, and that’s a package deal. And that means no matter what, I’m by your side. Whatever happens, I’ll be here. I’m not the kind of guy who walks away. I might be scared out of my fucking mind, but I’m not running. You’re stuck with me, Harley,” he says, and shoots me another lopsided grin that makes my stomach flip.

I snort. “Well, we’re definitely stuck together now.”

He slides his hand under my shirt, feathers his fingers against my belly. “Yeah, we are.”

“But you really hurt me the other night in your kitchen, and you can’t do that again. You can’t have sex with me like I’m not important,” I tell him, pressing my hand against his strong chest.

“I know. I won’t. I promise,” he says, his eyes locked with mine, so sincere.

“I’m not a drug, Trey. I’m your girlfriend, and I’m going to be the mother of your child, now. I don’t talk to you like I did my clients, so you can’t talk to me like you did.”

“I won’t. I swear.”

“I believe you,” I say. “I just don’t want to be like them. I wish there was a position or something you’ve never done with anyone else. That could be just for me. But that’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid, Harley. It’s just I’ve done a lot, and you know that. It’s not fair to ask for that.”

“I know,” I say in a low voice. “It doesn’t matter. Forget I said it. Besides, I don’t feel like talking anymore.”

“What do you feel like doing?”

“Making up,” I say, then I kiss him, and even though his lips have touched mine countless times, it feels like our first kiss, all over again. But a new first kiss, a kiss that comes from knowing someone and hurting someone and loving someone and promising you’ll do everything not to hurt them again.

He kisses me slowly, taking his time, sliding the tip of his tongue across my lips, parting them. There’s something both sweet and dirty in how he kisses me, like it’s a kiss and a teaser of all the other things he can do with his tongue, all the ways he touches me. I moan as he kisses me, roping my arms around his neck, tracing the soft ends of his hair. Then the kiss becomes more urgent, a desperate kiss because we need each other so much.

His hands are all over me, moving from my neck to my shoulders down to my wrists, and every place he touches me sets off a fresh wave of goosebumps. By the time he reaches my hipbones I’m aflame with heat and need.

“Come here,” he says, pulling me up from the couch.

“Gladly,” I say, and I figure we’ll head towards my bedroom, but he stops at the bathroom and pulls me in. He tugs off his T-shirt, and starts to unzip his jeans. “There’s something we can do that I’ve never done with anyone before.”

I narrow my eyes. I might not have done much, but I know about everything. “Um . . .” I say, because I’m not into weird stuff.

“Harley,” he says as he turns on the water. “Just the shower.”

“Good,” I say, and we strip and step under the hot stream. “But you’re really saying you’ve never showered with someone before?”

He sighs heavily. “I don’t want to dissect everything I’ve done, but I’ve never done this,” he says, as he gently cups my neck and leans my head under the stream of water, letting it wet my long hair so it’s a sleek blanket along my spine. He reaches for my shampoo, squirts some into his hands, and then washes my hair, his strong fingers kneading my scalp as he works the shampoo through my strands. It feels so good that I close my eyes, and let the sensations flood me. The gentle way he washes my hair, his fingertips rubbing against my scalp, sends a new kind of pleasure through my body. Not sexual, not desire, but peace and calm and warmth from him taking care of me as his fingers reach through the ends of my hair. He leans my head back, washing out the mango scent of my shampoo. I feel cared for, as if the way he’s touching me is a promise of what he’ll do for me. For us, in the future.

“That,” he whispers softly in my ear, his words in harmony with the beat of the shower against the tile, “That’s for you only. Always.”

He soaps up his hands, runs them gently over my shoulders, my arms, my belly and then higher. I bite my lip as he palms my breasts with his lathery hands. He rolls his thumbs under my breasts, and then he groans as he strokes my nipples until they turn to hard peaks.

He wraps his hands around my ass, cupping my cheeks and tugging me against his wet body, his hard cock rigid against my thigh. I reach for the soap, lathering up my hands.

“And is this for me, too?” I ask, grasping him.

“Hell yeah,” he says in a husky voice. I grip him harder and he rocks into my fist. “Always for you.”

I watch as he closes his eyes, and his breathing intensifies as I stroke him in the shower, hot water raining down on both of us, his hard length in my hand. He reaches for the back of my neck, pulling me closer. “This is what you do to me, Harley,” he says, his voice rasping. “You. No one else.”

“Good,” I say, as I touch him the way he likes, hard and tight, with quick strokes. “Because you better be thinking of me.”

“I am thinking of you,” he says, his mouth grazing my wet neck. Then he reaches between our soapy bodies, grasps my hand, and stills my movements. “But I’m also thinking that if you don’t stop touching me I’m going to come in your hand, and it’s not a make-up hand job that we’re supposed to have. It’s make-up sex that I want.”

“Make-up sex…I don’t think we’ve ever had that before. Because we’ve never had a fight like this before. Will it be epic?”

“So fucking epic,” he says, in such a sexy voice that heat rushes through my body, pools between my legs.

With his hand tight around mine I give one more quick stroke, then let go of him. I smack him lightly on the ass.

He opens his eyes, and laughs. “What was that for?”

I waggle my eyebrows. “Because it was fun.”

He pinches my butt in return, and I giggle.

“Rinse off, and let’s get out.”

Within minutes, we’re both in my bed, naked, dried off, wet hair dampening the pillows, music playing softly from my iPod, a mix I made of sexy songs. The Perishers bat first with a slow number that always makes me think of Trey: 8 a.m. Departure.

He clears his throat. “So, you wanted something just for you?”

“Yeah?” I ask curiously because I don’t know how he could fulfill that request. But I’m not sure it matters because he’s running his hand over my shoulder, kissing my tattoo, then trailing his fingertips down to my wrists, lacing his fingers through mine so excruciatingly slowly, sliding into the space between them like he’s making love to my hand. I can’t help myself—I sigh loudly, like a lust-struck idiot. Because we’re naked in bed, holding hands, and it’s become this erotic act, as he strokes the top of my hand with his fingertips. I close my eyes momentarily, letting the sensations wash over me. A spark of heat ignites in my chest, then jumps to my shoulders, to my fingers, down through my belly, finally making its home between my legs, as heat pours into every cell in my body.

“I like that,” I tell him when I open my eyes, and if that’s what he had in mind, I’ll take it. Because I know without a shadow of a doubt that he’s never held hands with anyone else, and certainly not the way he did with me just now, like it’s foreplay.

“I can tell,” he says playfully, and brings his other hand to my thigh, stroking the outside of my leg. I arch my hips, wanting more.

“Spread your legs,” he tells me, his green eyes dark and intense as he looks at me, only at me, and I let my knees fall open. He’s still holding one hand tight, while he maps my skin, moving slowly, at a tantalizing pace, from my thigh to inside, then there, right there, where I am slick and wet for him. He rubs one finger against me, and I moan loudly. “I love how turned on you get,” he tells me.

“I love how you touch me.”

“God, I fucking love touching you, Harley. I love everything about you and your body, and how hot you are. I love how you want me,” he says, his finger gliding across me, making me hotter and hungrier for him. I raise my hips for him, inviting him to thrust a finger inside me. But he shakes his head, and captures my lips with his, consuming me in a devastating kiss, plundering my mouth with his tongue, rubbing his finger between my legs, depleting my brain of everything and anything but this moment in time, our bodies reconnecting, as he shows me he’s mine and I’m his, and we’re ours.

He pulls apart, and his eyes are glassy. He’s just as drunk on me as I am on him. “Wow,” he says. “How is it that kissing you only gets better?”

I shrug. “Because you like me?”

“Wrong answer. I fucking love you like crazy,” he says. “And I want to be inside you so badly.”

He removes his hand from between my legs and slides his erection against me, and I scoot up on the bed because I love the missionary position and I don’t care if that makes me boring. I love when he’s on top, and I can feel the weight of him on me, his hard body against mine, filling me, his arms pinning me.

“No.” He shakes his head, grips my hipbone between his thumb and fingertip that’s still slick with me. “I told you I had something just for you. Something I’ve never done before.”

I raise an eyebrow as he shifts me to my side, so I’m lying on the bed facing him. He says, “We’ll do it like this, okay?”

Heat flares through me like a comet, its tail burning bright and hot through all my organs. “Yes, it’s more than okay.”

He hitches up my thigh, rests it on his hip, then moves closer to me, rubs his hard cock against my center. I shift so my knee is draped further over his leg, and I’m even more open for him. Then he slides into me, slowly at first, inch by inch until he’s all the way in. He groans loudly, and I draw a deep breath, savoring the intensity of him filling me.

He grips my hip tightly, and starts to move inside me. It’s a strange position, side by side, face to face. There’s not a lot of room to spread out, or move around. But that’s the point, I’m learning. You need to stay close to stay connected. It’s terribly intimate, and he’s so deep inside, but he’s taking his time, each stroke, each move he treats like it’s a luxury, like he wants to feel the very atoms of every single second, and make them last.

Time ceases to exist, and all there is is us. Coming together. His body in mine, his heart on his sleeve. His emotions written on his face. Every time with him is better than the last, but this is so much more. It’s more than sex, it’s more than love, it’s a way back to each other, as we promise that sex between the two of us is only between the two of us.

The moonlight slants across my room, casting his face in shadow, and the faint sounds of music form the backdrop, as More Than This plays.

More than this….there is nothing.

And it’s perfect, so perfect, because this feels like everything in the world right now.

“I like this position, Trey,” I tell him.

“I fucking love it,” he says, his voice all ragged and husky, as he thrusts inside me. “I love it so much.”

Soon, we start moving our hips together, and he’s rocking into me, and I’m arching into him, and all the while he’s looking at me, then kissing me, my neck, my hair, my face, my lips.

“Have I told you how much I love being inside you without a condom?”

“No. How much?”

“You feel so fucking amazing, Harley. You are so wet, and tight, and I love all that heat of yours around my dick. God, it’s so good. It’s so good with you,” he says, breathing hard, and soon his moans intensify, and he can’t keep his eyes open anymore. “I want you to come so badly,” he says, but I’m not there yet, I’m not close enough; I’m still just in the moment, thrilling from the sensations.

He slows down, forcing himself to stall, squeezing his eyes shut, as if he can hold back for me.

“It’s okay. You can come,” I tell him.

“Fuck. No. I want you to.” He opens his eyes, breathes in deeply, and smiles a big, broad and clearly false smile. “See? I’m totally fine. I sucked it back in.”

And I crack up, a gut-busting laugh, all while he’s buried deep inside me. “Where does it go when you suck it back in?”

“You don’t want to know,” he says. “And now my mission is singular. I’m making you come, Harley, whether you like it or not. We are not having totally fucking hot and amazing makeup sex and me coming solo. We’re a team. Let’s get you over the finish line.”

I trace his lips with my finger, loving everything about him and us right now. Every. Single. Thing.

“Tell me what you want me to do to get you there,” he says.

“Touch me while you fuck me,” I tell him, wriggling even closer, though that will make the order tougher to execute. But he doesn’t care, and nor do I, because he’s up to the task, slipping his hand between our bodies, sliding his thumb across my clit, rubbing me as he thrusts inside me.

“Like that?” he asks.

I nod and gasp, and the sensations start to roll through me, little sparks of flame jumping from nerve ending to nerve ending, setting them off like sparklers burning brightly in the night. Each one flares, igniting the next, and the next, until everything is blazing brilliantly.

In seconds, I’m moaning and writhing, and he’s moving his thumb faster, all while pumping deeper into me. I rock into him, and close my eyes, and the build starts to overtake me, to burst through my entire body.

“Yes,” I say loudly, and for one of the first times I think I might actually be shouting, I might be that woman you can hear through the walls, the one who makes the neighbors want to know what he could be doing to her. Because he’s doing it to me. He’s making love to me, and he’s fucking me, and he’s driving me to the brink, taking me on this gorgeous ride with him, our bodies locked, our lives connected, everything about this time feeling like the first, and the best, and the most amazing, as we come back to each other.

Waves of pleasure drench my body, every inch of me, my skin tingling, my blood ignited, my breath and bones all bathed in this absolute bliss.

“Oh fuck, that’s fucking perfect, Harley. I’m going to come so fucking hard now,” he says, driving into me, his thrusts hitting me so deeply that I swear it feels like I can come again. And then I do, and it’s not as intense as the first one, but it doesn’t matter because I’m awash now in complete and utter ecstasy, and the man I love is mine, all mine, and I have him in a way that no one else has, and no one else will.

“Oh my fucking god,” he says as he slows, and buries his face in the crook of my neck. He starts kissing me, planting sweet, sloppy, sexy kisses across my collarbone. “That was amazing.”

He looks woozy, and it’s a look he wears well.

“Hi,” he says, after he pulls out.

“Hi.”

“Can I just say it?”

“Say what?”

“That was the best ever.”

I smile. “It was. But don’t get any big ideas and start fighting just so we can do it like that.”

He brushes his nose against mine like we’re Eskimos. “Hmmm . . . I think that’s the perfect send-off into sleep. Though I can’t promise I won’t want to do that again in the middle of the night,” he murmurs.

“I can’t say I’d object.” I switch sides, and scoot in close, tucking myself into him so we’re spoons, and we fall asleep like that, and we don’t wake up in the middle of the night, because sometimes your body has had all its needs met, and sleep is the perfect cherry on the ice cream.

Chapter Fourteen

Harley

When morning comes, he’s wide awake and showered, parked on the end of my bed, drawing.

I yawn. “What are you working on?”

“Cherry blossom tree. It’s gonna be hard as hell, but totally badass. By the way, do you like sandwiches?”

“I love sandwiches, and you know that.”

“Then get your fine ass in the shower, because I’m taking you to Ben’s Arcade and Sandwich Emporium.”

My eyes light up. “I’ve heard it’s amazing and that the Brutus is delish.”

“Made with Caesar dressing. Now go, because I have an appointment to see a tattoo artist down the block who’s going to give me some tips on this design so let’s get lunch first.”

An hour later, I’m dressed, blow-dried, and walking into the combo sandwich shop and retro arcade. The sound of PacMen or PacWomen gobbling ghosts bounces past my ears, then fake guns shooting down spaceships, a kaleidoscope of noise, of theme songs and sound effects, and quarters sloshing into machines landing on top of more silver coins. It’s Saturday afternoon and the place is packed. There’s a counter for popcorn, fries, burgers and Cokes with two gangly college-aged students running it, slapping up basket after basket of fries on the counter for gamers. The crowd is a hipster one. It’s as if everyone got the memo to wear faded black pencil jeans, high-tops and band tees.

I never used to feel like I fit in. Back in high school, and even in my first year of college, I felt like a liar, even when I walked through the hallways. I might have been a student like the rest of them, but I was a call girl at night, with a clandestine life, a secret wardrobe, and another name. Here, today, I fit in perfectly, and I love it. I no longer feel like a girl leading a double life.

I am one girl; I am whole.

I survey the menu above the counter and it has all my favorite kinds of sandwiches on it. “Have I ever told you that sandwiches are my favorite food in the whole world?”

“Only twenty times. That’s why I brought you here.”

I laugh, and then it’s our turn so I order the Brutus.

We make our way to a table in the back, but Trey points to the Frogger machine. “Want to go for a round? I’ve been watching this video-game show Let the Wookie Win, so I’ve got all my Frogger skills down.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Really? Frogger tips on a web show?”

“Yeah. Watch,” he says, sliding in a quarter, then proceeding to dart and dodge around every truck, car and cab on the street in the game.

“I had no idea you had this hidden talent,” I tease, and then he loops his arm around my neck, kisses my forehead, and for a moment I feel like we’re just a regular guy and a girl having lunch on a Saturday, our only cares whether we’ve studied for our test on time. And yet, it doesn’t entirely feel like an illusion, because we both know the score, we’re not fooling ourselves. We’re allowed to do normal things, aren’t we? Just because we’re going to be parents in seven months doesn’t mean we can’t play an arcade game, right?

I answer the question for myself.

Right.

We finish the game, and he beats me handily. When our food order is called, he grabs our sandwiches and we sit down and eat.

“So, what do we do now?” he asks when he’s done with his sandwich.

“Well, generally speaking, we bus the tables, and toss out the napkins,” I say, teasing him.

“Ha ha. Funny girl. What are we going to do about the baby? Are you going to finish school? Work full-time? Drop out? Get a shack in Jersey?”

I’m surprised by the simple directness of the questions. How he asked without a preamble or awkwardness. Most of all, he asked without freaking out. My guy is making progress. Majorly.

I snort. “Hopefully not the shack in Jersey.”

He shifts over to my side of the booth, taking my hand in his, grasping it for emphasis. “I want you to finish school, Harley. You can’t drop out.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“We have to be smart then, about everything, and I have an idea.”

There’s a nervous look in those green eyes.

Chapter Fifteen

Trey

Funny, how we try to plan for things, and anticipate perfect moments, but then life comes and punches our plans in the mouth, leaving us with big fat lips. But then moments circle back around, and they become more perfect than we could have planned. And this is so much better than a Bed Bath and Beyond card, or the T-shirt I wanted to buy her.

Because this is real, and it’s what we have to do, and it’s the next step. “Harley, will you move in with me?”

She furrows her brow, leans away from me. “Wow. I didn’t expect that.”

“Well?”

“I live with Kristen,” she says, pointing out the blatantly obvious.

It irks me slightly, but I push forward. I’m not backing down. “Harley, we’re having a kid. And you act like moving in together is weird?”

“We have a lease and stuff.”

“I know. But it ends eventually, right?”

She nods. “December, I think.”

“Move in with me then. You need to finish school, and there’s no reason for us to have two places. I know you’re not hurting for money in the short term, and I’m not either, but at some point we have to be smart, right?”

“Are you asking me to move in to save money?”

I shake my head and laugh. “Seriously?”

She shrugs, but her cheeks start to flush, and she knows she asked a silly question.

“I’m asking you to move in with me because I’m ridiculously in love with you. And for the record, I was going to ask you before you told me you were pregnant. This is something I want for us.”

“Really? You were going to ask before?” Her lips start to curve up.

“Yes.” I trace her top lip, mapping the beginning of her smile with my fingertip. “So is that a yes?” This time I’m not going to freak out. I’m not going to shut down. I’m going to face up to the future like a man, and I’m going to be the man she needs.

She nods happily. “Yes. You are always a yes. End of the year let’s move in together.”

Then she kisses me, sealing our deal, and doing that thing she does to me with the slightest touch.

Turn me on.

She turns me on, always. Constantly. I groan as she nips my lips lightly, and then kisses me in a thoroughly sweet but intensely seductive way. She breaks the kiss to whisper in my ear. “You taste like a yummy sandwich.”

I laugh. “So do you.”

“I want more.”

“More sandwich or more me?”

“Both in general. But right now, more you,” she says in a low voice as she presses her lips against my jaw, and runs a hand down my arm, making me harder.

“Now, you’re not playing fair. I have a meeting in ten minutes, and you’re killing me, but I have to take a rain check.”

* * *

Ilyas strokes his beard absently as he shows me the needle he uses for thin branches. “See? It’s like a sewing needle,” he says. Ilyas is built like a football player, inked like a biker, and he speaks with an accent that’s some kind of combination of Greek and Russian. We’re in the back of his shop, and the front is filled with customers. He employs several artists and they are hard at work on this busy day.

“Like this?”

I press the needle against my forearm, demonstrating.

“Yes. Exactly,” he says, nodding.

“And that’s how I do the leaves?”

“That is precisely how you do the leaves, but first you have to see the leaves,” he says, closing his eyes, drawing in a deep breath and widening his hands in front of his face. “Like a vision. You see them, you draw them, and then you ink them.” Yeah, so he’s also a combination of arty and precise, too. “It is best when they are delicate. Have you seen ugly tattoos of trees? Fat, non-descript branches? Splotchy leaves? Hideous blossoms?” He spits on the black tiled floor, disgusted even by the mention.

I nod. “Yeah. I’ve seen some like that. I don’t want to do ones like that.”

“No. You don’t. You want to make transcendent ones. You want a tattoo that is like a painting. That moves someone, like a museum piece can do. Do you know how to do that?”

I flash back over the ink I’ve designed, the ways clients have responded, the remade heart on Harley’s shoulder. I grab my phone and show Ilyas a picture of her heart and arrow tattoo.

“That is very good. Hector said you had great talent. And if you want to make this cherry blossom, you need vision, a needle and a steady hand. And practice. I want you to draw and draw and draw, every day and night, until the cherry blossom feels like a part of you. Like a part of your heart.”

I nod.

“Come now. You watch me. I am starting a lily design in ten minutes using this technique.”

Then I spend the rest of the hour studying Ilyas’ technique, memorizing the move of the needle, the focus in his eyes, the way he shades in the lines.

When he’s done, he shows his client the design, and she gasps in awe.

That reaction never gets old. It’s one of the reasons why I do what I do For the priceless moment when a client first sees his or her ink.

“It’s gorgeous,” she says, and throws her arms around Ilyas.

After she’s done, he walks me out. “Now, you go. And you practice. You will show me the tree you make this week, and if it’s as good as Hector says, then I will introduce you to some artists you can learn even more from.”

“That would be amazing.”

I thank him many times over. Things are falling into place. This feels like potential, like possibility, like a future that makes sense. The more I hone my craft, the more I can grow and improve in my job.

As I leave, it hits me that my job is not just for me anymore.

Chapter Sixteen

Trey

I must be made of iron.

Harley’s been sitting topless on my futon for the last hour. The window is open, and a warm breeze filters in, mingling with The Postal Service playing faintly on my phone. The heat wave has broken, but it’s still September, and there’s a light sheen of sweat on her neck. It takes all my resistance not to lick her right now.

But then, resistance is something I’ve learned to manage better. We both went to an SLAA meeting this evening—she to the girls,’ me to the guys,’ and then we came back here so I could practice.

She’s behaved too, sitting cross-legged, wearing only a pair of white cotton underwear, as she reads a book for her literature class and I draw on her chest. Her blond hair is twisted with a pencil on top of her head, and a few loose strands have fallen. One sticks to her neck, the heat making it curl. She is the perfect canvas, and I’m nearly done. She twitches once as I finish shading in the last pink blossom right under her collarbone using a tattoo stencil pen.

“Stay still,” I tell her in a soft voice.

“I am,” she says, never taking her eyes off the pages.

A few minutes later, I’m finished.

I release a breath I barely realized I was holding, and then relax my shoulders. I stand up and look at the drawing on her body. It starts above her right breast and curves over to her bare, unmarked shoulder.

“Come look,” I say and bring her to the bathroom.

She appraises herself in the mirror, nodding several times as she admires the pink blossoms, the red leaves, and the brown branches. “This is amazing. You are seriously talented, Trey. You might almost tempt me to have you do one on me too.”

“Thank you for letting me practice on you. You know what the cherry blossom tree means?”

She shakes her head.

“In Japan, it’s a symbol for the preciousness of life. With tattoos, it represents femininity and beauty, so it’s perfect for you,” I tell her, watching her eyes shine in the reflection. She is so beautiful. I press my lips to her neck, kissing her, and then licking off her sweat. I watch her reaction in the mirror. Her eyes flutter closed, and she draws in a quick breath. “Especially now,” I whisper. “It’s even more perfect for you now.”

Her lips part, and she moans lightly.

“And this reminds me that I have unfinished business with you.”

“What’s that?”

“Something I was remiss in doing last night.”

She opens her eyes, meets my gaze in the mirror. “What would that be?”

I spin her around. “I wanted to be inside you so much last night that I couldn’t wait. But now I can do my favorite thing. I love going down on you,” I tell her and she inhales sharply, licks her lips and nods a yes.

I run my fingers along her hipbone, that spot that drives her wild, before I fall to my knees, and pull down her underwear, helping her step out of them.

I look up at her, and she’s ready, her eyes are hazy, and she reaches for my hair, threading her fingers through me, pulling me close. I lick her softly at first, because that’s how she likes it. She needs the tease, the kiss, my lips against her and kissing her wetness like I do her mouth, before I plunge my tongue inside her. She cries out, clasps a hand over her mouth, and yanks hard on my hair.

I know this won’t take long, and I love when she loses control like this, because I’m the only one she’s ever been like this for. Ever, ever, ever. I make quick work of her, cupping her sexy ass, burying my tongue inside her. She rocks her hips against my mouth, fast, and then faster, until she’s fucking my face just the way I like it. This is my favorite place to be, and I couldn’t be happier to hear her pant and moan as I kiss her senseless until she comes, hard. She tastes so fucking good on my lips.

After her legs stop shaking, I stand up and run my finger across her jawline. She shivers against my touch, her eyes all wild and drugged.

“I love everything about the way you taste,” I tell her.

“You do?”

I nod. “Everything. Do you have any idea how many times I thought about doing that to you during those six months when we were just friends?”

She shakes her head. “No. How many times?”

“Every single night. I can’t get enough of it.”

“I think it’s your turn now though,” she says.

I don’t argue with that as she strips me, takes me in her mouth, and I lose my mind with pleasure.

Later, we’re naked on my futon, and Harley lays her hand on my thigh. “So listen, remember those cards I told you I found?”

“Yeah.”

“I went back to my mom’s and I did what you said.”

Oh shit. I flash back to the day she went there, when she tried to talk about it and I was far too focused on fucking her to listen. But I want to listen now. I want to know.

“What did you find?”

“More cards,” she says, and then she jumps up and grabs her purse.

She digs into her purse, and shows me several cards. I study each one, tracing the words as if I can decode them. Stories of the sand, the beach, and a girl. Like this one: She could build them as high as the sky, with sand turrets and towers that reached for the clouds. Only, there were no clouds where she was, underneath the bluest of blue, so different from the places she was used to . . .

“It’s kind of a cool story,” I say.

“Yeah, I love it. And that’s all the more reason why I want to find them,” she says, and tells me how she and Kristen hunted for a name, an address, any sort of information. “I really want to know where they are. How to reach them. I want to talk to them, Trey. So what do I do?”

I push my hand through my hair, running through scenarios in my head. Sites to try, names to research, documents to look into, but the reality is we’re here in New York, and her grandparents are probably somewhere in California, and she doesn’t even know their last name. She can’t waltz into the hall of records for the county and dig around till she finds the info. I wish I knew a detective, or an investigator to track them down, but then it hits me.

There’s one person who just knows stuff. Who can find things out.

And I can’t believe I’m about to suggest this because two months ago he was my worst enemy, but he might be the one who can help her. And it takes every ounce of guts and restraint to get the words to travel from my brain to my throat to my mouth to my lips, but I want this for Harley, and I want to show her I can move on.

“What if you asked Cam to help find them? He could probably figure out their names somehow, right?”

She blinks several times as if she doesn’t recognize me, as if I’m some strange robot inside her boyfriend’s body.

“Are you serious?” Her mouth hangs open, the shock still lingering.

“Give it a shot,” I say, even though there’s a part of my brain that’s smacking me for suggesting this at all. But I ignore that part because I know this is what she needs. “I want you to find them and he’s one of those people, right? He’s the kind of person, for better or worse, who knows how to figure things out. Just don’t wear your socks and Mary Janes when you go see him, okay?”

She shakes her head, and laughs. “I burned those motherfuckers.”

Chapter Seventeen

Harley

The receptionist doesn’t remember me. But I recognize her instantly from the last time I walked through these doors three months ago. Her stick-straight blond hair is blow-dried in the same perfect bob, exactly as she looked when I told Cam I’d work for him again.

She has no idea what goes down behind his closed door. She probably has no clue about his secrets.

But maybe she has her own secrets too. Maybe she has darkness inside her that she hides behind her perfect hair, and her pink, lip-glossed, closed-mouth smile. Maybe she’s struggling to fit in this world.

I smile broadly. It’s all I have to give a stranger, but sometimes it’s all someone needs for their day to be better.

“Hi. I have an appointment to see Cam Jackson. I’m Harley Coleman. And you have gorgeous hair.”

She touches the ends of her hair briefly, and her smile reaches her eyes for the first time. “Thank you,” she says crisply. Then she calls Cam’s office to let him know I’m here. She says he’ll be with me shortly.

I nod and take a seat. I’ve never taken a seat here before. I’ve never waited before. But I have to be okay with that because I’m no longer the star in Cam’s stable. I’m not in his stable at all, and I need to be grateful for whatever help I can snag from that fixer of a man. I open the book I have an essay test on later this week and re-read some of the passages full of symbolism, since the professor said he’d focus on that in the exam.

Ten minutes later, the receptionist tells me I can go to Cam’s office.

I stand, and smooth out unseen wrinkles on my green T-shirt with a cartoonish owl on it. My hair is cinched in a ponytail, and I have on jeans and combat boots—the reminder of who I am is as much for Cam as it is for me. My purse is on my arm, the gift for him inside.

I tread the familiar route across the plush navy blue carpet in the hallway, reminding myself I am on the other side, I am here as Harley, only Harley. Layla is history; the girl I once was for him and his men is gone, and the jitters under my skin should be ignored. When I reach his suite, the door is ajar, and I hear Journey’s Don’t Stop Believin’ playing on his computer.

I knock tentatively, and then press a hand against my belly as I wait. There’s a whole damn flock of nerves setting up a base camp in my stomach.

“Door’s always open,” Cam’s loud voice calls out to me.

When I push open the door, he’s leaning back in his chair, his feet propped up on his desk, clad in European leather shoes. His arms are crossed over his broad chest, and he’s sporting a crisp shirt the color of eggplant. His blue eyes twinkle mischievously.

I wave. “Hi.”

“You like this song?” he asks, tipping his forehead to the computer.

“Um. Yeah? Who doesn’t?”

“It’s my anthem today. It represents all the hope in the world that I feel building in my chest right now,” he says, tapping his sternum.

Uh-oh. He thinks I’m coming back, even though I specifically told him this wasn’t about working again.

“Cam,” I say softly, shaking my head.

He waves gregariously, then stands up and walks over to me, wrapping me in a massive hug. “I know, baby doll. I know. But you can’t fault a man for dreaming. Especially not this man. And especially not after the shitstorm I fucking endured the night you left,” he says, rubbing his hand across my back.

I inch out of his embrace, and cock my head to the side. “What do you mean? What happened?”

His eyebrows shoot into his hairline. “What? You think Mr. Stewart was just fine and dandy with you waltzing off into the sunset with a tummy ache-cough-cough-new man?” Cam shakes his head several times in an exaggerated fashion, his movements punctuated by the upbeat chorus to the Journey song.

“Did he do something?”

Cam nods. “You bet he did something. He gave me a black eye six ways to Chattanooga. Right in the men’s room at the Parker Meridien. Man, he’s one cold bastard. All mild-mannered on the outside, but steely-eyed when you fuck with him. Don’t mess with businessmen from California, evidently. That’s my new mantra.”

“Oh shit. I’m so sorry,” I say, and reflexively I step forward and trace my finger beneath his eye, even though the marks are gone.

He hisses in a breath, but after a few seconds of contact he swats my hand away. “It’s nothing. My mama came over and took care of me.”

I narrow my eyes. “Your mom? You told me your mom passed away years ago. Your dad, too,” I say, because Cam’s all alone. He’s an only child with a mom who drank till her liver shut down, and a dad who died of cancer. He’s a man against the world.

“I’m just busting your chops, baby doll. I took care of myself. I always take care of myself. Got a steak, slapped it against my eye, poured myself some scotch, watched a little Notting Hill and I was fine by the morning,” he says, all cool and smooth, like he’s always been.

“Notting Hill?”

“It’s only my favorite movie. C’mon. Is there anything better than when Julia Roberts says—” Cam adopts a female voice, placing his big hand on his heart, “‘I’m just a girl standing in front of a boy, asking him to love her?’”

I shake my head. “Nothing better. That’s a great line. And Cam? I’m so sorry he hurt you.”

He flubs his lips casually, making a pshaw noise. “Your old man is one hundred percent fine. Nothing can hurt me. You see this?” He tugs at his shirt. “It’s called armor, baby doll. Armor. I got it in spades. I grow it from the inside out, and nothing can hurt me.”

I give him a smile, but I’m wondering why he is the way he is, so glib and devil-may-care on the outside. What’s he truly like beneath? What drives him? Why does he help put bad guys behind bars by leaking tawdry secrets to the press, yet run a call girl ring? And is he even still running it?

“Are you still doing your thing?” I’m not sure what to call that thing anymore.

He makes a dismissive gesture, a sign that he won’t go there with me. “I’ve got my fingers in a lot of business pies, little Miss Harley, don’t you worry one teeny bitty bit. Now, what can I do for you? Sit.” He motions to his couch. I park myself there, and he joins me, but he keeps a distance of a few feet. It’s odd, this new Cam. A part of me misses the strange closeness we had. But then he’s taking cues from me, and this me has to keep on moving into new habits, new patterns, as Joanne would say.

“I got a little something for you.” I reach into my purse and hand him a gift. It’s wrapped in sapphire blue tissue paper that reminds me of his eyes.

“Did somebody say Christmas came early this year?” He shakes the gift by his ear and pretends to listen to it, as if he can tell what it is that way.

“Just open it,” I say as I roll my eyes.

In one swift move, he unknots the silver bow and rips open the paper to find a signed copy of Sophie Kinsella’s newest release.

“Be still my ever beating heart. How did you know how much I wanted this book?”

I shrug. “Took a wild guess it was your taste.”

“I know what I’m doing tonight. Calling off all my business meetings and having a long hot soak.”

I have a feeling he might be telling the truth.

“Now that you’ve buttered me up, what can I do for you?”

I show him the cards and tell him everything. Every single detail. “I really want to find my grandparents. Can you find them for me?”

He takes the cards, looks carefully at each one, rises and heads to his computer. He taps on his keyboard. “You never listen to NPR, do you?”

I shake my head. “Not really a radio person.”

“Well, I am a radio junkie. And NPR did a story on one of the last vintage letter press companies in America a few months ago. I’d be willing to bet the house that these are from Violet Delia Press in La Jolla, California.”

“Really? You figured it out that quickly?”

“Yes. Bet it all on black.”

Then my shoulders fall. “But even if we know where they’re from, how will I get their names?”

He laughs, a knowing laugh. “That is the kind of shit I make a living off of. I’ll have it for you in a few days.”

Chapter Eighteen

Harley

Pregnancy does funny things to you. I find myself mad as hell when I can’t open the pickle jar as I’m making a sandwich for dinner, and Kristen tells me I have pregnancy fingers. I develop an intense craving for oranges, and she jokes that I’m contracting pregnancy scurvy. I cry when a collie jumps high in the air to catch a Frisbee on a dog-food ad. For that, I am diagnosed as just having good taste in commercials.

But I don’t barf again, and I can’t say I’m upset that I only had a few bouts of morning sickness. I even had my first doctor’s appointment, and the doctor said everything looks great. The baby is the size of a raspberry, and his or her lips, nose, eyelids and legs are forming. He also said the best thing I had going for me, ironically, is being twenty.

“You are young and in the peak of health. These are the best years to have a baby. It’s when your body was meant to bear children,” he said, and I wondered sadly about Trey’s mom and if some of her troubles were due to her being older when she tried again.

Then he prescribed folic acid and told me he’d see me again in a month or so. Weird that I was simply sent on my way. But maybe it’s not so weird. Maybe it’s normal.

But maybe it’s the pregnancy weirdness that makes me pick up the phone when my mom calls a few nights after my visit with Cam.

“Hello darling. I wanted to check in and see how things are going with school,” she says, making small talk. As if this is what we do.

“It’s great,” I say crisply.

“Learning anything fascinating about literature through the ages?”

I glance at Kristen and mouth my mom, and she pretends to run a knife across her throat. I nod, and laugh at Kristen. “Yes, everything is fascinating. What can I do for you?”

“I wanted to invite you out to sushi dinner. I thought we could talk about things, and that book.”

“I don’t know, Mom. I’m pretty busy. And I honestly don’t care about that book anymore,” I say, though as the words come out, my curiosity gets the better of me, and I grab my laptop and quickly search for the book I wrote. It’s on pre-order status on Amazon and releasing in December. I wait for my blood to boil, for anger to lodge in my chest. But I feel nothing, and it’s wonderful. This book doesn’t matter anymore. It truly doesn’t. Miranda is a cold-hearted bitch, and I have no clue what she’s going to do with the money, but I don’t care.

“Then can we talk about us?”

Us. There isn’t even an “us.” But there’s no time to answer because the most beautiful name in the world flashes across my screen.

My former pimp.

“I have to go,” I say to my mom and I click over.

“Who takes care of you?”

It’s that bold brash voice I miss more than I would ever admit to Trey.

A match lights in me, so quick and fast I can nearly smell the flint as anticipation ignites. I am a kid on Christmas morning. “What did you find out?”

“Got Google in front of you?”

“I do,” I say, my fingers poised above the keys as I cradle the phone, crooking my neck.

“I had my people track down the card maker, and there’s a business that places regular orders from Violet Delia Press for these cards every few months. The business uses them in its sandwich shop in San Diego. Their names are Debbie and Robert Kettunen, and just to make sure it’s your grandparents, I checked the name of their kids. They have a son named John.”

My father’s first name.

The earth stops its orbit, stalling to this moment in time. Taken as a speck of cosmic dust, this data point is no more significant than tomorrow’s expected temperature. In and of itself, Kettunen is simply a name. It’s not as if I learned I have a long-lost twin, or that I was secretly adopted. But still, it feels important to me, because a piece of my life that was missing has resurfaced.

A family I didn’t have.

“And check this out. The cafe they run? It’s on the beach and it’s called Once Upon a Sandwich. That’s just a damn good name for a sandwich shop, isn’t it?”

“It’s a great name,” I say, and when Cam gives me their number, I write it down, even though I’ve already Googled their cafe, and I’m clicking through pictures.

I thank Cam profusely then wave Kristen over. “Look!”

It’s all I can say, all I can manage as I stare, mesmerized, at the screen. On the website for the cafe there are pictures of all the cards they sent me over the years. The cards must have been used for menus, too. Then there’s a photo of my Nan and Pop standing on the front steps of the cafe they own, beneath a red and white awning. His arm is draped over her shoulder, his hand skimming her curly blond hair. She has lines on her face, her eyes crinkle at the corners and I can’t tell what color they are, but she looks happy as she smiles for the camera, a short red apron tied at her waist. He’s balding and has a sharp nose, but he has the same tanned, weathered and delighted look.

I point to the screen, but I can’t speak, because the memories spring free, set loose from the dark corners of my mind, colliding in a carousel of images—spending days upon days at their house in the summers, my parents nowhere to be seen, as I ran along the beach, and swam in the ocean, and told stories after I made sandcastles with them.

These people.

I’m back in time, and the salty ocean breeze skims my arms, the warm rays of the sun beat down, and their voices fill my ears.

Voices I haven’t heard in years. Faces I haven’t seen since I was young.

It’s not as if I repressed the memories. I simply had no way to access them. The key was missing, and I couldn’t open the drawer where they were kept. Now, the drawer spills over with images, with voices, and laughter, and breezes, and nights eating pizza on their deck, and learning to swim.

That’s what I remember. And I remember this, too—no one was fighting, no one was fucking, and no one was asking anything more of me than I could give.

“They’re adorable,” Kristen says, wrapping her arm around me, and pulling me in close. “They look like totally cool people. Not just weird creepy grandparents with blue hair and smelly clothes. But they look like real people. The kind I’d cast to play the cool grandparents in a movie where the girl reconnects with them,” she says, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear as she reaches for my phone. She presses it into my palm. “Call them.”

I swallow tightly, trying to contain the lump in my throat. “I don’t know what to say,” I croak out.

“Start with hello.”

It’s eight in the evening here, so it’s five in California. I dial, and for some reason I feel like my future hangs in the balance as I wait for the first ring.

Then someone picks up, and in the background I hear the bustle of a restaurant—plates being stacked, cooks shouting orders, and the chatter of patrons. In a bright and happy voice that sounds like sunshine, a woman speaks. “Welcome to Once Upon a Sandwich. This is Debbie. How may I help you this fine Tuesday evening?”

I open my mouth to speak, but words don’t come. Kristen squeezes my hand, and that small gesture somehow reconnects my vocal cords. “Hi. This is Harley. I think I’m your granddaughter, and I just got all your birthday cards.”

I hear a crash as the phone clatters to the ground and there’s a shriek, then more noises, and that voice again. “My city girl!”

City girl.

Like the cards said. Like the stories they promised to tell me.

“I guess that’s me? I’m the city girl in the stories?”

“That’s you, oh my god, is it really you? After all these years? I never thought we’d hear from you again.”

And I’m laughing, and crying. “Well, that makes two of us, because I never even realized you were trying to reach me. I didn’t get any of your cards until a few days ago.”

“Happy belated birthday then, Harley. Those are your stories.”

“My stories?”

“You made up all those stories the summer you lived with us when you were six. You used to go to the beach and build sandcastles, and ask us to make up stories with you, so together we created all these tales about living in the city and coming to the sand. And we wrote them all down, and you made us promise to share them with you every year on your birthday.”

“And you did,” I say, and there’s something like reverence in my voice, because it feels like a miracle, in some small way, that an adult in my life kept a promise.

* * *

“You’ll think this is silly. But I think it’s fate,” I whisper to Trey the next night as we lie in bed in the dark, tangled up in each other.

“What do you mean?”

“It just explains so much. My love of sandwiches, and the stories I write about animals.”

He raises an eyebrow, skeptical. “Really? I mean, I think it’s great that you found them, but how is that fate? Sandwiches are just sandwiches.”

I swat him with a pillow. “I’m not saying they’re soul-defining traits. But I also think there are parts of me that were shaped by them. And maybe this is a small part of me—that I like sandwiches. But it feels like something. And that I like fantastical stories about talking animals. And I think it’s the small parts of us that add up and make us who we are.”

I inch closer, my hands tucked together under my cheek. “But I also feel like I’m not just from her. I’m not just from Barb, and the way she tried to mold me. That, somehow, a piece of me held onto something good. Like, I was clutching something precious and fragile, and maybe all I could hold onto was sandwiches and animals, but I held onto them, Trey. Don’t you see? Even in some tiny way. Even though I didn’t know why and I never even thought about it, but they were there. In me. For years. And I never let them go. And maybe I’m more than my mom, more than my love-addicted heart, more than a call girl.”

“Even if you never talked to Debbie, you’re already more. You’re you, and you are everything in the world to me. Every. Single. Thing.”

As he spoons me and snuggles in close I try once more to explain what feels so wondrous to me. “It feels like hope,” I tell him.

Hope.

Chapter Nineteen

Harley

As September rolls into October, the colors flood the trees in Manhattan and the change in the calendar erases the heat, replacing it with sheets of chilly fall air. Then we slide into November, and my jeans don’t fit well anymore. I move up a size, hoping to stave off maternity clothes because those belly panels aren’t ugly beautiful. They’re just plain ugly.

Over the last few months, I’ve aced my English classes, helped Kristen find a new roommate—hint, it was easy, her boyfriend Jordan is moving in—and managed to attend several SLAA meetings each week, sharing victories and challenges each time.

Victories—not looking at that wretched book’s Amazon page again. Not caring about it. Donating to Goodwill the dress I wore to the gala with Mr. Stewart. Falling deeper in love with Trey Westin. I even meet his parents, and I’m surprised by how pleasant they are. They ask me all sorts of questions about school, and what I’m studying. I don’t think we ever discuss anything beyond school, but they smile and they’re cordial, and all things being equal, I don’t want to hurl my shoes at them like I would if I brought Trey to meet my mom.

Then there are the other things that happen.

Like learning that my grandmother’s favorite books are the Harry Potter series, that she loves big epic swoony movies that make her cry, that she was born and raised in San Diego, and that’s where my mom met my dad. But she doesn’t talk about him much, which is fine with me. Because he never tried to find me and she did try, so I don’t want to know him, I want to know her. She asks me if I’m eating healthy for the baby, and I say I am, and then she whispers in a hushed tone that if I want to feel the baby kicking I should drink a Coke. “The doctors won’t tell you this because they act like Coke is the worst thing in the world, but my oh my, does that get a little bugger jamming around in your belly.”

I laughed when she said that. “I haven’t felt the baby kick yet.”

“Soon, soon. And it’s like your whole world tilts on its axis. And time splits—everything that happened before the first kick and everything after.”

She’s had two babies—my dad, of course, and a daughter, who lives an hour away from her.

I never knew my dad had a sister.

Debbie and I talk several times a week, and we email, and we text, too. Which is the oddest thing. She’s sixty-two, and I know that’s not old, and I know that’s not unusual, but it’s odd for me to find pictures on my phone late at night of the sunset over the ocean, or of their dog chasing tennis balls, or just of the sandwich she made for dinner with the caption yum.

I know, too, that she likes to name her sandwiches after stories and animals—The Raccoon’s Tale, The Aardvark’s Fable, The Fox’s Yarn—and that we’re going to see them in two weeks.

Yes, we as in Trey and me. I’m leaving New York for the first time in years, after Trey finishes his last college class ever. But before I see them, I am seeing the person who kept me from them because I want to know why.

* * *

Trey

Harley shivers. The wind is fierce today, and late November is punishing us with frigid temperatures that are like ice lashing our skin. She wears a thick coat, and has a scarf wrapped around her neck, some kind of purple fluffy thing that Joanne knit for her.

Her so-called one-year scarf, since that’s how long we’ve been in recovery. That’s also how long we’ve known each other.

“Can you believe I met you a year ago, and you’re finally introducing me to your mom?” I say, teasing her as I hold open the door to the sushi restaurant where we’re meeting the witch.

She rolls her eyes as we walk inside. “I know. It’s only because I’m so embarrassed of you, Trey. That’s the reason.”

The hostess takes our coats, and then Harley turns to me. “Thank you for coming with me to do this.”

“You know I’m by your side,” I say, reaching for her hand. I can tell she’s nervous. I wonder if her crazy mom is nervous. But I have a feeling that woman doesn’t know nerves. She lives her life with blinders, oblivious to anyone but her.

The restaurant is noisy and black—black tile, black tables, black uniforms on the waiters. We follow the hostess to a table near the sushi bar, where several chefs in white jackets wield huge steely knives that slice fish so quickly the silver is like a blur. Then I feel Harley’s grip tighten and I know she has her mom in her crosshairs now. We’ve reached her table and I lay eyes for the first time on the woman who nearly destroyed the love of my life.

Her mom is polished, with jet-black hair and that salon look that women her age sometimes have. She has strong features—high cheekbones, bright eyes. But she’s ugly to me, and it has nothing to do with the way she’s shellacked so much foundation under her eyes to hide that she’s clearly not sleeping well.

Good. The bitch deserves to never sleep.

“Harley, my love,” she says, and pulls her daughter into an embrace. It kills me inside watching Harley hug her back, but I know she’s only doing it not to make a scene. I can sense the distance between them.

Then her mother offers a hand to shake. So professional. So poised. And it takes all my resistance to swallow the words, the profanity-laced diatribe that I’m dying to spit out at her—How could you, you scumbag bitch who deserves to be dunked into a tank of piranhas? Instead, I take her hand, and it’s soft and smooth. She probably rubbed lotion on it earlier. For some reason, that makes me mad because the right to wear lotion, and use a fork, and walk upright should be taken away from someone like her.

“What a pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you,” she says.

Harley narrows her eyes. “You haven’t heard anything about Trey. Why would you say that?”

“Why, I could have sworn you’d told me so much about him.” Her mom sits, and gestures for us to do the same. Her eyes roam over Harley, but she’s not showing much, and the sweater she wears hides her bump pretty well.

“No,” Harley says. “We don’t really talk much, in case you haven’t noticed.”

I try to suppress a smirk, because I’m so damn proud that she’s holding her own against her mom, that she’s not being sucked back into the vortex.

“And that’s such a shame, and I hope we can rectify that, starting tonight,” her mom says, punctuating her pathetic attempt at an olive branch by snapping open her white linen napkin and spreading it across her lap. She clasps her hands together, and looks from Harley to me. “So, tell me everything about the two of you. How did you meet? How long has it been?”

Amazing how she can go from acting as if she knew everything to freely admitting she knows nothing.

Harley glances at me, and raises an eyebrow playfully. I squeeze her leg under the table. I bet she’s thinking of the night we met, when she walked into my tattoo shop, and straight into my heart. If she’d gone to any other shop in the city she might not be mine. But then, I bet fate always had her picked for me, and me for her.

But before Harley can answer, her mom goes first. “Wait. No. Don’t tell me he’s a . . .” She lets her voice trail off, but I can still smell the lingering salaciousness of her tone, and I clench my fists so I don’t deck her right now.

“No, Barb,” Harley says sharply. “He’s not a client.”

“Whew. Thank god.”

I want to fucking smack this woman.

“We actually met at church,” I say, piping in. It’s close enough to the truth, since the SLAA meetings are held at a church, but mostly I just want to get a reaction from her.

Harley squeezes my leg back, and I know she likes my answer.

“Church?” Her mother arches an eyebrow.

I nod several times. “Yeah. We have a lot in common in that regard, it turns out. We pray to the same god.”

“How interesting,” she says, and I wonder how long Barb can keep up this facade of interest. “I had no idea you’d become religious.”

“You can worship in all sorts of ways at some churches,” Harley says with a smirk, because the joke is on her mom. “He’s also a tattoo artist, and he inked my shoulder for me.”

“Oh? You have a tattoo now?” Her voice rises.

“I do.”

“What’s it of?”

“It used to be a red ribbon. Now it’s a heart and arrow.”

“How sweet,” her mother says, and I can tell she’s trying to rein in her surprise, to keep her reactions on the level because she wants to win back her daughter’s affection. I half want to tell her that’s a pyrrhic pursuit, but it’s far too much fun to play cat and mouse with her.

After we peruse the menus, the waitress arrives.

“Do you want your usual rainbow roll, darling?” her mother asks pointedly, like she’s trying to prove she knows all of Harley’s tastes. But she’s not eating raw fish these days.

“Just a veggie roll and some udon noodles,” Harley says.

“You always order a rainbow roll.”

“I don’t feel like it tonight.”

After we order, her mother holds up a water glass in a toast. “To my lovely and beautiful daughter. I am simply thrilled to see you again. And to her handsome new beau.”

Harley clinks glasses and I do the same, following her lead.

After a few more minutes of small talk, a serving of edamame, and a glass of wine for Barb, Harley gets down to business.

“There’s something I’m curious about, Mom.”

“What is it, dear?”

Harley reaches into her purse and takes out some of the birthday greetings. Barb’s eyes widen ever so briefly as she sees the evidence of her deceit laid out like a deck of cards before her. She sets her wine glass down, and it wobbles once. She quickly steadies it, and there’s a moment—so fast, it’s truly the blink of an eye—where her mother appears like a dog caught with his head in the cat food bin. But then she recovers, and I realize I am witnessing a master at work. A master fucking liar, and it chills my blood.

“I found these at your house. Nan and Pop sent them to me every year on my birthday, and every year you kept them from me. Why would you do that?”

Her mother takes a breath, purses her lips together, and then speaks. “I’m sorry. Did you say you found these?” She sketches air quotes.

“Yes.”

“Found them where?” Her mom stares at her, like she’s caught Harley in a trap. But my girl is undeterred.

“You know where I found them,” Harley says crisply. “Where you hid them from me. In your bathroom cabinet.”

“So, you were actually snooping?”

Harley blows out a long stream of air. She stares at her mother, eyes wide open, and nods. “Yes. I was snooping. Because I saw the first card the day after my birthday, and I went back looking for more, and guess what? Where there’s smoke, there’s a lot of fire. Because I discovered you did this, year after year. Why? Why would you do that?”

“I think the more germane question is why would you go looking through my things?”

“Mom, don’t act like you have the moral high ground, because you don’t. I was looking through your things because you took something from me. You took my grandparents away from me. How could you do that?” Her voice threatens to break, but she stays strong. I don’t want her to give her scumbag mother the satisfaction of seeing a single fucking tear.

I stare at her mom, and I can see the cogs turning in her conniving brain. She doesn’t want to lose Harley. She rearranges her features, pushes her bottom lip out, and speaks in a low whisper. “Sweetheart, I planned to give you the cards. I had marked twenty-one on the envelope, because I planned to give them to you when you turned twenty-one. And you’re not twenty-one yet. Ergo,” she says, holding her hand out wide, as if this simple numerical justification will make Harley say, Oh sure, of course, that makes perfect sense.

“But why did I have to be twenty-one to read a frigging birthday card from my grandparents? It’s not like there was anything inappropriate in there. They were full of stories about animals and the beach. There was no reason for you to keep them from me.”

Her mom reaches across the black lacquered table, tries to clasp Harley’s hand. Harley recoils, and I want to pump my fist.

“There are things you don’t know,” her mom says, in that same calm, steady voice.

“Things that would make what you did okay?”

“Harley.” Her lowers her voice to a whisper, and I wonder if she’s forcing herself to speak so quietly because otherwise she’d explode. If there’s one thing her mom would hate, it would be a public scene. “Things about your father. About why he left me.”

“Like what?”

Her mom casts her eyes at me. “Can we talk about this privately?”

“Mom. I’m going to tell him anyway. I don’t keep secrets from Trey. You might as well say it.”

She clasps her hands more tightly, and then starts fidgeting with her watch band. “You might think I just cut you off from them. But your father was the one who cut us off. I was protecting you from him and his family. He cheated on me countless times. Over and over. He was a sex addict. That’s why I left him, and when I left I didn’t want you to have anything to do with him or his family. And he didn’t want to have anything to do with us, since he never stayed in touch, okay?” She stops to take a drink of her wine. “Now you know the truth about your father. He was a serial cheater, and an addict. His parents and I tried to help him, to get him to go to therapy, and I fought like hell to make things work. That’s why you spent the summer with them when you were six; because your father and I were trying to fix things. But it didn’t work, and I didn’t want you to have anything to do with him or them. Are you happy, now that you know? Harley, some things don’t need to be dragged into the light. Some things are better left unsaid. But there, you made me say it.”

Harley doesn’t say anything at first. I watch her closely, and she swallows hard. “I’m pregnant.”

Her mother cringes. Visibly cringes. Like, her whole face spasms. “What?”

“That’s why I’m not eating the rainbow roll.” Harley pulls on her sweater, stretching the fabric across her belly, showing the swell.

“Oh my lord in heaven,” her mother says, flinging a hand over her face. “Please say that’s a lie. Please say that’s not true.”

I pipe in. “It’s true.”

She uncovers her eyes. “Are you the father to my little girl’s baby? Or was it one of your clients? Please tell me it wasn’t my Phil,” she says, her lips quavering.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Harley says to her mom, raising her voice and snapping, just fucking snapping. “Seriously? You should be ashamed of yourself, for not being able to do math correctly. I’m four and a half months pregnant. Besides, I never slept with Phil or anyone else. Trey is the only man I’ve ever been with and will ever be with. I’m not like you. And I’m not like my father. I don’t sleep around, so don’t try to go there with me. But let me tell you something. This baby will know things I never knew. Like love. Like trust. Like having good parents. Because I have one great wish for my baby, and it’s that I never ever raise my child the way you raised me. I hope I never see you again.”

Then she tips her forehead to the front of the restaurant and walks away, leaving me alone at the table with her mother. It’s then that the waitress comes over, placing a sushi platter in front of Barb, and a yellowtail roll for me.

“I’ll be right back with the udon noodles,” she says, then flashes a smile as she returns to the clatter and the noise of the kitchen. In the background, I hear snippets of conversations and the faint notes from a pop song playing softly overhead.

I’ve often dreamed of telling Harley’s mom exactly what I think of her. Of giving her a mug that says Worst Mother in the World. Of calling her unfit, and spitting on her. But now that I’m here, none of those seem satisfying. Harley’s mom is irredeemable, and I’m not going to stoop to her level. Instead, I think of what Michele would tell me to do. Speak your truth.

Because words are all we have, and her mother might be unmoved by them, but this isn’t about her. This is about her daughter. The woman I love with every ounce of my heart and mind and soul.

“I’m no angel, Mrs. Coleman. I’ve done plenty of bad things in my life. But I know this much. That’s not how you treat people you love. That’s not how you treat anyone. You’re lucky—and by lucky, I mean it’s absolute luck and chance, and it has nothing to do with you—that your daughter is not on the streets, or worse. Everything she has made herself into is because of her, because of her heart, because of all the places in her that you could never ever touch,” I say, pointing a finger at her. She is implacable as she sits steely-eyed, arms crossed, staring harshly at me. “She is who she is not because of you, but in spite of you. I know this, too—she’s going to make an amazing mother to our child, and it has everything to do with her, and absolutely nothing to do with you. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to take her home.”

Then I reach into my wallet, leave some bills on the table, and walk away, leaving her mother exactly where she belongs.

Alone.

Chapter Twenty

Trey

“I thought she would change,” Harley says, wiping a hand across her cheek.

“Some people never change,” I say, softly kissing her tears away.

“But we changed, right?” Her brown eyes are so earnest. “We both worked so hard to change. To live differently. To leave the past behind.”

“Yeah, we did, and we do. Every day. But it wasn’t and it isn’t easy, and we both wanted to change. Your mom doesn’t. But she doesn’t know how, either. She doesn’t have the skills or the tools.”

“I just hoped she’d apologize. Or have a good reason. But when she said that about my father, it was so cruel. I felt like she slammed me. Like I was seeing stars.”

“I can only imagine,” I say, and I wrap my arms around her and pull her even closer to me on the futon at my place that will soon become our place.

“Do you think it’s true? What she said?”

I shrug. “I have no clue.”

“It just seemed so mean. Like she wanted to hurt me. I don’t think she ever loved me.”

“Harley, she’s not a good person. She doesn’t know what she wants. She doesn’t know how to love.”

“It just hurts so much. I don’t think I’ve ever known love before you.”

I smooth out her hair, and kiss the top of her head. “But now you know it, and you’ll always have it. And I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

I can feel her smile, even in the darkness. There’s no music on now, just the soundtrack of New York City playing through the closed window, the faraway noises of tires on asphalt, of alarms from cars, of buses trundling down the avenue. Here, inside, we are safe in our world.

“You won’t now, will ya?”

I shake my head, and hold her tight. “You are everything to me. You are the most important person in the world, and I will do whatever it takes for you,” I say, then I lower my voice to a whisper, as my hands make their way to her belly. She’s carrying my child. It’s such a humbling thought, and such a heady one, and it still scares the hell out of me, but it also makes me love her even more. “And for our baby.”

I hear the tiniest little sob escape her throat as she leans her head back against me, her neck stretching out, long and inviting. “I’m getting fat.”

I shake my head again. “No. You’re even more beautiful. And who the fuck knew that could happen, because you were already perfect.” I inch my hands under her sweater, my palms now against her belly, skin to skin. “I think you’re even sexier, Harley.”

“Oh, stop. I’m not sexy.”

“No. You’re wrong. Because you’re insanely sexy, and you’re having my baby, and there is nothing sexier than that.”

She turns, and now her arms are looped around me. “You’re crazy. I can’t believe you’ve gone from freaking out to being all you’re so sexy. Soon, you’re gonna want me to do a Mother Earth rain dance or something.”

I laugh. “Doubtful on the rain dance, but if you wanted to do one I wouldn’t turn you away. Don’t you get it? I might have freaked out, but I’m not freaking out now. I’m here, right here, loving you.”

She presses a soft kiss to my lips. “Show me love, Trey.”

“Always,” I tell her, and then I trace her face with my fingertips, the pads of my fingers mapping her beautiful features, memorizing them, even though I know all of her by heart and still can’t get enough of her. I brush the backs of my fingers against her cheek, and she sighs as she leans into my hand. She closes her eyes, savoring my touch. I am gentle with her, because she likes it when I am, and because she deserves it, and because I want her to feel loved. Especially now, after that dinner, when she’s hurt and vulnerable, when the person who was supposed to love her most in the world has kicked her once more. But now I’m that person—the one who loves her most. “I’m your family now, Harley. You know that, right?”

She nods into my palm, her eyes still closed, but her lips curved into a sad, sweet smile. “I know that.”

“It’s not something I will ever take lightly,” I tell her, and then I end all conversation with a kiss; a slow, tender kiss that says everything. With the press of my lips against hers, I am telling her I cherish her. As I taste the soft underside of her bottom lip, I am saying always. As I cup her cheek and bring her near, I am letting her know that my love for her is boundless.

Her breath mingles with mine, and she tastes so good, so sweet, and I want so much more of her. I want to connect with her so deeply, to take away all her pain, to erase the sadness. I want her to know what love is, and that she has it, deeply and always with me.

And, judging from the way she’s wriggling and starting to moan, she wants more than kissing. A hell of a lot more. In seconds, she’s kissing me harder, and crawling up on me, straddling me as she wraps her legs around my waist. She grabs my hair and starts to rock her hips against me. Then she breaks the kiss to look at me.

“I’m so horny,” she tells me, then laughs.

I laugh too. “And presumably you like me, too?”

“I’m so fucking horny, and so fucking in love with you. Is that better?”

I nod. “Much better.”

“Make love to me now, please,” she tells me.

“Happily,” I say, and shift her from my waist so I can take off my clothes. I tug off my shirt quickly because I want to watch her undress.

I love the way she strips. There’s nothing unusual or overtly sexy about how she disrobes; she doesn’t toss me a saucy wink, or sashay her hips. She doesn’t need any tricks to get me hard. What I love most is that it’s her, taking off her clothes for me. So she can be naked with me, and me alone.

“God, you’re so fucking gorgeous it should be a crime,” I say as her jeans hit the floor, then her underwear. Here she is standing in the dark, the moonlight casting its silvery glow across her white skin. Her legs are strong, muscular from walking everywhere in the city. Her breasts are perfect, and I cup them in my hands, so full. And her belly that used to be flat is now growing round, and I place my palms on it, smoothing them against her skin, so warm.

I pull her down on the futon, so I’m flat on my bed, and she’s straddling me. “Ride me,” I whisper.

She takes my cock in her hands, rubs me against her entrance, and I curse loudly, my body humming with the need to be so deep inside her. “You’re so fucking wet, Harley. I can practically feel you dripping on me.”

“I am so wet,” she says and her voice is thick with lust, as she rubs all that delicious heat against me. “I’m so turned on, it’s crazy. I want you so much.”

“Then stop teasing me,” I say, and she does, sinking down on me in one quick move, and burying me deep inside her. My eyes roll back in my head. The pleasure is so fucking intense. It obliterates all my brain cells, reducing me to nothing but this moment, to the extraordinary feeling of her on me. She is too wet for words, and I love how slippery she is as she starts to ride me, up and down, hitting her rhythm as she moans greedily. Then she reaches for my hands, linking her fingers through mine, and gripping me tight. She leans forward, her blond hair tickling my chest, my cheeks, my shoulders. She is a curtain of luscious hair all over me, of hot sexuality, of gorgeous femininity.

She is desire, she is heat, she is mine, and she is as in love with me as I am with her. Watching her, I can’t believe how lucky I am that I not only get to have her, but that I can make her feel this way. Soon, she starts to ride me, frantically, feverishly, like she’s driven solely by the mission to get off, and hell if I don’t want anything right now but complete and utter success in her task.

“Harley,” I rasp out, not even sure what I’m saying. “Harley, I fucking love you so much. I love everything about you, and I’ve never been more in love with you than I am right now.”

She inhales sharply, her eyes are closed, her face is strained, her breath erratic. She squeezes my hands even tighter, grabbing them hard as she thrusts herself up and down on me, her heat rising with each stroke. She’s so close, and I love seeing her lose control on me. Witnessing her come apart.

“Trey,” she moans, and she opens her eyes, but she can’t focus, and I like it that way, I love it that way. She’s giving in to the sensations, and so am I, because soon I am coming undone with her.

After, she collapses on me. Her breasts are damp with sweat. I hug her tight, hold her close, and brush her hair away from her ear. “Did that work?” I ask into the quiet night.

“Um, yeah. Couldn’t you tell?”

I shake my head. “That’s not what I meant. I meant, did I show you love?”

“Yes. You and me, this is what love is.”

We learned it together.

Chapter Twenty-One

Harley

“Did you pack everything?”

“For the five thousandth time, I’m a dude. I don’t need that much stuff.”

“Shorts? Did you pack shorts?” I ask, as the maroon-uniformed doorman grabs the handle and holds open the door for us. “Thank you,” I say to him, and Trey does the same.

“I don’t own shorts.”

“But we’ll be at the beach.”

“Then I’ll buy shorts when I’m there.”

“You really don’t have a bathing suit?” My boots click against the marbled floor. I unloop my scarf as we walk to the elevator. A piece of yarn snags on my earring, and I tug once gently, then it loosens.

Inside the elevator, he taps my cold nose, all red from the blisteringly brutal fall we’re having. Okay, late fall. But still, it’s bitter, and I can’t wait till tomorrow when we leave the city for San Diego. Even if we were heading to the Arctic I’d be excited.

“The rumors are indeed true. I do not own a bathing suit. But I can’t fucking wait to see you in a bikini,” he says.

When we reach his parents’ floor, I fluff out my hair, wanting to look good for them. As I brush my fingertips against my earlobe, I find my earring is gone.

“Crap. I must have dropped my earring in the lobby. I’ll be right back.”

“I’ll go with you,” he says, but then his phone rings. He grabs it from his back pocket, and his eyes light up. “It’s Ilyas.”

“Take your call. I’ll be right back.”

The elevator starts to shoot me down, but then it slows at the fifteenth floor. A gorgeous brunette steps inside, and she’s holding hands with a young boy who’s probably not yet three. I smile at the boy; he has such beautiful green eyes, so unusual for a young kid.

“All right, Teddy. We’re just going to run to the store and then run back, okay?” she says to him, and he pretends to run in place.

“Like that, Mama?”

She nods. “Exactly.”

Then she looks at me, shoots me a smile. “He likes to pretend to run.”

“I can see.”

“Sorry. I know it can be annoying.”

“Not at all,” I tell her. “I’m actually having one of my own soon, so I kinda enjoy watching kids.”

“Congratulations,” she says, beaming at me. “Your first?”

I nod. “Yep.”

She ruffles Teddy’s thick brown hair. “He’s my first, too.”

“He’s very sweet,” I say. “And he has beautiful green eyes.”

“He got them from his dad,” she says with a shrug. “We never see him. But it’s nice he shared those eyes.”

I laugh as we reach the ground floor. She steps out first, and I quickly spot my earring on the floor.

As I hook it back in my ear, I watch the mom and her son, wondering if I’ll have a boy, if we’ll hold hands like that, if he’ll have Trey’s eyes.

“Have a good night, Ms. McKay,” the doorman says as the pair leaves the building.

“You too,” she says.

I return to Trey’s floor as he’s finishing his call. “That would be great. Thank you, Ilyas. I appreciate this so much.” He ends the call and holds out his arms. “He wants to hook me up with a shop in San Diego this week. Says there’s some guy there who does world-class designs. He wants me to see them.”

“That’s so great,” I say, and I hug him. “So, you ready for this?”

A dark cloud crosses over his green eyes. “Do we really need to tell them tonight?”

“The longer we wait, the harder it gets.”

“Yeah, since you can’t hide it much longer,” he teases as he pats my belly.

“Ha ha ha. You’re so funny.”

* * *

The fork hits the ground with a resounding clang, and I swear it’s the only sound left in the universe as it rings.

“What did you just say?”

“Harley’s pregnant,” he repeats in a steady voice, and I’m so proud of him simply for saying those words to his parents. None of this is easy for him; talking honestly to them is extraordinarily hard. His family is friendly on the outside, a vault on the inside. “We’re going to have a baby.”

His mom’s face is unreadable. She says nothing. She doesn’t move a muscle; doesn’t twitch, doesn’t blink. Nerves fly through my body, gnawing away at my bones. This woman scares me. She is so poised and cool, but right now we’ve cut her to the quick.

“A baby,” she says, finally finding words again. Trey’s dad reaches for her shoulder, clasps it, trying to reassure her of something. But what? That the baby will be fine? Or that she’ll survive this bomb?

“Yes, Mom. She’s due in May.”

“Well, congratulations, son,” his father offers. Then he furrows his brow curiously. “Right? I mean, is this a good thing?”

“Yes, Dad. It’s a good thing.”

“Congratulations,” his mom says, her tone wooden. She reaches for her fork. But it’s not there, and she seems surprised that the fork is suddenly missing. “Where’s my fork?”

I gulp and wait for his mom to say something more about the baby, about Trey, about me. But she doesn’t. The prospect of the lost utensil is far more fascinating.

“It’s on the floor,” I say, chiming in as I bend down to grab it.

And my belly moves.

Or rather, something inside me moves, and kicks me for the first time.

“Oh my god,” I gasp, and my hands fly to my stomach.

“Are you okay?” Trey asks and I can hear the fear nosedive into his voice. Before I know it, I am swarmed, and all three of them have jumped up from their chairs and are hunched over me as I’m squatting on the floor with a fork in my hand. I glance at each of them, and they are deer in the woods, pinned by the predator of their worst fears. In an instant, I see all their pain, all their loss. I am their worst nightmare, and they’re assuming this is the beginning of the end.

“I’m great. The baby kicked for the first time,” I say, and I can’t help it—I burst into a grin.

Trey’s eyes light up. “Are you serious?”

Standing, I reach for his palm and lay it on my belly. He waits and waits, and soon he’s rewarded with the tiniest of kicks, too. He smiles so wide it’s like sunshine lighting up the world, and if we were alone I know he’d fall to his knees and kiss my belly.

Then there’s a broken sob, a wail cut short, and Trey’s mom bolts. She heads down the hall into her office and slams the door. I don’t even wait for Trey or his dad to react. I listen to my gut, and my gut says to go to her.

I rap once on the door. “Mrs. Westin? May I come in?”

I hear nothing, so I take the lack of a no as a yes. I turn the handle and open the door, and I find her sunk down in her leather chair, her face in her hands. I grab another chair, and pull up next to her. Her shoulders are shaking, and she’s trying so hard to be quiet, but her tears aren’t silent as she likely wants them to be.

I pat her knee tentatively, rubbing it once, twice. She doesn’t shirk or pull away. “Hi,” I say.

“Hi,” she whispers.

“I imagine this must be hard for you. I know it was hard for Trey, at first.”

More shaking, more tears. I inch closer, and rub her shoulder. Seconds pass, and soon they pool into minutes. But her crying slows, her tears settle, and she manages to speak, even though her head still hangs low. “Are you eating right?”

“Yes. I’m a very healthy eater.”

“Are you taking folic acid?”

“I am.”

“And did you get an ultrasound?”

“I did. The baby looks great. I have a very good doctor, and he said everything is going well.”

“Just because it’s going well doesn’t guarantee anything,” she whispers.

“I know. But that’s okay. The only way to do this is one day at a time.”

“Are you sleeping enough? Getting rest?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t do anything to put strain on your body,” she adds.

“I won’t.”

Then she looks up, and her eyes are red, and her cheeks are stained, but at least she’s meeting my eyes. “Do you know what you’re having?”

I shake my head. “We decided not to find out.”

“Have you picked out names?”

I shake my head again. “We can’t seem to agree,” I say, laughing. “I like Tom and Henry for a boy, but Trey says they are too traditional. He likes Walker and Travis.”

“What about for a girl?”

“We can’t seem to agree on that, either. What names do you like for girls?”

She presses her lips together tightly, and I can tell she’s trying to rein in another round of tears. She pushes through, speaking quickly. “Allison. That was the name we picked out for a girl.”

I smile. “I like that name.” Then my eyes widen because there he or she goes again. My baby is riding a rollercoaster in my tummy. “I think the baby is doing dives.”

Sadness and memories flood her green eyes. “That was my favorite part,” she says in a choppy whisper.

I reach for her hand, bring it to my belly and place her palm on her grandchild growing inside me.

Her voice breaks again, but she doesn’t move her hand. She keeps it firmly on my stomach, feeling the baby kick against her hand.

The tears are unleashed once more. But this time they aren’t only laced with pain; they are mixed with hope.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Harley

The plane touches down and the sky is bursting with blue, dripping the crystal color from above us.

I turn to Trey, and I can’t hide my excitement. I’m tapping my foot, and squeezing his hand, and smiling so wide.

“A little excited, are you?”

I nod. “Oh, god, I hope they like me.”

He rolls his eyes. “They already like you. They already love you.”

“They don’t know me. They can’t love me,” I say.

After the plane taxis to the jetway, I practically bolt out of my seat, but I’m not going anywhere since we’re all milling about in the aisle.

I motion for Trey to come closer. “Should I pull the pregnancy card?” I joke. “Pregnant lady. Let her through.”

He laughs. “We need to save that one. Milk it for when you’re basketball size.”

He gently runs his hand over my belly and plants a kiss on my cheek. This has become his new normal. Ever since we’ve been together, he’s had his hands all over me. He still touches me all the time, but now he also touches my stomach, runs his hand over the swell of my belly, and waits patiently for kicks. I love watching him change, seeing him start to embrace how our lives are transforming. And because I am an emotional beast, and the hormones swirling in my body make me more so, I lean into him as he scoots into the aisle, and I whisper in his ear, “You’re going to make a great dad.”

I am rewarded with a smile, and then he gestures in front of me as the line starts to move. He carries both our bags, and soon we’re off the plane and heading toward the terminal. My insides are a cocktail of nerves and hope, as they jostle with each other for space in me. I run through a million what if scenarios. What if we have nothing to say? What if it’s weird or awkward? What if they don’t like me?

The nerves intensify as we walk, and he holds my hand tighter, especially when a businessman in a suit nearly bumps into us as he flies by in a race to catch his plane. Announcements of departures and arrivals, of delays and last-minute gate changes, crackle overhead. We near the security checkpoint, and there are throngs of people on the other side, all waiting, craning their necks.

But then, soon enough, I see them. Debbie and Robert look just like the picture on the cafe website, smiling and happy and holding hands. There’s a moment when I wonder if I’m supposed to run to them like in the movies. We’ll embrace, tears will streak down our faces and it’ll be a Kodak moment, a family reunion. But instead, I simply walk up to them and say, “Hi, I’m Harley.”

And Debbie throws her arms around me. “Oh, sweetie. It is so good to see you again.”

She smells like oranges, and her blond hair is springy and streaked with the sun. Though I hardly remember when I was six, something about this just feels . . . familiar. Comfortable. Safe.

Especially when I see her T-shirt. It’s black with a neon blue cartoonish sketch of a chipmunk.

“I like your shirt. I have the same one.”

“You have excellent taste,” Debbie declares and wraps an arm around me. “And I hope you’ll forgive me for not dressing my age.”

“Forgiveness given,” I say, and I can’t stop smiling because this is so much easier than I’d thought it would be. It’s like we slid right into a natural rhythm.

Trey clears his throat.

“Oops!” I turn around, grab his arm, and introduce him.

“And this, obviously, is Trey,” I say. “He’s my boyfriend.”

“And as I understand, he’s also responsible for that,” Robert says, pointing at my belly. He smirks and laughs, and Trey joins in, too.

“Yes, sir,” Trey says. “I am indeed responsible for that.”

Trey extends a hand and the men shake, and I notice Robert has a tattoo on his bicep. Trey shakes his head, as if he’s seen a mirage. But nope, my grandfather sports ink on his arm.

“You have a tattoo of a typewriter,” Trey says, his voice all staccato with surprise.

“Observant fellow, too,” Robert quips, and I think I might be in love with my grandfather’s dry humor already.

Debbie rolls her eyes. “Watch out for this one, he’s a jokester.”

“Duly noted.”

Then Robert returns his attention to Trey. “Yes, I got this hideous thing many moons ago in a galaxy far, far away.”

“I gotta tell ya, I’ve seen a lot of tats, and done plenty, but I’ve never seen a typewriter tattoo. What made you get that?”

“Let me tell you the story,” Robert says, and we all start walking out of the airport. “I was a journalism student in college. Thought I was going to be a sports reporter. Travel with the team. Write about every single pitch. Devise fantastic analogies and compelling stories about baseball and how it breaks your heart. So, one night, feeling all bold and brash, I got a little drunk, and got myself a typewriter tattoo. Like it was some kind of emblem, a symbol of my future.”

“And did you become a sports reporter?” Trey asks as we reach the doors. When we step outside, I am bathed in the most delicious warm air and sun. And even though we’re at the airport, with cars and shuttles buses streaking by, stopping to pick up and drop off passengers, the air feels cleaner and fresher.

Better.

Robert shakes his head. “Nope. I was assigned to cover a college basketball game. I hated every minute of it because it sapped all the joy out of watching the game, and I decided that I didn’t want to be a reporter; I wanted to be a fan. And so that’s what I am.”

“A sports fan with a typewriter tat,” Trey adds.

“Yep. An ugly, faded, hideous one at that, but I wear it like a badge of honor.”

“That’s the only way to wear one,” Trey says.

As we reach the parking garage, Robert shoots a lopsided grin at Debbie and me, and points to Trey. “I like this one. He’s a keeper.”

On the drive to their house, Debbie spends the entire ride twisted around in the front seat, so she can chat with us in the back, playing tour guide. She tells us about the old school feel of Ocean Beach where they live, the mom-and-pop owned shops, like bakeries, boutiques and indie book stores. Next, she chats about their dog, The Sheriff. After that, she mentions the dinner she has planned for us tonight.

“You probably figured we were going to take you to Once Upon a Sandwich,” Debbie says, with a glint in her blue eyes.

“I wouldn’t mind.”

“Nah. We were thinking we’d take you to our favorite burger joint for burgers, fries and milkshakes. Would that work for you?”

I glance at Trey, and he’s smiling and nodding. It’s such a simple plan, and it’s so us, and it’s so them, and it feels so right.

* * *

“Do you think he’s watching us?” Trey asks, nodding at the black and white border collie.

I check out The Sheriff. He’s curled up and sleeping on the hardwood floors of our bedroom in the duplex adjoining their cottage-style house. Debbie said they usually rent the duplex but the new renters aren’t moving in for a few weeks, so we have our own little home on the beach during our stay. It’s bedtime, alone time, on our first night here. Trey has already kissed me madly, nibbled on my collar bone, and stripped me down to nothing. Now, I’m lying naked before him in the dark of a moonlit night in California.

I shake my head. “Nope. His eyes are closed.”

“Good,” he says, running his strong hands across my skin, first my arms, next my hips, and then he trails his palms along my thighs. When he reaches my knees, he parts my legs, and my breath is uneven and needy.

“Why is it good? Are you going to do something naughty to me? Something you don’t want the dog to see?”

Trey raises an eyebrow suggestively. “Even if he saw, dogs keep secrets, right?”

I smile. “So I’ve heard. Their secret-keeping abilities are legendary.”

“Then he won’t tell a soul what I want to do after I do this,” he says, pressing his lips on the inside of my thigh, kissing me behind the knee as he taps soft notes of desire with his fingers up my legs, barely touching me where I’m already electric for him.

Teasing me.

So much teasing that I try to wiggle my way closer.

“What do you want to do after this?” I ask him, arching my hips, trying to bring his delicious mouth all the way to me.

“I want to see if you taste as good in California as you do in New York.” He switches positions, moves up the bed, and flops down on his back. Then he reaches for me, his hands on my hips. “Sit on me,” he whispers in a hungry voice that burns with desire.

“Really?”

He nods against the pillow. “I want you on my face,” he says, breathing out hard, and I don’t know who’s more turned on now, but I know this much—I’m aching for his touch. I’m dying for the exquisite agony he delivers with his mouth, lips and tongue. So I don’t ask any more questions. I simple obey, straddling his face, balancing my hands on the headboard. His hands are locked on my hips, and he holds me above him. “This is a fucking beautiful view,” he says, then tugs me down.

I bite my lip when he first licks me so I don’t scream out in pleasure.

“Mmm,” he murmurs as he kisses all my wetness, his soft lips greedily devouring me, like I’m the key to his survival. He slides his tongue across my sex as his lips consume me. I grip the headboard, digging my fingers around the wood as electricity shoots through me like a hot buzz running through my skin, spinning in my veins, turning my entire body into nothing but the deep, hungry ache for release. I won’t last long, not with his moans and groans as he laps me up, plundering me with his tongue so eagerly, like he’s coveting my pleasure.

Soon, I start to rock into him, to buck against his mouth. He grips my hips harder, grinding me deeper and faster into his mouth until I am awash in a hot charge that starts tight in my belly then pulses throughout my entire body, coating me in nothing but ecstasy and heat, all the way to my fingertips.

Everything is a blur as I shout his name, the orgasm rocketing through me, leaving no inch of my body untouched with its pure and beautiful bliss. I exhale hard, panting still, my legs shaking.

Then, as I slow my movements, I’m hit with the most fantastic aftershocks that radiate throughout me.

Soon, I shift off of him, collapsing on the bed.

“Holy hell,” I say, still dizzy and glowing from coming so hard on him. “You have a magic mouth.”

“I guess that was good for you, too,” he says, with a sly smile.

“Yeah. Slightly,” I say, and then I glance down at the sleeping dog. “Guess he doesn’t mind our noises, either.”

“I knew he was my kind of wingman,” he says.

I laugh. “So, what was your verdict?”

He switches to his side, brushing his lips ever so faintly against my ear. “You taste like the one thing I will never have enough of.”

A shiver runs through me with his words. They make me feel both loved and sexy. “Let’s do it in our position,” I say, and I move to my side, too. I reach down between his legs, grasp him in my hand, and bury him inside of me. I move with him, savoring his sounds, his breath, his ragged pants when he tells me he’s so close.

“Come in me,” I whisper, watching his face strain and twist with pleasure as I bring him over the edge.

Later, as we lie together, it occurs to me that San Diego is already winning. That the happiest days of my life were here when I was younger, and that so far, California is a bit like paradise.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Harley

The sky stretches with endless blue, the shade so pure and perfect it seems unreal. The sun inches its way overhead, and the waves crash into the sand, the powerful Pacific Ocean pushing and pulling at the sandy shore with its mighty force.

“I told you so,” I say to Trey the next morning. “I told you you’d want shorts.”

He holds up his hands in surrender as he throws another tennis ball to the dog. Trey’s jeans are cuffed up, but the cuffs are soaked. He wears a T-shirt, but without board shorts he looks out of place on the beach and, frankly, a bit silly.

“You look like an interloper. Like a city boy. You’re embarrassing me,” I say, as I kick sand onto his feet playfully, the grains sliding through my naked toes. I love the feel of the sand on my bare feet, the breeze on my arms, and the salty bite of the waves in my nostrils.

The Sheriff returns to Trey, trotting by his side and making big puppy-dog eyes at him as we cut across the beach toward the house. Already, the dog has adopted Trey, or maybe it’s the other way around. I never knew my guy had that side of him—the dog-person side. Then again, he never knew he did, either.

“I’ve never had a pet,” he’d told me this morning when he woke up, laughing as The Sheriff licked his face, the dog’s way of asking for breakfast. “But this dog kind of rocks.”

We reach the deck of the house; Robert and Debbie are drinking their morning coffee outside.

“He needs shorts,” I tell Robert.

“The Sheriff? That’s crazy. He only wears clothes at night, when he puts on his PJs. He goes full monty during the day.”

I laugh and point my thumb to Trey. “Him.”

“You telling me I need to take your boyfriend shopping?”

I nod. “Pretty please.”

Robert shakes his head, but he’s already giving in. He turns to Trey, and claps him on the shoulder. “Now son, I’m giving up my man card to take you shopping, but she’s right. I’m thoroughly embarrassed by your lack of appropriate beach attire. Surprised, too, that TSA didn’t confiscate your bags at the airport yesterday. We usually don’t let anyone into San Diego with jeans on,” Robert says, pointing to his own cargo shorts.

They leave, and I join Debbie on the deck. The dog follows, parking himself in a perfect sit next to me, and looking expectantly at Debbie with the ball in his mouth.

She takes the ball and tosses it far away in the sand, and the dog is off like a shot.

“Why’d you name him The Sheriff?”

“When we adopted him we had cats, and he was always trying to herd them, and round them up, like they were his posse or something. So we called him The Sheriff.”

“I like that name.”

“Thank you. Would you like some coffee? Tea, or lemonade?”

It’s only ten in the morning, but lemonade sounds delicious. “Lemonade, please.”

She heads into the house and returns quickly with two tall glasses. She takes a sip, sets the glass down, and presses her palms against the white wooden deck railing, gazing out at the water.

“I bet it never gets old, this view,” I say, drinking in the gorgeous sky and the sun that bakes my skin slowly, luxuriously.

“Never does. Every day it feels new again,” she says, and then she turns to me. “So, how’s it going with the two of you? How is he with being a dad soon?”

I’m momentarily startled by the directness of her question. She reminds me a bit of Joanne; going for bluntness. It’s such a change from what I’ve been used to my whole life over.

“He had a hard time at first, but he’s changed a lot in the last few months. Sometimes, he’s too sweet for words.”

“That’s how it should be. And you’re very serious about each other.” It’s half a question, and half a pronouncement.

“Very serious.”

“I can tell,” she says, her blue eyes holding mine. “The way he looks at you. How he talks to you. And you, with him. You have this connection that goes beyond most people. One that runs so deep it’s almost like a secret language. I think that’s what it’s like with true love. With soul mates. You just have it.”

“You can tell with us?”

She nods, and taps her heart. “Oh yeah. I can tell. I have a soul mate detector.”

“We are soul mates. I’m sure of it. What about you and Robert? Is that what you have?”

“Absolutely,” she says as The Sheriff trots up to the porch, dropping the ball with a loud thunk then staring at Debbie. She grabs the ball, and tosses it back out to the sand.

As The Sheriff tears away, I spy a seagull careening towards the sand in hot pursuit of a french fry. The seagull lands and grabs his carbohydrate prey, gulping it down.

I turn back to Debbie, shielding my eyes from the sun with my hand. There’s something I want to know, and she doesn’t mince words so I go for it. “My parents didn’t have that, did they?”

“No,” she says with a sigh. “They didn’t. They tried hard. But they didn’t.”

“Will you tell me about them? Is it okay to ask?”

“Of course it’s fine to ask, and of course I’ll tell you. I figured you’d want to know. Let’s sit,” she says, gesturing to a pair of white wooden chairs with a small table between them

“What were they like together?”

Debbie tilts her head, considering my question as a breeze gently rattles the wind chimes that hang above the screen door. The pretty tinkling sound fades away and she turns to me. “They were like this.” She makes her hands into fists and bumps the knuckles together. “They were metal against metal. They were both brilliant. John is a very smart man, and Barb fell hard for that. She loved his brain, and she loved the way he could hold his own with her. She was taken with him, and he very much was with her, as far as I could tell. He was a political advisor, and they met when she was on an internship for a paper out here. I don’t even want to say they fell in love; it was more like they crashed into something volatile. Each other, maybe. Because they argued all the time. It was as if they were always locked in a debate. We’d have dinner with them, and they were always looking for some mistake in the other.”

“That sounds sad,” I say and my chest hurts for my parents.

The Sheriff arrives again and deposits the ball. Debbie reaches for it and fires it off. The dog’s black furry legs blur through the sand.

“But sadly, John is like that.”

“Really?”

“He’s not a happy man. Oh, on the surface, he’s the life of the party, but deep down, he’s not a happy soul. I love him, he’s my son, and I’d do anything for him. I could beat myself up and say I’m a bad mom and it’s all because of me, but I don’t know why he is the way he is. I just know he’s like that.”

“Is that why you don’t talk to him much?”

“I don’t talk to him much because he went his own way. He’s been living in Europe for years now. He made choices that I didn’t agree with, and while I love him, I don’t love his choices, and he knows that.”

The pit in my chest deepens, threatens to tunnel its way through me. Yet I need to ask. I open my mouth, and it’s almost painful to say the words; they taste like tinfoil against my tongue. “My mom told me something. I want to know if it’s true. She said he was a sex addict, and in therapy when I spent that summer with you. Is he an addict?”

Debbie stretches her hand across the small table between us and grasps mine. “Oh, sweetie. There are things between them that I will never understand. There are things between a man and a woman that need to be between them and them only, right?” I nod my agreement and she continues, her fingers clasped tight around my wrist. “But I know this. John has been married six times. Every time, he falls in love with someone else and leaves his marriage for another. I love him, but I don’t love the addict in him. I don’t love the choices he’s made, and I’ve told him so. So call him a sex addict. Call him a serial cheater. Call him a ladies’ man. What it amounts to is he is a person who has not changed, and because of that, I’m not close to him. He doesn’t want to engage on a meaningful level. But then, this isn’t surprising, is it? He wasn’t much of a father, was he?”

“He wasn’t one at all.”

Debbie sighs heavily. “I’m sorry, sweetie. You got the short end of the straw.”

Her kindness and her blunt honesty pierce me straight through to my core. My one-time modus operandi—lying, hiding, keeping secrets—no longer fits. “I felt all alone sometimes. I don’t know if I even realized that’s what it was. I don’t think I could name it till I was older. But when I saw your cards, I knew it was loneliness, because I didn’t know anyone except my mother.” My throat catches, but I rein it in. I might be becoming more fluent with the truth, but that doesn’t mean I need to shed tears every time. “Did you ever think about why I was never in touch with you?

She nods several times, her eyes widening, the blue in them so pure and true. “I did think about it a lot. I missed you. You probably don’t remember our times together because you were so young. But I remember them, and oh, how we loved when our little Harley was coming. You were a busy, brave and chatty little girl, and you loved being here as much as we loved having you.”

“I do remember it. Not the specifics, but I remember the feeling.”

“What did it feel like?”

I flash back to the night I met Trey, to what I told him about being here. “It felt like happiness. That’s what I remember.”

“I’m glad, sweetie. Because that’s all I ever wanted for your life. Even when I had no idea what had happened to you.”

“Did you ever think I was ignoring you?”

“That thought never crossed my mind. And look, I don’t know your mom anymore. I only know the articles she writes, and the pieces I see her do. I knew her then, and she was a tough woman, and she was pretty much shattered by John. They might have butted heads, they might have disagreed, but she was crazy for him. And the summer you lived with us, she fought like hell to save her marriage. We gave them the space they needed, and we took care of you. But, you know what happened . . .” she says, her voice trailing off, tinged with melancholy.

“My father cracked her, didn’t he?” I ask, and I should feel some shards of sympathy for her, but I feel entirely clinical.

Debbie shrugs, and her blond bangs blow into her eyes with the breeze. She brushes them away. “Maybe. It’s hard to say what anyone’s breaking point is. Was it hers? It’s possible.”

“Yeah, it is possible. But you know what? That happens. Stuff happens. You need to move on, and I’m not sure she ever did.”

Because my mother, whether she was broken by him or not, let him affect how she led her life. She has never truly moved on, as far as I can tell. It seems every choice she’s made about relationships was a futile attempt to stave off the hurt. Late-night affairs, clandestine phone calls, breezing from one man to the next, even falling for Phil—a married man who she could never truly give her heart to.

Maybe my father did break her, but now she’s brittle, and I don’t feel bad. I feel sorry for her that she was never able to change.

“Did it bother you when you never heard back from me?”

“I wanted to see you again. I hoped to see you again,” Debbie says. “And I think I knew, deep down, that somehow I would. I just didn’t know how. But I knew that it wasn’t you keeping us apart. It was your mother’s hurt.”

“Do you forgive her? Because I don’t think I can.”

“I can forgive her. Because she’s not mine. And I can let it go because you’re here now, and you wanted to reconnect. Can you forgive her for keeping us apart?”

I scoff. “The list of things I have to forgive her for is so long, you’d be shocked. But I guess this one doesn’t matter because I’m here now.”

“Then we don’t have to worry about the past, because we have this—the present—and then the future.”

But the thing is, we do have to worry about the past . . . at least, I do.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Harley

The cafe rings with the bustle of the lunch crowd. Waiters scurry by carrying plates stacked with sandwiches, grilled to perfection and spilling over with cheese and sauces that make my mouth water. The sounds of the ocean and an impromptu volleyball game drift in through the open windows of Once Upon a Sandwich

Debbie and I are at a table in the back, a red and white checked cloth spread across it. “Is it always this crowded?” I ask her.

“Usually. We’ve had some good write-ups over the years, and it’s become an institution here along the main drag. It’s still strange for me to be on this side, though,” she says, patting the table.

“Do you wish you were serving, or cooking?”

“Neither. Just in the office, managing the inventory, designing the menus, paying the employees. I’m all about the business side; Robert’s the sandwich master. But we only work a few days a week. Our manager runs the place so we can enjoy ourselves, and not work all the time. Speaking of, here they are.”

Flip flops slap against the wooden floor, and when I raise my eyes I’m met with a completely new look for my man. Gone are the jeans and boots, and in their place he’s donned full beach regalia, from the shades on his head to the board shorts hanging from his hips. He holds his arms out wide and raises his eyebrows to invite me to appraise him. I can’t help myself. He looks so hot that I stand up, pull him in for a hug that’s almost not safe for public and whisper in his ear, “You look so sexy in a bathing suit, but all I want to do is take it off.”

He inhales sharply, and growls low in my ear, “Later. That’s a promise. And now I need to sit down, or else everyone will be able to tell you just turned me on.”

He sits next to me, and then Robert pulls up a chair, looking like a cat that ate a canary.

“Well, what do you have up your sleeve?” Debbie asks.

“How do you know I have something up my sleeve?”

“Because of the look on your face. You’ve been up to trouble,” she says, and Robert’s eyes twinkle with mischief.

“What have I been up to, or what has this young man been up to?” he muses in a mysterious voice. He answers by yanking up the sleeve of his T-shirt to reveal a gleaming black typewriter. His faded, barely there, splotchy tattoo has been reworked—it’s the same typewriter, but now it’s been brightened, as if it were brought back to life.

“Oh my god,” Debbie shrieks. “You filled in his butt-ugly tattoo and made it beautiful.”

Trey nods proudly.

“How?”

“That’s what I do,” Trey says.

“No. I mean where? How did you just go fill this in?” she asks.

“Yeah, how did you do this, Trey?” I add.

“Remember Ilyas? He hooked me up with a shop out here, and an artist he wanted me to see. So we stopped in, and I had the idea to redo it, and Robert said yes, so there you go.”

I lean in and kiss him on the cheek. “You are so talented.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Robert says. “He showed the owner his portfolio online, and they were all pretty much tossing their panties at him in admiration.”

Trey blushes, and I think it’s the first time I’ve ever seen him this red. “You’re embarrassed that you’re so good,” I say, poking him in the side as I tease.

“They were just nice to me. That was all.”

“Humble brag,” Robert says under his breath. Then he raises his voice. “It was more like ‘How did you do that cherry blossom tree, that heart, that butterfly?’”

“You’re becoming known for your cherry blossoms,” I say, beaming with pride.

“And your heart.”

“You can do cherry blossom trees on others, but no one gets my heart and arrow,” I say possessively, gripping my shoulder.

He crosses his heart in a promise, his eyes never leaving mine. “No one else, ever.”

Debbie chimes in. “Like I said, Harley, I can tell.”

My heart feels both light and heavy. She can see the love in us, but what would she think if she knew who I was for all those years in between?

* * *

The ocean waves lap my thighs as Trey bobs in the water. We’ve waded out several feet, though it’s still shallow, so he’s actually sitting in the water, while I stand.

“It’s true, what my mom said,” I say, recapping my morning for him. “My dad was an addict. And if you think about it, my mom is kind of one, too. I’m just like them. It was like it was in my genes, or something,” I say, as a gentle wave rolls by, sending the waterline to my hips.

“I don’t know that it’s some sort of done deal. But so what if it’s in your genes? What matters is you stopped it,” he says.

“I guess, but I also feel bad for my parents. They must be so unhappy. I used to think my mom enjoyed everything. Now I think it was all a mask. She was hiding all her hurt, and I’m not saying that makes it okay. She must be the most miserable person in the world, and, hell, she deserves it. But it doesn’t sound like my dad’s any better.”

“Addiction has a way of sapping happiness from you. It’s like this suction device that steals everything good,” Trey says, and I arch an eyebrow. He’s not often this philosophical. He pushes a hand through his wet hair. “It’s something my shrink has said, and I believe it. I also believe you don’t have to be like your mom or your dad. It’s not fate. It’s not destiny.”

“But don’t you see? I am like them. I can fool myself, and say I’m like Debbie, and I’m good and pure because I like sandwiches and the beach, but those are the surface things that let me think I’m okay when I’m not. I’m an addict, Trey. I’m born from all the problems in the family. Fine, I’m a recovering addict, but I’m still an addict—and now there are two of us, and what’s going to happen to our baby?”

Through the water, Trey reaches for me. He tugs me gently so I’m deeper in with him, the warm waves hitting my chest now. “We break the cycle, Harley. Don’t you see? We end it here. With us. We make a choice to end it. We already made that choice when we stopped, and then went to SLAA, and then stayed in SLAA, and then fell in love. And we keep doing it, every single day. Every day we live differently from our parents, and every day we break the cycle. The ugly beautiful, remember? That’s what we have and what we are, and that’s what he or she will know,” he says, now palming my belly. “Our baby will know we can be different; we can be more than those things we left behind. Look at this. Look at us. We’re these two New Yorkers, raised on fumes and skyscrapers, boxed in by the noise and sirens and cigarettes in that city, and now we’re here, in the fucking ocean, under the sun beneath a clear blue sky. Because of you. Because you chose to keep looking. To find your family,” he says brushing the wet strands of hair off my cheek, keeping his green gaze locked with mine.

“But it’s not real,” I say, as I splash a spray of salty water away from us in frustration. “This is perfect, yes. This is beautiful, but we’re only here for a short time. We go back to New York in a few days. We go back to fumes and skyscrapers.”

“You have this now, though,” he says, in a strong, passionate voice. “You know this now. It’s a part of you, and it doesn’t go away even when we leave California. Just being here and coming here is another step in breaking the cycle every day. By living differently from your parents, you’re breaking their patterns. I’m trying to do the same, too. To be honest, and truthful, and not shut down. We are changing, and they never did.”

He pulls me in close for a warm hug, and I shut my eyes, letting myself enjoy the sun on my shoulders, the water rolling over my skin, his words echoing in my mind.

Changing.

But if I keep holding onto secrets, I’m not changing. That’s what scares the hell out of me. How far can I step into this new me until I shut down? What if I’m not strong enough, not good enough, or not different enough from the addicts who made me?

Or from the junkie I became?

Chapter Twenty-Five

Harley

The next day, we walk along the main street, passing Debbie’s favorite bakery that she says makes amazing cupcakes. “Let’s pop in there after I grab a book I’ve been meaning to give to one of my waitresses,” she says as she gestures to the bookstore next door. We head inside, and when she picks up the paperback she’s been eyeing, I stop in my tracks.

There it is: a full display of them. The book I labored over. My blood debt to Miranda, but really, to my mom, since I was blackmailed to protect her.

My stomach churns when I see the cover. A gorgeous young girl in a corset and fishnets lies on a bed, her legs crossed at the ankles as they rest against the wall, a hauntingly beautiful but immensely sad expression in her eyes. Then the title: Memoirs of a Teenage Sex Addict, and the author: Anonymous.

My shame slams into me without warning, like the truck barreling at you that you didn’t see coming.

All I want to do is cover my reddening face. Or, better yet—toss a sheet over the display, hide it, knock it over. Anything, so Debbie doesn’t see this and know it’s me. I stand in front of it, inching my body around it as she walks by and heads to the counter with the book she’s buying.

Debbie doesn’t know I was a call girl. She doesn’t know I serviced the fetishes of middle-aged men in Manhattan. That I became close to the father of her great-grandchild through Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous. That I heard my mother fucking men all over town. She doesn’t know the things I did. She knows the sweet and fun six-year-old, and she knows the twenty-year-old who loves her guy, who is pregnant and staying in school, who came to see her, who likes sandwiches and sunshine.

She doesn’t know who I was in between.

I can’t let her know who I was. If I do, she won’t want to be my family anymore. Fear digs its sharp heel into my chest, and I’m sweating now from anxiety.

When she’s done with her purchase, she says, “Carla is going to love this. She reads all these crazy detective stories.” Then she stops talking, cocks her head to the side and lays the back of her hand on my forehead. “You okay? You seem out of sorts, all of a sudden. Seen a ghost?”

And I realize I don’t want to hide. I harbored secrets for far too long, and they nearly destroyed my very soul. They gnawed away at my heart, until I finally had the guts to stare them down so they’d stop haunting me. I have to start everything new, from honesty. To break the cycle.

“Debbie, there’s something I have to tell you.”

“What it is, sweetie?”

With my shoulders shaking as nerves ripple through my body, I remove one book from the display. I hold it up. “I wrote this book.”

“Well, that sounds like an interesting story,” she says and she guides me to a quiet section with a comfy leather couch where I tell her everything.

“Do you want me to leave now?” I ask when I’m done.

She shoots me a quizzical look. “Leave the store?”

“No. Leave your house. Leave San Diego. Go back to New York, so you don’t have to see me again?”

She laughs deeply, shaking her head. “Oh, you sweet thing. No, no, no. And just in case that wasn’t clear—NO. I want you to stay as long as you want. You are always welcome, and like I said, you drew the short straw. I’m just glad that’s all behind you. It is behind you, right?”

“Yes,” I say emphatically. “But it doesn’t bother you, who I was all those years when I didn’t see you?”

“We’ve all made mistakes. We’ve all done things we wish we hadn’t. The goal is to learn, and to move on and try to live a life of no regrets. Here you are, living the life you intend. And even though I didn’t see you for fourteen years, you have to know I love you now, and I was loving you that whole time. And what you just told me doesn’t change my love one bit.”

I sit up straight, and look at her like that’s the strangest thing I’ve heard. “You loved me?”

“Of course I loved you. And of course I do still love you. Why would I do anything but love you?”

But … but … but … I want to backpedal and reel off a million reasons why. Because love comes with a price tag. Because love comes with expectations. Because love is bought and sold, and bargained for. Because love is on the surface.

But that’s the old me. That’s the me that came from Barb.

I’m not from her anymore. Not even close. I’m from myself, from the new me that I forged without her.

And this is love given freely. Love without chains, without agenda, love simply because it can’t be anything but. This is love that lasts, love that holds on through the years, through absence, through not knowing, not seeing, not hearing, but still it endures, because it is real and strong and everlasting.

It is family.

“I thought you might not love me when you found out what I’d done.”

“You’re a silly girl,” she says, patting my hand. “Now, let’s go next door and get a cupcake. The chocolate buttercream is divine, and your baby will have a riot in your belly when he or she tastes the sugar.”

* * *

The next few days race by and as the vacation nears its end, I can feel the unspooling like an insistent thrumming in my heart. New York is calling us back, and San Diego is letting us go.

A dull ache settles into my bones, and we haven’t even left yet, but already I miss.

As I clear the dishes on the final night, balancing several plates along my arm en route to the sink, Robert winks at me, then looks to Debbie. “She’d make a good waitress.”

“Um, thanks,” I say, as I place the dishes in the sink while Trey returns condiments to the fridge. “I’ll take that under advisement as a career path.”

“Actually,” Debbie begins slowly, as she wipes down the table with a cloth, and I grab the remaining glasses, “I thought you could help out from time to time at the café if you want. And then you can let me help you out more than from time to time. We have the duplex, and we can rent it again, or you can come live with us next door, and we can help you with your baby. You can finish school here, and I can help as you take classes, and Trey can get a job. God knows, he already has connections, since he’s been wooing the artists up and down Ocean Beach. And you can raise your baby where all babies should be raised. By the sand and the sun and the beach. And, most of all—by family.”

I freeze. I am a study in stillness, a glass in each hand, immobile, jaw hung open, eyes wide. Call it shock. Call it surprise. Call it wonder.

Maybe it’s all three. I don’t know, but I know this much. There is only one answer.

I unfreeze, set down the glasses, and turn to Trey, who’s standing by the open fridge door. His eyes are lit up, and I know I don’t even have to ask him, but I do anyway. In a whisper bordering on reverence, because this moment feels reverent, I say, “Do you want to move to California?”

He closes the fridge door, walks over to me, and cups my face in his hands. “Do you remember what I said the night I met you?”

I nod. “I would leave New York in a heartbeat. Put me on the next train out of here.”

“Yes. I’d get on a train to Florida. To Virginia. To California. I don’t care. I’d ride it across the country and not look back.”

“I remember that well,” I say, grinning.

“I need to amend it. I’d go anywhere with you and not look back. The answer is yes.”

Then he kisses me in the kitchen, in front of my grandparents, and it’s not a chaste kiss by any stretch of the imagination, but they don’t seem to care because they’re clapping and hooting and hollering.

“When can we move here?” I ask.

“Anytime,” Debbie says.

“I’m done with school. It’s up to you. I’m ready anytime,” Trey says.

“If I can transfer here for the rest of the year, can we come next month?” I ask, and I sound like a little kid pleading for a pony.

Robert reaches for Debbie’s hand. “We would love that.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

Trey

Somewhere in the dark corners of my mind, I’m vaguely aware of her kicking off the sheets. Then shifting positions, her bare legs brushing against mine. Her breathing is regular, not the slow peaceful rhythm of someone sleeping.

She’s awake, and something kindles in me too, jolting me up.

“You okay?”

She’s lying on her back, staring at the ceiling with her hands on her stomach. The moon glimmers in the open window, casting shadows across her skin.

She nods, but her lips are pressed tightly together, and something is off. Something’s wrong. I can sense it; I can smell it.

I sit upright. “You’re not okay. What’s going on?”

I survey her quickly, looking for the evidence of something, anything. My eyes are drawn to her hands, splayed across her stomach. Tightly.

A shot of fear hits my heart, and every muscle in my body goes taut, like an electrical line.

“Harley, what’s wrong?” I rasp out.

“The baby’s not moving,” she whispers, and the tremors in her voice sear through me, gripping me.

I lay my hands gently on her stomach, moving them around, feeling the roundness and waiting, waiting, waiting for movement.

None comes, and my entire body goes cold and clammy. No way is this happening. No fucking way.

I lick my lips, and swallow hard. “How long has it been since you felt the baby?”

She shrugs nervously. “A while. I don’t know. Maybe dinnertime?”

“And how often do you usually feel the baby move?”

“I don’t know,” she says, but her shoulders start shaking and she covers her eyes with her hands. “More than this.”

The whole room spins like it’s become a tilt-a-whirl, spiraling out of control. But whatever is happening, I can’t crash with it. I have to be strong for her. I have to take care of her. That’s my job, that’s my mission, that’s my singular focus. And, as the cold loop of memories starts to flicker in my head, I try to swat them away, my brain scrabbling for an answer.

I snap my fingers, landing on an idea. “Didn’t Debbie once tell you to drink a Coke? That a sugary drink would get the baby moving?”

Her eyes widen and shine in the dark. “Yes!”

“Stay here.” I jump out of the bed, race downstairs in my boxer briefs, and yank open the door to the fridge. But the kitchen in this side of the duplex isn’t stocked, and the shelves are empty, so I open the door onto the deck, and quietly slip into Robert and Debbie’s kitchen, praying I’ll find something sugary—and there it is. A gleaming red can. I grab it, and hope it does the trick.

The second I return to our dark bedroom, I crack it open and thrust it at Harley. She’s sitting up, cross-legged on the bed now. She takes a hearty gulp.

“Drink it all,” I tell her, motioning with my hands for her to speed up. I’m racing; my heart is on a freaking speedway.

“I’m drinking it as fast as I can,” she says, in between sips. She downs more of the can, and then sets it on the nightstand. I lean over her, rattle the can. “There’s more left. You need to finish it.”

“Fine,” she says, and then drinks the rest of the can quickly.

When she’s done, her hands return to her stomach, and mine do the same, and now there are four hands keeping watch, and two fearful hearts.

“I’m really fucking scared, Harley,” I tell her.

“I know,” she says.

Then neither one of us speaks for another few minutes. We wait, and I’m aware of everything. The rustle of the curtains. The low hum of the house. The lull of the waves, back and forth on the sand. My own frantic breath. And hers, too.

Please, god, don’t let this be the end. Please, let our baby be safe.

Then I feel it. It’s like a roll against my hands, and she does too. Her eyes light up, and she starts laughing, a long, luxurious laugh full of relief.

I exhale all the breath in the world, and lean my forehead against hers. “God, that freaked me the fuck out,” I say, never taking my hands off her. I’m rewarded with another wave, like the kid is doing somersaults inside her.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to freak you out,” she says.

“Harley, you have nothing to apologize for.”

“No, I do. I should know better. I got you all worried, and the baby was probably just sleeping. God, I’m an idiot.”

I lift her chin gently with one hand. “Harley, you’ve never been pregnant before. This is all new. It’s okay. You’re not supposed to know all these things yet.”

“I don’t want to scare you, though.”

“I have to learn to deal with it,” I say.

“And you did. You saved the day with a soda. You’re my hero.”

I laugh and kiss her cheek, then her neck, then her belly. And it feels like the baby is kicking me in the nose now. “Now we’ve got him all worked up with sugar,” I say, resting my head in her lap and looking up at her.

“Or her,” she points out.

“You know what I realized when I was racing to the kitchen?”

“What did you realize?”

“That I’m really attached to our kid already,” I tell her, and she smiles so sweetly and so sexily, that I’m a goner.

“Don’t make me fall more in love with you by saying things like that.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Oh, a challenge. I accept. So how’s this? The two of you are everything to me. You’re all I ever want.”

“Can we name her Paige then? Or Jessica? Or Sarah?”

I shake my head. “Or maybe Finn or Caleb for a boy?”

She shakes her head, and laughs. “Some day, we’ll find names we both like.”

“Yeah, I bet we’re going to be those parents who pick the name as they leave the hospital with the kid,” I say.

Then I curve a hand around the back of her neck, and pull her in for a deep kiss, searching her mouth with my tongue, tasting the sweet sugary Coke on her lips. Her hair tickles my stubbled jaw, and I kiss her harder, needing more of her, wanting all of her. I hold her tight in my hands and kiss and kiss and kiss until my lips feel bruised and my dick’s about to burst in my underwear.

“Harley,” I tell her, as I pull apart. “It’s our last night here, and we need to go christen the beach.”

“We do?”

“Well, yeah. Don’t you think?”

“Isn’t beach sex overrated?”

“Have you ever had beach sex?”

She swats me with a pillow. “You know the answer to that.”

“Well, I haven’t either. So why don’t we go find out?” I suggest as I slide a hand between her legs, and grin wildly as I touch her. “Because I’m pretty sure you want to.”

“Grab a blanket and let’s go.”

It’s past three in the morning and the beach is quiet, the moon and the ocean our only companions. But you never know, so we find a spot near the rocks, shielded on one side. The glow of the full moon spreads across the water, lighting up a path along the ocean as I spread out a blanket. I tug her down next to me, and wrap a second blanket over her shoulders. “For privacy,” I whisper, as I sit and pat my thighs. “Climb up on me.”

She follows my directions, wrapping her sexy legs around me. She’s wearing a long T-shirt and underwear, and I’m still in my briefs. I push against her once, feeling her heat through the cotton layers. She sighs happily.

“I have a question for you,” I say. “Before we were together, for real, back when we were friends, did you ever masturbate to me?”

She laughs and shakes her head. “No.”

I pretend to pout. “Not once?”

“It’s never really been my thing.”

“You didn’t even think about me?”

“I thought about you a lot, but I never masturbated. Why? Did you?”

I nod, and wiggle my eyebrows. “All the fucking time.”

Her brown eyes widen with surprise. “Are you serious?”

“Does this shock you? Yeah, of course I jerked off to you. I was fucking crazy about you and I wanted you, and I had to deny how much I wanted you, so I had no choice but to jack off.”

“What did you think about when you masturbated?”

“You want to know?”

“You say that like I don’t.”

I bend my head to her neck, lick a path from her throat to her earlobe, and flick my tongue against her ear. A whimper escapes her lips. “Almost always, I thought about going down on you.”

“You did?”

I kiss her jawline now, and she stretches her neck, giving me more room to burn a trail of hot, wet kisses along her delicious skin. “I love tasting you. It’s my favorite thing in the world. I went down on you so many times in my fantasies, Harley.”

She starts moving her hips against me, rubbing her damp panties against my erection. “Tell me more,” she whispers in a ragged voice.

I roll my hips against her. “I pictured eating you out in a million positions. Sometimes you were on my bed with your legs spread wide open, like the first time. Sometimes, you were against the wall and I was down on my knees, licking you while you grabbed by my hair. Other times, I’d lie down on the bed, and you’d crawl up on me, and sit on my face, like you did the first night here. Sometimes I’d picture you on all fours and me going down on you from behind, licking you that way.”

She gasps, and starts to gyrate against me. “Did you like that?”

“Feel how hard I am. You tell me,” I say, thrusting against her.

She closes her eyes momentarily as she feels me, rock hard. “I can’t believe you love going down on me as much as I love it when you do it.”

“It’s like the perfect symbiotic relationship,” I joke.

“Do you want to go down on me right now?” she asks, as she rocks against me, her panties growing damper by the second.

“I always do. Will you let me?”

She pulls back, shakes her head. “Not outside. But I think I’m going to come pretty soon, so I’d really like to have sex here on the beach,” she says, scooting off me momentarily to remove her panties. She glances from side to side, and then cranes her neck to make sure no one is walking nearby. The coast is clear; our only company is the dark of night that blankets us. I take off my underwear, and pull her back onto me, but she stops before I can enter her.

“What is it?” I ask.

“Show me,” she says, her eyes all wild with lust. “Show me how you touched yourself when you got off to me.”

“Gladly,” I say, and I slide my fingers between her legs, coating them with her. I take my cock in my hand, slide her wetness over me, and stroke myself up and down. “So much better when I have you on me,” I say, watching her eyes as her gaze lowers. She stares, gape-jawed, at me touching myself. “This is what I did thinking of you, so many fucking times. Always you. Only you. I wanted you so much. I wanted to touch you again, and taste you, and make you come over and over,” I say, and my breaths come faster as I stroke harder.

“Oh god,” she says, leaning her head back. “Please.”

There’s only one answer to that, so I grip her hips, lift her up, and bring her down on me. She cries out, and then silences her moans by biting down on my shoulder. I fucking love that she’s so turned on, she has to muffle herself.

“You feel so good,” I tell her as I guide her up and down.

“So do you,” she murmurs. Then she brings her lips to my ear. “I love that you used to masturbate to me.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. I love that you thought about me.”

“All the fucking time. I always wanted you. I will always want you,” I tell her, as I roll my hips up against her.

“I want to watch you sometime,” she says.

“You would?”

“Yes. But the thing is, I love fucking you so much, I’d probably make you stop so you could be inside me every time.”

“It’s my favorite place to be,” I tell her, and she starts to move faster. Her breathing becomes labored, and I know she’s not far now, and I’m on the brink, too. “Harley? Can I fuck you hard right now?”

“Yes,” she says, and I grab her hips and thrust into her. Long, hard, deep strokes, and she moans with each one, her cries all I need to keep up the pace, and soon her mouth is on my shoulder again, and she’s biting down, and I feel her clench around me, and draw in a deep, endless breath. And I do the same, coming hard and fast inside her.

“I love California,” I say.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Trey

The flight is packed, and we’re in the second to last row. I peer at my boarding pass once more, then at Harley’s, as we wait for the family ahead of us to stow their luggage. The flight attendant helps them find room in the cramped compartments.

“Crap. You’re in 34E. I’m in 35E,” I say over Harley’s shoulder when I notice the seat assignments.

She pushes out her bottom lip. “Bummer. I’ll have to write you notes and slip them into your seat like in high school.”

“Make mine dirty.” I place our bags in the overhead.

“Have a good flight,” she says, as she takes 34E.

“You too.”

As I buckle my seatbelt, the woman next to me clears her throat. She’s knitting something silvery, maybe a sparkly scarf or something, and her dark blond hair is pulled into a clip. “If your wife doesn’t mind a middle seat, I’d be happy to switch,” she offers.

“Oh, she’s not my wife,” I say, then quickly realize the semantics aren’t important. “But thank you. I think she would like that.”

I lean forward to tap Harley. “This awesome lady is offering to switch. Want to sit with me?”

She raises an eyebrow. “I believe the offer was for your wife,” she teases.

“Then you should just be my wife,” I say, and once the words have been said, I realize how absolutely fucking perfect they sound. And how I might not have a ring, and I haven’t planned this, but hell, if this isn’t what our life together is all about, then I don’t know what is, because I can’t think of a better moment. That’s what she’s been teaching me, in her own quiet way. To live each day, to embrace it, to seize the moment, because that’s all we ever have.

Moments. With each other. Without regret.

I unbuckle my seat belt, stand up, and then bend down on one knee in the aisle as the flight attendant adjusts more bags for the passengers across from us. I take Harley’s hands in mine. “Marry me,” I say. “Be my wife.”

Her eyes are as round as saucers, and they shine brightly with happiness. I don’t doubt for a second what she’ll say, and it’s an amazing feeling to have this kind of certainty in another person. Still, I want to hear her yes.

“You’re proposing to me on an airplane?”

“Why the hell not?”

The noises quiet down, and everyone is watching us. The flight attendant’s hands are poised on a suitcase, the gray-haired dude in the seat in front of Harley has stopped texting and is staring, and the woman next to me has popped up to watch, goggle-eyed.

“Like there’s any other answer but yes,” Harley says as she cups my cheeks and presses her lips against mine.

Then there is clapping and cheering all around, and a few rows ahead, I hear a guy shout, “Where’s the ring, man?”

“No ring,” I say to everyone, but as I pull up Harley from her seat and into the aisle, I point to her belly. “But we’ve got this to seal the deal.”

“That’s a commitment right there,” the guy calls out.

“Yeah, it is,” I say, and then I kiss her once more.

“When’s the wedding?”

It’s the same guy again, and this time I look over to him. He’s a few years older than me, but not by much. He wears hipster glasses and a hoodie.

“I don’t know. She just said yes.”

“How about now?”

I don’t say anything at first. I’m not sure what to say. But Harley pipes up, shouting to the guy. “Why? Are you a minister or something?”

He nods. “Got ordained online to perform my brother’s wedding. If you want a wedding in the sky, let me know.”

Then he disappears into his seat, and Harley joins me, while the blond woman takes my wife-to-be’s seat.

“I can’t believe you just proposed to me on a plane,” she says, with a smile that can’t be erased.

“Sometimes, you just have to live each day. That’s what someone I love madly once told me,” I say, nuzzling her nose.

“Excuse me, sir.”

I turn to the flight attendant.

“You need to get buckled in,” she says. “Oh, and congratulations. Now I have a good story to tell my friends on my layover in New York tonight.”

The flight attendant starts to leave, but Harley reaches for her arm. “It could be a better story possibly . . .”

* * *

Harley wears jeans, combat boots and a T-shirt. I know she’d look gorgeous in a wedding dress, but this is even better than white. I stand in the middle of the aisle, next to Andrew, the newly ordained minister, who also runs an Internet startup, and whose brother is a bio-tech engineer.

The bride carries a bouquet of pretzels and peanuts, tied together with silver yarn, courtesy of her former seat inhabitant. The flight attendant holds up my iPhone, playing Arcade Fire’s “Tunnels” as our wedding song.

The band sings about digging a tunnel from my window to yours and that feels fitting for Harley and me.

“It’s on airplane mode,” the flight attendant says, so the other passengers know she’s not breaking the rules.

We are flying high, ten thousand feet over Arizona, and my pregnant girlfriend is about to become my wife. Fine, I know we will need to get a marriage license and make it official before the state of New York, but this is our kind of wedding.

When Harley reaches me, she turns and hands the bouquet to the blond-haired knitter who’s become her impromptu maid of honor.

Andrew clears his throat. “Dear passengers of Flight 305 from San Diego to New York City, we are gathered here by chance, circumstance, and Expedia, in many cases, for the unplanned and unexpected wedding of Trey Westin to Harley Coleman. But then, as the groom has told me, other things between them were a bit unexpected, too,” he says, staring pointedly at Harley’s bump, and punctuating his comment like a stand-up comedian. “So, before we get in too much trouble with the captain, let me move onto the details quickly.” He looks to me. “Do you, Trey, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife, to love her and cherish her, in sickness and health, for richer or for poorer, forsaking all others, for as long as you both shall live?”

“I do,” I say, and you’d need some serious cleaner to wipe the industrial-strength grin off my face right now. I can’t believe I’m almost twenty-two years old, I have a scar on my face from how I used to debase the marriage vows of others, and now I’m getting hitched to a girl I inked one night, went with her to sex and love addiction therapy, then knocked her up, and now we’re going to move across the country to raise our kid.

“And do you, Harley Coleman, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband, to love him and cherish him, in sickness and health, for richer or for poorer, forsaking all others, for as long as you both shall live?”

“I do,” she says, and then bounces once on her toes and sneaks in a quick kiss.

Andrew gives her a chiding look. “Now, now,” he says playfully. “Rings, please.”

The blond knitter opens her palm and holds out two paper rings that I drew a few minutes ago. On each piece of paper is a heart with an arrow in it, and the rings are held together with Band-Aids, since that’s all the flight attendant had.

I slide a paper ring onto Harley’s ring finger, and she does the same to me.

“And now by the power vested in me by the awesomeness of the Internet and my $35 license to become an ordained minister, I now pronounce you man and wife, and you may kiss the bride. Or the bride may kiss you again.”

Harley threads her hands in my hair, and whispers against my lips. “I love you so damn much,” she says, before she silences any reply with a kiss.

Four hours later, she’s asleep on my shoulder when the captain announces that we’re about to make our descent into New York. Other passengers stand up to make final bathroom trips, and a short, chubby bald guy walks down the aisle to the restroom. Something about him seems familiar, but I can’t place him. Maybe he’s a customer, but in his button-down shirt and dress slacks he hardly seems the tat type. He could be a friend of my dad’s, though my dad doesn’t have many friends. I tense briefly, hoping he’s not the husband of some woman I used to screw. That would be just my luck. I’ll land another scar, a matching one on the other cheek.

I close my eyes briefly, but after I hear the door unlock to the bathroom I can sense someone standing close to me. I open my eyes, and he’s there, in the aisle, staring at Harley.

At my wife.

And holy fucking shit, I know why I recognize him.

It’s Mr. Stewart from the gala last summer, where I stole Harley away from him. My heart clenches, and my veins run with ice.

He smiles, but it’s not a happy look. More like a cold sneer, as his gray eyes meet mine. “Congratulations, Mr. Trey Westin,” he says slowly, making sure to enunciate each word, “on your wedding to Layla.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Trey

I pack up books, and I peer out the window. I load up my sketchbooks. And I wait for a knock.

I jam my clothes into suitcases, and I’m sure a rock will come crashing through my window.

I hear a strange noise in the hallway late one night, and I check the peephole, convinced that Mr. Stewart’s steely gray eyes will stare back at me. But then, I’m betting he’s the kind of man who doesn’t need to do his own dirty work. He probably has a heavy.

Maybe I’m losing my mind, but everywhere I go in the city for the next few days, I feel the hair on my neck stand on end. I watch behind me, scan in front of me, check in doorways, but nothing happens. No one leaps from an alley and jams a pillowcase on my head. No one with a pockmarked face and a broad barrel chest shanks me for taking Mr. Stewart’s supposed girlfriend.

“Why do you think you’re about to be shanked everywhere you go?” Michele asks during my session.

“I can’t believe you just said shanked.”

“I am familiar with popular lingo,” she says, and she doesn’t break my gaze. “So, please answer the question. Where is this fear coming from?”

“Are you saying I’m paranoid?”

She sighs heavily, and I think I might have exasperated Michele for the first time. “No, Trey. I simply want to understand why you’re worked up about this.”

I throw my arms out wide. “Because he’s a fucking dude who hired an escort. Because he’s loaded. Because he happened to be on the same fucking plane when I married Harley, and rather than tuck his tail between his legs, he got up in my face and made damn sure I knew he knew I married the girl I took from him!”

She grins when I say married, shaking her head, still amused that we did it. And we officially did it, too, filing for a marriage license when we returned.

“And so you think, naturally, that he’s going to shank you?”

I push my hands roughly through my hair. “I don’t know. Yes. No. It seems plausible.”

“And what happens then when you move to San Diego? He’s from California, right?”

I nod.

“So, will he hunt you down there?”

I roll my eyes. “Seriously?”

She leans forward in her chair, her hands on her knees. “I am being serious. If you truly think your life is in danger, we need to talk about appropriate cautionary steps. And if this is your fear talking, we need to figure out how to face it.”

“No. I need to run the fuck away from it,” I say.

Because rational talk doesn’t help me. My heart ticks faster, speeding up. I am a jack in the box that someone’s been winding and winding, ready to pop.

I walk with Harley everywhere. I don’t let her go anyplace alone. After I see Michele, I go to Harley’s to help her pack, since we’re leaving in a week.

School is still on break, but she emailed her English major advisor and was told that transferring to a school in San Diego would work fine. She can graduate from here; she just needs to maintain her GPA for the last year and a half, and have her classes approved. Sort of like a year and a half abroad, only abroad is across the country.

After we make it through her summer clothes, she tries again to reassure me. “Trey, it’s been a week now, and nothing happened. I think we’re fine. I think it was just some sort of manly pride on the plane. He probably recognized me, made the comment and then forgot about it,” Harley says, as she zips up a large purple duffel bag. We decided to only take clothes, books and the things we couldn’t leave behind after I sublet my studio in seconds.

“Well, guys like that, I don’t trust,” I say, as my phone buzzes in my back pocket. “We just need to lie low for a little longer.”

She rolls her eyes. “You’re ridiculous. Besides, it’s not you or me—” she starts to say, then she stops and shakes her head. I grab my phone to see my parents calling.

“What is it?” I ask.

“Nothing,” she whispers, but she looks worried. “Just answer your call.”

“Hey,” I say into the phone.

“Good evening,” my mother says. “We have a surprise for you. For your move to San Diego. Can you come over tonight?”

“Sure. I’m just helping Harley pack, and then I’ll stop by.”

When I hang up, I tell her that I need to go see them. “But stay here.”

“I will. I’m going to keep packing, and hang with Kristen. Call me later,” she says, and gives me a kiss before I leave.

Twenty minutes later, my mom slides a small white box across the kitchen table to me. There’s a gold bow on the box. I glance from her to my dad. “A gift?”

“I said we had a surprise for you,” my mom says, and for the first time in years, she seems excited, even delighted.

I untie the bow, and open the top of the white box. Inside is a key on a ring with a key fob. Shivers of excitement run through me. My parents did this?

“What is this for?” I ask, though I think I know the answer.

“There’s a new Honda waiting for you at Harley’s grandparents’ house. If you’re going to live in California, you’re going to need a car,” my dad says, and he leans over to give me a hug.

“Thanks, Dad,” I say. Then I stand up, and hug my mom too. “This is amazing. Seriously. This is just so cool. I was going to get us a used car or something. But this is incredible.”

“Now you’re going to have to learn how to drive,” my dad says, pointing out the obvious.

I wave a hand in the air. “I’m sure driving is a piece of cake.”

After more chatting and another round of thank yous, I head out for the night. I press the elevator button for the lobby, then tap the panel twice, as if I’m saying goodbye to my past, to my sins. This elevator used to be the center of my sex-addicted world, and I’d ride it up and down to meet my women, see my women and seduce my women.

Now, as I shoot down the building, I no longer feel the gravitational pull that this contraption exerted on my life. It’s just an elevator, and this is one of the last times I’ll ride in it.

“Goodbye, elevator,” I say as I reach the lobby.

The doors slide open and as I walk across the marble lobby, I see her.

Walking through the open door.

Bundled up in the cold.

A knit cap covering her brown hair.

And her hand in someone else’s hand.

Someone who has eyes like mine.

Green eyes, with gold flecks. Like I’m looking into a mirror.

I stumble against the wall, grabbing onto it so I don’t slump down on the floor because my heart has stopped.

Sloan notices me, and a smile crests across her face. “Trey! How are you?”

My mouth is open, and I try to say something. But my brain is made of tar, and my tongue is coated in glue.

“I haven’t seen you in a few years,” she adds. “How are you?”

“Fine,” I croak out, staring at the little boy next to her.

“How is your art? Are you still drawing? Designing tattoos?”

I nod.

“You were always so talented. And you’ll be pleased to know, I landed a gallery show. You know how I was pursuing my painting career.”

“Right,” I say.

The boy tugs on her hand.

“Oh! Excuse my manners. Trey, this is my son, Teddy. Teddy, this is Trey.”

I open my mouth again and try to say hi, but I’m in that nightmare where you scream and make no sound. Or maybe I’m in the nightmare where you learn you fathered a kid a few years ago, and you’re even more of a fuck-up than you already thought you were.

“Hi,” Teddy says, and the sound of his voice rips through me.

Not because he sounds like me, because he’s fucking two or three or something. But because he has more guts than I do right now. Because I can’t handle seeing his mom.

“He’s artistic, too,” Sloan says in a knowing whisper. “It runs in the family. Anyway, we have a lot of catching up to do. I just moved back into the building a few months ago, and it would be nice to see you again.”

She waves, turns on her heels, and heads to the elevators because this is just another normal night for her.

For me, it’s as if my plans have capsized.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Harley

I dial his number again.

And again.

And again.

He still doesn’t answer. I swear my fingers are turning numb from calling him.

I try his office, but it’s after hours, and it’s closed.

So I have no other recourse but to hail a taxi and head uptown to see Cam.

He texted me this afternoon to say congrats on your wedding. I didn’t think much of his text at first since I was so busy. Then it hit me—I hadn’t told him. The only way he could know would be from Mr. Stewart.

My heart is hammering against my chest, and I understand now why Trey was so worried. I feel so stupid for not thinking of Cam sooner, but I bet that’s why Mr. Stewart never did a thing to us. Because his bone to pick wasn’t with me; it was always with Cam.

I’m the horse that wouldn’t run. I’m the car that wouldn’t start. But to Mr. Stewart, Cam is the man who sold him a bum nag, a lemon of a vehicle. Cam’s the one he has the beef with—Cam’s the peddler of the product that didn’t perform for one ruthless businessman.

I bang furiously on the buzzer when I reach his Upper East Side brownstone.

“C’mon, c’mon,” I say under my breath, hoping he’s here, hoping he’s safe.

I step away from the door and peer up at the second floor window where I see the silhouette of a woman looking past the curtains.

I push hard on the buzzer once more. The harder I press, the more likely he’ll answer, right? But he’s not the one who answers.

“Hello?”

The voice is somewhat familiar.

“Hi. This is Harley. Is Cam okay? I need to see him.”

“Hold on,” the woman says, and I wait as the buzzer goes silent. I wonder who she is. If Cam has a girlfriend, or a friend, or . . . I cringe inside . . . maybe he hired an escort? Or maybe this woman works in his stable? Maybe she took over from me?

“You can come up,” the woman says, and then buzzes me in. I bound up the steps to his apartment—the entire second floor. I go to knock, but the second my knuckles touch the wood someone opens the door.

“Oh.”

It’s Cam’s receptionist; the woman with the straight blond hair in the perfect bob.

“Hi,” I say. “I’m Harley.”

She nods. “I know. Tess,” she says, extending a hand to shake.

“You’re the . . .”

“Yes. I’m the receptionist, and more.”

More. “Is he okay? Because I have this gnawing feeling in my gut.”

“He has a black eye and a cracked rib.”

My heart plummets, and I clasp my hand over my mouth. “No,” I say, shaking my head, as if I can wish away what she said. “Mr. Stewart?”

Tess nods sadly. “Come in. You can see him.”

She guides me through the entryway and into Cam’s living room, where he’s stretched out on the couch, his feet propped up on a coffee table, and his arm wrapped around his midsection, like he’s holding his ribs in place. He’s watching the television, an old episode of Facts of Life on TV Land. When he sees me, he hits mute, and smiles weakly. He’s bruised and battered under his left eye, a small lake of blue ink from where Mr. Stewart must have connected with face.

Then he notices my stomach and his eyes bug out.

“Well, isn’t this a fine how-do-you-do? You been keeping these kinds of secrets from me? Who’s the daddy? Oh, wait. Don’t tell me. It’s your hubby,” he says, and pats the cushion next to him. I sit down.

“Yes, we got married on the same flight Mr. Stewart was on, but I can’t believe he really did this to you. I’m so sorry,” I say, and my chest aches for him—for him taking the hit for me.

“Well, technically he didn’t do it. Some big ass bouncer type who looked like Vin Diesel was responsible. Because if it were Mr. Stewart, I would have grabbed his bald ass, locked him in a choke hold, and made mincemeat of him. But Vinny Boy is a lot bigger and meaner,” Cam says, flashing me a mega-watt smile.

“How can you smile at a time like this? Aren’t you in pain? Doesn’t it hurt?”

“Baby doll, they’ve got these things known as Vicodin, and I fucking love them. Tess gave me two with a nice big glass of cold milk, and bam. I feel no pain,” he says, and Tess perches on the edge of the couch. Cam gazes at her, doe-eyed, and then pats her hand.

My jaw nearly drops when she slides her fingers into his, and clasps his hand in hers.

“Are you guys a couple?” I point from him to her and back.

She nods. “Yes.”

Cam turns back to me, a sappy smile on his face that almost makes me laugh. He’s so loopy right now from the meds. The fact that he’s not moaning and groaning on the floor only makes me feel the slightest bit better. But not much, because I’m responsible for this mess he’s in. “How long?”

He looks at Tess again. “Few months now,” he says. “She got me on the straight and narrow.”

Tess nods proudly.

“Really?”

“Yep,” she says, beaming at Cam with admiration in her eyes.. “He pursued me, and I made it clear he needed to clean up his act, or there’d be no Tess in his life.”

“So you stopped your side business?” I say, shocked that Cam’s no longer a pimp, and no longer a loner.

He shrugs. “What can I say? Couldn’t let a gal like Tess pass me by. I always spied her reading at the desk, and it turned out we had the same taste in books. Besides, getting pummeled in the eye does make a man reassess his priorities in life.”

Tess turns to me. “And I want to thank you for giving him that Sophie Kinsella book,” she says with a flirty bump of her shoulder against him. “We read it together.”

“That’s adorable.” I smile again, and something just feels right about this. About Cam changing his stripes. Even if he never did, I’d still care for him, because his heart is in the right place. But to see him kick his old habits for a woman is even sweeter.

The only problem is, he’s paying my debt, and I can’t let him.

“So, what happened?” I ask again, returning to the issue at hand—the damage Mr. Stewart’s heavy wreaked on my former man. “I feel terrible. This is all because of me.”

“Oh, this one was for the elephants.”

“What?” I ask, furrowing my brow.

Cam sighs deeply, holds his arms out wide, and then winces, as if he just remembered it hurts to gesture like that. “Old Vinny Boy said Mr. Stewart’s elephant charity is way down in donations since the gala. He seems to think there’s a connection between him being stood up by you last summer, and the lack of funds.”

“That’s crazy.”

“I know,” he says. “But what can you do?”

“Cam,” I press. “I need to do something. Or he’s going to keep coming around and hurting you.”

But I haven’t the slightest clue what to do. How on earth can I fend off Mr. Stewart’s random acts of retribution against Cam?

“That man’s crazy. He claimed he’d leave me alone if I shored up his failing charity, but it’s not like I have 50K just lying around. Why does he think I got into the side biz in the first place? Your old man Cam had way too much debt to pay, and I just got myself out of it. Now he thinks I’m going to hand over some blood money,” Cam says, shaking his head.

Tess reaches over and pets his hair. He leans into her touch, and pretends to purr. “Mmmm. That feels good, baby,” he says, and then takes a deep breath. But as he exhales, he winces, his face contorting, his shoulders pulling in.

Shit. I’ve done this to him. I drop my head in my hands. The past is a ghost, lurking in dark corners, hiding in alleys, silent, but dangerous. Even when you think you’ve done your time and made your amends, the past chains you up again, reminding you that you’re a prisoner to all the bad things you’ve done.

Some debts are never paid.

All this time, I thought Miranda would trip me up. That someone from my memoirs would recognize themselves, track me down, and hold my stories against me. But instead, my blood debt is to the man I left alone at a charity fundraiser. A man who loves elephants more than people.

Then my brain hits the brakes, and I swear I can hear my mind backpedal. Not to the gala. But to Miranda.

I raise my head. “Miranda,” I say out loud, her name like a hiss on my tongue.

“Your mom’s editor?”

I can see the deck of cards in front of me, the hand I’ve been dealt. All I have to do is play them right. But I know how to do this. I watched my mother for years. I saw her juggle source after source, story after story. Now all I have to do is play it on the other side. “Cam, do you still have contacts at other papers? Or news outlets? Online? Besides my mom, obviously,” I quickly add.

He blows a stream of air across his lips. “What do you take me for? A one-reporter kind of source? Hell no, baby doll. Haven’t I taught you well? I know everyone.”

“I think I know a way out of this. If there’s a reporter you trust. A reporter who wants to expose the truth.”

Cam nods several times as I tell him my plan. Then he turns to Tess. “Tess, baby, will you bring me my phone?”

“Gladly,” she says.

* * *

Within thirty minutes, the ball is rolling. Cam is juggling phone call after phone call, and pretty soon it’ll be my turn to talk. I’m bubbling over inside, giddy with all the possibilities, but strung out on nerves too as I listen to him prime the pump with an online media reporter who he says moves faster than a comet. He covers the phone with one hand, and mouths, “I love this son of a bitch. He’s an eager mo-fo.”

Tess squeezes his arm, proud of her man.

Then I remember my man. My husband.

I dig around in my purse for my phone, but when I find it there are no missed calls from Trey. With the way he’s been on edge for the last week, I figured he’d have checked in by now. I walk over to the window so Cam has some airspace for his calls, and I dial Trey.

He answers on the fourth or fifth ring. But he’s silent, just breathes out a hard, heavy sigh.

“Hey, I have to tell you what’s going on,” I say.

“Oh.” That’s his only reply.

“It’s about Mr. Stewart. And I think it could be good. At least, I hope it will be,” I say, crossing my fingers.

“Okay,” he says, but his voice is dead. It’s as if he’s been turned inside out with emptiness.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah.”

“You sound terrible.”

He exhales, and it sounds like air leaking out of a mattress.

The little hairs on my arms rise. “What’s going on? You’re freaking me out. Where are you?”

“The Lion’s Den,” he says, and my blood goes cold. That’s what he calls his parents’ building, but only when he’s referring to the pull the women there exerted over him.

“Did something happen?”

Another long, deep exhale. “I think I fucked up, Harley. Big time.”

I close my eyes, and press my hand against the wall to steady my swaying heart. Oh god, please don’t tell me he cheated on me. I don’t think I could take that kind of damage. I’d never forgive him, either. “What do you mean? Did you cheat on me?”

He scoffs. “No fucking way.”

“Then get out of their building and come see me. Now. I’m at Cam’s house.”

“What?” He nearly shouts into the phone, and I have to hold it away from my ear. I give him the address, and he tells me he’ll be here soon.

I return to the epicenter of the apartment, to the virtual war room—Cam’s couch and coffee table. After he finishes his call, he points a finger at me. “It’s showtime, baby doll. Henry from the HuffPo wants to talk to you.”

“Okay,” I say, taking a deep breath before I call Henry and tell him that I’m Anonymous, the author behind the recent bestselling tell-all sex-tale, and that I was blackmailed into writing it by the editor-in-chief of the publishing house.

Chapter Thirty

Trey

I enter the building of my wife’s former pimp. Technically, this should bother me. But I am wrecked, and all I can think about are those green eyes.

Scratch that.

There are other thoughts invading my brain now, too, smashing into each other like mad bumper cars. Like the fact that Teddy is about two and a half, and the math adds up. Like the fact that she let me fuck her free-range, telling me she was on the pill. Like the fact that she said her husband never had sex with her. Like her saying Teddy is artistic, too, because that’s what Sloan and I talked about—sex and art, art and sex. She was the only one I remotely felt a thing for. She was a painter, and we had that connection, and we talked about creating.

What if we created a kid?

How fucking irresponsible can I be? Knocking up women, left and right. I deserve a million scars. I should be locked up. I need to put my dick in jail.

When I reach the second floor, Harley is holding open the door. She lets it fall shut behind her, so we’re standing in the hallway outside Cam’s home.

This is more surreal than a Dali. But then, that’s my life these days. This month. This year.

She reaches for me, brushes a hand through my hair. Her touch is so soft, so sweet, and I don’t deserve it.

“What’s going on?” she asks, and I can hear the potholes in her voice. They match mine.

I lean against the wall, bang the back of my head against it twice, three times. “I ran into this chick I used to . . .” I let my voice trail off. She knows what I mean, and she grimaces. “I saw her in the lobby with her—” I stop talking, and it’s as if I’m being cut by words. They are slicing my throat, turning me mute.

Then she gasps. “Oh my god. The kid with the green eyes.”

My jaw drops. “You saw him?”

“Before we went to San Diego. When we were having dinner with your parents and I lost my earring in the lobby. Oh my god. He has eyes just like you,” she says, and her face turns pale.

I hold my hands out wide. “I know,” I say, the desperation coating my voice. “And Sloan, she made these comments that made it seem like he was my kid. What the fuck am I supposed to do? I’ve finally started feeling like I’m ready to be a father to our baby, and then this. What the hell? What if I have a kid already that I didn’t know about? And shouldn’t I be here, trying to help raise him or something?”

“Slow down, Trey. Just slow down. Did you talk to her? Did you ask her?”

“No,” I say as if that’s a crazy idea. “I just ran into her. How was I supposed to ask her?”

“I don’t know, but even if he has your eyes and looks like you, you still need to just ask her.”

“And then what?”

“And then, deal with it then,” she says, parking her hands on her hips. She no longer looks white as a sheet. She no longer seems scared. She is so strong, and I want to siphon off just one-tenth of her courage.

“But what if I’m going to be a terrible father?”

She shoots me a sharp-eyed stare. “You’re not. You’re going to be a great father. But Trey, you don’t even know if this kid is yours, and we’re standing around conjecturing, and it’s kind of ridiculous. You need to man up, and go talk to Sloan.”

I cringe when she says her name. Because I hate that Harley even knows the name of someone I used to sleep with—as if all my shame has been dug up with a shovel and tossed in front of me. “Fine. I’ll go there tomorrow.”

She juts her chin out at me. “Tomorrow? She just went into her apartment tonight. It’s eight-thirty, and she has a two-year-old. She’s home now. You go take care of this now,” she says pointing wildly to the street, making it clear I need to get my shit straightened out.

“But what if . . .”

“What if what?” She stares hard at me. “I don’t want to play ‘what if’ games. I want you to find out, and then we’ll deal with it.”

I let out a breath I barely realized I was holding. “We’ll deal with. Together, right?”

She smiles once, and shakes her head. “I’m married to you now. Yes, together. Didn’t you once tell me there’s nothing on this planet we cannot get through?”

“Yeah, when you were worried about your memoirs after I redid your ink.”

“Well, I’m taking care of my memoirs now.”

“You are?”

“I have a plan,” she says, and then holds up her index and middle fingers, crossing them as she tells me her idea, and it’s daring.

“That’s ballsy.”

“I hope it works,” she says, a touch of nerves invading her bravado.

“It will,” I say, giving her the confidence I wish I felt in myself.

“You go take care of your stuff, and you call me later.”

* * *

This time I don’t stand frozen by the elevator. I walk purposefully down the hall to her door. I shut off my brain. I tie up my heart. And I stuff any fear down the garbage chute.

I raise my fist to knock.

Ten seconds later, I can hear someone sliding the chain, unbolting the door, and opening it.

Sloan answers, with her brown hair piled high on her head in a twist, a slouchy sweater revealing a bare shoulder, and a glass of red wine in her hand.

Music plays softly from inside her plush apartment, and I think it’s Sade’s Never As Good as The First Time. Talk about the lion’s den. More like an alligator pit.

“Trey, how are you? Do you want to come in?”

“Yes, please,” I say.

She opens the door all the way, and I cross the threshold into her home. It’s entirely different from when I used to visit her after school. Back then, her place was stark and sleek, with chrome bar stools lining the kitchen counter, and gray couches with sharp edges. Now, the masculine hardness is gone, and it’s all soft femininity—vases of fresh flowers line the table, the couch is a lush cranberry color, candles are lit, and artwork hangs on the walls.

“Teddy’s asleep. Can I offer you a glass of wine?”

“No, thank you,” I say, and it’s the first time she’s ever offered me alcohol. It’s the first time I’ve seen her since I’ve been old enough to drink. She sits on her soft couch, and folds up her long legs under her.

I follow her into the living room, but don’t join her on the couch. I shift back and forth on my feet, glancing around. “So, um, do you live alone now?”

“Just Teddy and me,” she says. “And it’s wonderful.”

“Cool,” I say, and my palms are sweaty so I rub them against my jeans.

“Why don’t you sit?” She gestures to the open space on the couch next to her. I sink down on the end by the armrest, as far away from her as I can be.

“So, how are you?” I ask, wishing there were a simple way to ask the question I’m here for.

“I’m great. I have a show at the Hager Gallery in a month for some of my paintings, so I’ve been busy prepping for that. As well as getting settled back into the apartment,” she says, gesturing broadly around her home.

I swallow. My throat is so damn dry, I almost wish I took her up on her offer for wine. “You said you just moved back in the building,” I say, repeating what she told me in the elevator simply to get the conversation started.

She nods, and then runs her long, manicured fingernails through her hair, the strands falling through her fingers. “Yes, I divorced my husband shortly after you and I were involved,” she says. Talk about cutting through the bullshit. But then, Sloan was always direct. Like the day three years ago when she told me bluntly that she wanted me, and within an hour we were tangled up in her sheets. “But I moved out for a while there, when we were in court. We recently settled and I got the apartment, so I moved back in.”

“That’s great.”

“Well, as they always say, at least I got the house. And it’s fantastic to be in this location, since Teddy has so many friends around here, and we spend all our time in this area of town.”

“You didn’t have a kid when I knew you. You enjoying being a mom?” I ask, hoping, praying that I can get to the heart of the matter soon, but at least we’re circling the topic.

“I love it,” she says, as if each word tastes delicious. “We do Mommy and Me art classes, and we go to the playground, and I take him to museums.”

“You said his father was artistic.”

“Oh yes. Very much so.”

Her ex-husband was a hedge fund manager, and that knowledge makes my heart speed. “And does he see Teddy much?”

She laughs. “Oh, god no. Not at all.”

Shit. Now it’s about to spring out of my chest. “Mr. McKay is never around?” I ask, as if I can elicit a different answer if I ask a different way.

She shoots me a curious look, as if my question has thrown her. “But that’s how it was when we were together, Trey. Don’t you remember?”

She rests her arm on the back of the couch, inching nearer to me. Holy shit. She’s the same fucking Sloan. Such a seductress.

“My husband never wanted to be with me,” she continues. “He was all about money. He wanted more of it in life. More money. But I wanted art, and I wanted passion. You gave that to me. I needed it so badly,” she says, and there’s desperation in her voice, but sexiness, too. Desperately sexy—that’s Sloan. “We had some good times, didn’t we?”

I part my lips, but don’t speak.

“Great times, actually,” she says, and then closes her eyes, and sighs deeply, like she’s taking a trip down naughty memory lane in her head. She opens her eyes, and leans forward. “You were the best sex of my life, Trey. And you were only eighteen. But my god, you made me feel extraordinary. You made me feel beautiful and passionate and alive,” she says, and she runs her hands down her sides, like her whole body is lighting up with the memories of our sex, and I’m going to need to leave so fucking soon. Not because I want her, because I don’t. But because I shouldn’t even be hearing this. “You pretty much ruined me for other men. Don’t you know that?”

I sink back into the cushions, trying to angle away from her, for distance, for sanity. Then I say fuck it. I need to rip off this goddamn Band-Aid. “Shit, Sloan, I gotta ask. Is he mine? Is Teddy mine? I mean, his eyes, and the timing, and everything.”

The whole apartment turns hazy, as if the walls and the floor have entered a slow-motion zone, and the seconds after my question have made landfall stretch on for hours, like an endless road at night. Sloan’s face is inscrutable. Then she opens her mouth, her bright white teeth gleaming. She throws her head back and laughs. “No. No. Is that what you thought? Is that why you’re here?”

“Uh, yeah,” I say, and relief washes over me. I swear I can feel it spreading in my body, like warmth from a fireplace.

“Teddy’s father is a sperm donor,” she says in a clear and determined voice. “And the reason he looks like you is you were my template.”

My jaw drops. “What?”

That’s the strangest thing I have ever heard.

She nods. “Like I said, you made me feel things. You made me feel beautiful and passionate. And those were the things I’d been missing in my life with my husband, so after we divorced and I wanted a child, I went to a sperm bank. And I found someone who was artistic, who was tall, who had gorgeous green eyes.”

I scrub a hand across my jaw, let out a long stream of air. I shake my head once more, as if the strangeness will go away.

Go away.

Like me.

I stand up, and it’s easy, so easy, to extend a hand to shake. To thank her for her time. To say goodbye. To let the past be in the past.

“I hope you and Teddy have a great life,” I say, and I leave.

Harley trusts me. I need to start trusting myself more.

Because I can do this. I can be a husband, I can be a father, I can be the man Harley needs me to be. I’m not that guy anymore, who used to screw cougars for kicks. I’m Harley’s, and I need to be with her.

I go home and spend the night with my wife.

Chapter Thirty-One

Trey

She’s bouncing on the bed. “Look, look!!!”

I blink, rub my eyes, and then take the phone she’s thrust into my hand. The screen is open to a Web page with a news story. “Show of hands. Did you buy the salacious call girl book in the last two weeks? C’mon. You know you did. Thousands upon thousands of readers snagged a copy; that’s how the book shot to the top of the bestseller lists. Turns out the girl pulling the tricks—” I stop reading to look at Harley. “That’s kind of tacky.”

She waves a hand frantically. “Who cares? It’s a media blog. It’s not the Washington Post. Just read.”

“Turns out the girl pulling the tricks didn’t get paid for the tales. Word on the street is she was blackmailed by the book’s editor. When reached for comment, the publisher said he’s looking into the allegations.”

Then the story ends. “That’s it? That’s the big plan to take down Mr. Stewart? I don’t get it.”

“Hit refresh. The updated version should be live any second. I just got off the phone with the head of the publishing house.”

I click refresh and wait several seconds for the page to reload. I scroll to the end of the story, and, as promised, there’s now more. “After checking the editor’s email records, phone log, and royalty schedule for Anonymous, the publisher has confirmed that Anonymous was the target of a blackmail scheme by the editor. The writer of the tell-all has expressed her wish to remain anonymous and has requested that any royalties due from the first two weeks of the book’s sale go to the charity Save the Orphaned Elephants, and that further proceeds from the book be donated to the New York City Halfway House for Girls. So, get your kicks on and feel good about yourself. You can read the tawdry tales and know the money is going to a good cause.”

Harley

He grins wildly. “You are fucking brilliant. You know that?”

I raise my arms high in the victory sign. “I am a genius!”

I grab the phone from Trey to dial Cam. “What’s the story?”

“The elephant man is pleased,” he says, and I punch my fist in the air.

“We’re all good then?”

“It seems this debt has been paid,” Cam says. “You can get on that plane to California and not worry one bit about little old me, or little old him. But you better send me pictures of that baby. You hear me, now?”

Before I can answer, Tess shouts in the background. “We want gobs of baby pictures!”

I laugh. “I promise.”

Later in the day, I check my newsfeed again to find one more update to the breaking story about the call girl book. This update gives me the pleasure that only comeuppance can deliver. “Miranda Cuthbert has tendered her resignation, and repaid the funds she kept from the first two weeks of sales. Word on the street is her saga won’t end there. Sources say the state is looking into whether an extortion case can be made against Ms. Cuthbert.”

“Karma’s a bitch,” I say, after I read the latest update out loud to Kristen and Trey.

“Yes, it is,” she says. “And I am so going to base my next screenplay on you.”

“And you’re going to move to California and shoot it there, so I can see you more.”

“You better believe it. I’m next in line on that California Gold Rush you’re starting,” she says, as we spend the evening together in the living room. Jordan is here, too, and we order pizza, and the three of them drink beers, and I enjoy a Diet Coke. Well, that’s not entirely true. The baby and I enjoy a Diet Coke, because caffeine seems to make the little one wiggle in my belly, too.

After we finish the pizza, it’s time to say goodbye to my best friend.

“I’m going to seriously miss you,” I tell her.

“I’m going to majorly miss you. Especially since you’re taking the good bathroom towels with you.”

Trey clears his throat. “Actually, if you and Jordan want new towels, I might be able to chip in.”

Reaching into his wallet, he takes out a white and blue plastic card from Bed, Bath & Beyond, and slaps it down on the table. “Consider this a housewarming gift,” he says to Jordan and Kristen.

“Thanks, man. My greatest dreams have come true. I was always hoping you’d get me something from a home store,” Jordan says.

Trey rolls his eyes. “Whatever. I got it for her.” He points to me. “But never gave it to her.”

Jordan puts his hand on his heart. “Oh, it gets better. You’re re-gifting.”

“Shut up!”

Kristen reaches for the card. “Don’t mock this. Towels aren’t cheap, and I’m going shopping tomorrow and you’re coming with me.”

I tap Trey’s shoulder. “Not that I’m upset, but why would you get it for me and never give it to me?”

“It wasn’t right for you,” he says in a low voice. “Besides, I’m working on something else for you. I promise.”

He drapes his arm around my shoulder, and pulls me in close, and I feel safe and warm. I turn my gaze to the window, and wintry Manhattan night beyond the glass. Snow is starting to fall; this will be one of my last snows in a long time. We leave in thirty-six hours, and I’ll miss so much about New York, but so little, too. I said goodbye to Joanne earlier today and she made me promise I’d go to SLAA meetings in San Diego. I told her I’d already looked up times and locations.

“I’m proud of you, and I’m also pissed, because I knitted baby booties that you won’t need,” she said.

“I definitely won’t need booties. But I’m glad you’re proud of me,” I said, swiping away a tear. “I won’t forget that you’re the one who showed me the ugly beautiful.”

“And now you can take it with you, wherever you go.”

I feel that way about my friends too, like Kristen, and Cam. Because even though they won’t be coming to California, there are pieces of them that will always stay with me.

The most important parts of my life are coming with me, though. I snuggle in closer to Trey, and he wraps me tighter in his embrace.

Somewhere out there, our new life is about to begin.

* * *

It is our last night in New York before our nine a.m. flight tomorrow. Trey got a hotel room just for fun, he said. And because we’ve never spent the night in a hotel, so why not?

Why not, indeed?

Before I meet him at The Time Hotel in the heart of midtown and we pretend we’re fancy cool people who stay at kick-ass hotels all the time, there is something I must do.

I wrap my purple scarf from Joanne around my neck, pull up the collar on my warm coat, and brace myself as I walk from the subway stop through the late afternoon crowds along Central Park West. The cold bites my cheeks, and my boots crunch against the remnants of last night’s snow. Not much is left, and what remains has become yellow and dirty. I turn onto a most familiar block.

I’ve spent nearly my whole life in this city with one person. And I may never see that person again. I’m fine with that, but there is someone else who may not be, and it’s not fair for me to make the choice for my baby. I’m not going to do to my kid what my mom did to me.

I knock on my mother’s door. When she answers, she seems surprised to see me. Then she straightens her spine, smoothes her hair, and flashes a smile. She’s not Barb Coleman for nothing. She knows how to pretend everything is fine and dandy, but the dark circles under her eyes—mostly artfully concealed by makeup, but not entirely—give her away. She’s still not sleeping well.

“Harley, I’ve been following the news. Quite an eventful few days in the publishing world. Would you like to come in?”

I shake my head. Even though I’m shivering and the warm air from inside my one-time home rushes to greet me, it won’t lure me in.

I used to think I was like her. I used to feel as if we were sisters. Now I know we are not the same. And I won’t ever be like her.

I am breaking the cycle.

“I came here to let you know I’m moving to San Diego with my husband. I’m finishing school there, and I’m living with Nan and Pop. We’re going to raise our baby there. I want you to have my address and my contact information. I won’t do to my kid what you did to me. I won’t cut you out of his or her life,” I say, then I reach into my pocket for a sheet of paper, and I hand it to her. “That’s my info on it. I’ll send you a picture when the baby’s born. And I also included the name and number of a really good shrink in the city—Michele Milo. She specializes in intimacy issues. You might want to think about getting some help for yours.”

She says nothing, but she takes the piece of paper, folds it up, and stuffs it into her pocket.

“Travel safely, my dear.”

And those are the last words she says to me. I wish she’d said, “Thank you, I’ll go start therapy.” I wish she’d said “Sorry.” I wish she’d said, “I’m proud of how you’ve changed.”

Yet travel safely is all I get, and I suppose in the scheme of things, it’s all I truly need.

Sometimes, we want so much more, but I walk away content that I have all I need.

* * *

As I head toward the crosswalk, I spot a dark-haired girl who grew up on the same block. She’s a few years younger than me, but has always seemed worldly in her own way, as if she knew too much, saw too much for her age. Like me. She’s walking in my direction, fiddling with a sparkly charm necklace hanging at her throat, visible even with her coat on.

“Hey Harley.”

I wave. “Hey Kennedy. How’s it going?”

Her lips part, as if she’s not sure what to say. “It’s going,” she says with a sigh.

“I know what you mean. When do you graduate?”

“Not soon enough.”

I laugh. “I guess you’re ready to get out of the house and away from your mom?”

“Like you wouldn’t even believe.”

She’s a kindred spirit. I don’t know all the details, but she’s got one of those big, bold, brash moms, and I’ve always had a hunch Kennedy craved freedom from her. I’m glad I found mine. I hope Kennedy finds her escape too.

“You’ll get there,” I say, because I want to encourage her, even for one brief instant, as Joanne has done for me so many times. “Even when it seems hard, you’ll get there. And you won’t regret it.”

Her shoulders relax, and her lips curve up. “You have no idea how much I needed to hear that right now.”

I smile, glad that I was able to give her what she needed at a random moment in time.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Harley

“Do you realize I can get a complimentary overnight hand-polished shoeshine? I honestly can’t think of anything I’d rather have right now.”

“Do it. Get your flip flops shined,” I tell Trey, as he flips through the list of amenities this chichi hotel offers its very posh guests.

“But there’s also the nightly turn-down service,” he says, tapping the picture of a freshly made hotel bed, with the white sheet pulled over a dark blue comforter, exactly like the one we’re lying on.

He pretends to stare thoughtfully at the ceiling, as if he’s considering which services to partake of. “Or room service,” I suggest even though we already had dinner at Serafina, an Italian restaurant that’s part of the hotel.

“We just ate. Don’t tell me the two of you are hungry again.”

“That was two hours ago,” I point out. “I might have room for dessert.”

He tosses aside the list of amenities, and it hits the carpet with a dull thud. Then he tugs me close to him. “I’ve got dessert for you,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows playfully.

“I bet you do. You always do.”

“And I always will. But I actually have that gift I’m working on for you.” He hops up from the bed and heads over to the chair where he left his backpack, then returns with his sketchbook. Clutching it tight to his chest, he says, “It’s not done yet. But I’m working on something for you. And the baby.”

A ribbon of excitement unfurls in me, as I eagerly watch him open the sketchbook. “Here it is,” he says, showing me two pages.

He’s sketched out a gorgeous beach, with bright blue waves rolling onto the golden sand that’s spread for miles. In the middle of the image a girl—she’s maybe six, or seven—runs across the sand, looking over her shoulder. She holds her hands up to the sky, as if she’s catching snowflakes. But she’s reaching for sparkles raining down. It’s reality meets magic; it’s the world we live in with a touch of the fantastic. But, more than that, it’s the illustration of the first card my grandparents sent me, the story I told them that they echoed back to me for my birthday years ago.

And the city girl returned to the sand, and the sea, where the sun warmed her shoulders and the sky rained silver and gold sparkles . . .

I trace my finger over the drawing, as if I can ignite magic in it, as if my touch can bring it to life. But it’s already alive; it’s already breathing, in its own way. I turn to Trey, and he has a hopeful look in his eyes.

“I love it so much,” I tell him. “This is the coolest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“You really like it?”

“No,” I say, correcting him firmly. “I love it.”

“I’ll do the whole set of them. I can illustrate them all if you want.”

I shake my head in amazement at what he’s done. “How is it that I found you? Do you ever realize how lucky we are?”

“To have each other?” he scoffs. “I realize it every second of every day.”

“Do you think it’s luck?” I trail my fingers down his arm, tracing the outline of the ink on his bicep.

“I think it’s fate,” he says softly.

“You do? You believe in fate?”

Scooting closer to me, he rests his hand on my hipbone, his thumb stroking a lazy rhythm there. “I do, in the sense that I believe some things are inevitable. The sun rises, the moon travels round the earth, you were meant for me, and I was meant for you,” he says.

“So you and me, we’re on the same cosmic level as the sun and moon and stars?” I raise an eyebrow.

But he is resolute. “Yes. Because here’s my reasoning. Think about the alternative. About us not being together.”

I shudder with the absolute wrongness of that image.

“See? You and me not being together is like a snowstorm in Hawaii. It’s like a glacier on the sun. It doesn’t happen. It can’t happen. Because there’s no way we aren’t meant for each other, Harley. There’s no way it can be anything but this,” he says, pointing from him to me and me to him, and his certainty is like dark chocolate melting on my tongue. It tastes amazing, and I want more of it, of him.

“Kiss me, then. Kiss me like it’s fate.”

“Gladly,” he says, curling his fingers around my neck, and bringing his lips to mine.

I moan the second he makes contact. His lips are so soft, and he kisses me so tenderly, but with so much pent-up fire that I’m soon grasping for him, tugging him close, wrapping a leg over his thigh, sliding a hand up his shirt, spreading my fingers across the hard planes of his belly.

We kiss like that for some time, all sighs and moans, and bodies pressed together, hands exploring, hearts beating wildly, until the heat between the two of us is too much. It’s like we’re in a cocoon of love and lust and want, our own little private world of desire.

We break apart, and I’m panting, and his eyes are glazed, and I know in seconds he can be inside of me thrusting, bringing me to the precipice.

My hands have a mind of their own, and I’m dying to touch him, so I unzip his jeans, and he helps me slide them off. Then I reach for the waistband of his T-shirt, lifting it over his head.

My breath catches at the sight of his naked chest. I’ve seen him naked so many times, and every time he’s beautiful. My fingertips wander over to the ink on his chest, tracing it, imprinting him yet again on me.

When he reaches for my sweater, I wag a finger, because I want something else. “Do you remember the time on the beach?”

He nods. “Of course.”

I slip my hands into his briefs and tug them off, whispering, “I want to watch you.”

“Watch me?”

The grin spreads across my face. “I want to see how you touch yourself. I want to know what it was like all those times you were thinking of me.”

He groans, pushing a hand roughly through his hair. “God, everything you say is so fucking sexy.”

“Is that a yes?”

He loops his arms around my neck. “Do you have any idea how badly I want to be inside you right now?” Before I can answer, he guides my hand to his cock, and wraps me around him. He’s so hard and hot, and he twitches against my palm as I stroke him. He closes his eyes and a ragged breath escapes him, as he lies back on the bed, his head hitting the pillow. “So fucking much.”

“So that’s a no, then?” I grip him harder, watching him squeeze his eyes shut as he rocks into me.

He shakes his head, then grasps my hand and stills me. When he opens his eyes, they are wild with lust. “I want what you want. But I would really like you to be naked while I do this,” he says.

I grin, and then clap twice. He rolls his eyes. “You just clapped because you’re going to watch me jerk off?”

“I did just clap because I’m going to watch you jerk off, and I can’t wait,” I say, as I stand and quickly strip. He arranges the pillows against the headboard, making a cushion for me.

“Lie down,” he tells me, and I do, resting my back against the pillows.

Then he kneels on the bed, reaches between his legs, and grasps his cock, his eyes on me the whole time. A rush of heat spreads through my body, sending the temperature in me soaring. The fire settles between my legs where I ache for him.

I watch as he strokes himself, mesmerized by how he handles himself more roughly than I do, tugging, gripping.

“This is how I was for six long months before I had you,” he rasps out. “Thinking of you like this. Naked in front of me.”

I lick my lips, my chest rising and falling. It’s such a private act I’m witnessing—him touching himself.

This isn’t the first time I’ve watched a man masturbate. One of my clients wanted me to praise his size as he jacked off. That did nothing for me, except feed my need for control.

But now, as I watch my husband breathing harder, gripping his steel length in his palm, up and down, fast, and now faster, control isn’t part of the equation anymore. My one-time pillars of manipulation and power have been checked out at the door.

His hand is a fist as he holds himself tighter. I’m honestly not sure who’s more turned on because I’m growing damper by the second as he tells me how he pictured me. “I’d do this and wish I was licking your breasts,” he says in between hard pants. “Making your nipples hard in my mouth.” I draw a quick breath as he narrates his solo flight. “Then your stomach. Down to your belly button, and then you’d spread your legs wide for me.”

Reflexively, I part my legs, my knees falling open. His eyes widen, and he stares between my legs. The heat of his gaze makes me hotter, wetter.

“Licking your pussy,” he says and I gasp when he says that word for the first time. But it doesn’t bother me, the crudeness, because this is him. This is how he talks. This is how he thinks of me. “Tasting how fucking wet you are.” His hand is moving faster, from the base to the head, over and over, his eyes locked on me. I can’t look away, nor do I want to, because I am privy to this intensely erotic act, to my husband pleasuring himself as he watches me, and all I’m doing is being. I’m lying naked in front of him, and that’s it; that’s enough for him.

But it’s not enough for me, because I’m ready to claw my way out of this desire inside me, this molten heat that ripples through my body as his grip on his cock tightens. And because I can’t help it, because I am comprised of nothing but lust and heat and wetness, I start to lift my hips, my body taking over, then I lower my hand between my legs, and I slide my fingers across myself.

“Oh, fuck,” he says as I open wider, rubbing myself where I am swollen and needy for touch. “You touching yourself is the fucking hottest thing I have ever seen.”

Then he shudders and comes in his hand. I bite my lip as I watch him finish, but I don’t stop moving, I don’t stop touching because I am so turned on, I think I may actually slide into another realm of pleasure, where touch and sensation and feelings is all there is. He heads to the bathroom, and I hear the water running, then him washing his hands. In seconds, he is back on the bed, crawling up to me. He presses his hands on the inside of my thighs and spreads me further, then buries his face between my legs, and I scream.

It feels so fucking good.

My head falls back, my shoulders sink, and my grip on reality loosens and falls to dust. He devours me with his mouth, those soft lips kissing me hard and greedily, his tongue lapping me up. He breaks apart for one brief second. “Come on me,” he says hungrily. “Come on my face, now.”

He returns to me, and licks and kisses until my hips shoot off the bed, and I am writhing and shouting his name, screaming out with pleasure that is consuming my whole fucking world. I shatter in a million beautiful pieces and ride this orgasm to the far end of the earth and back.

Then he’s hovering over me, his arms pinning me, his hard length between my legs. “I need to be inside you,” he says, his voice bordering on a growl. His green eyes are so dark, so intense. I’ve never seen him look like this before, like he’s going to take me.

“I want you inside me,” I say, and I’m still floating on my orgasm, as he enters me in one swift move, filling me completely.

“You are so hot and wet.”

“You got me this way,” I say, as I reach for his shoulders and pull him closer. I wrap my legs around his ass, opening myself up further to him, to take him in as far as he can go. He bends his head to my neck, burning a trail of kisses on my skin, making his way to my ear. “You’ve never been wetter. I could taste you all over me. I felt like I was fucking drinking you,” he whispers harshly, and his words send a fresh rush of heat through me. “I can feel it again. I can feel how hot you are around me. Like just now.”

“You can?”

He nods against my neck, pumping into me. “I love it so much. I love how turned on you get. You touching yourself was so fucking sexy.”

Grabbing his firm ass, I pull him deeper into me, his hard length rubbing against me where I want him the most. “Because I was watching you. That’s why I got so turned on,” I say.

“I told you, that’s why we’re perfect for each other. Because of this. Because of how we are together. Because of everything.”

I grapple at his back, his hips, clutching him, wanting to be closer than we’ve ever been before as he drives into me, so far, so deep, that neither one of us can speak anymore. Words don’t matter. All we can do is feel. I feel him so completely, so wholly that I’m not even sure when my climax begins because it feels like it’s been happening the entire time, as if I’ve been coming since he started touching himself, and now I’m coming again with him again, as we ride the intensity of our togetherness.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Four Months Later

Harley

It’s not a stretch when I say the last four months in San Diego have been happiest of my life. The busiest, too.

I’ve finished my junior year of college, I’ve learned to drive, and I’ve expanded to house-size. I’ve gone shopping with Debbie’s daughter, who lives nearby, and has two kids a few years younger than me. I’ve also spent a winter in shorts and sandals, I’ve served sandwiches when I’ve filled in at Once Upon a Sandwich, and I’ve gone to the movies every Saturday night with Trey, Debbie and Robert. It’s become our tradition and I love it.

We still don’t have a name for the baby, but every night Trey and I toss out new options, and I kibosh his ideas and he nixes mine. I’m pretty sure we’re at the point where we’re blackballing the other’s ideas for fun. But soon, we’ll have to settle on names.

Meanwhile, my husband has landed a job at one of the best-known tattoo shops on Ocean Beach. He entered some of his designs in a contest, and he won his first award as an artist for a cherry blossom tree he inked on a woman’s upper back. He also learned to drive, too, and gave Robert an ulcer in the process, because it turns out Trey has quite a lead foot.

Trey’s better now behind the wheel, and I’ve told him that driving like an old man is much more appreciated by his wife and child. So, as we park at the doctor’s office for my thirty-six-week appointment, gently gliding the Honda into a spot, I pat him on the arm, thanking him for his “feathery touch.”

In the exam room, the nurse weighs me and takes my blood pressure, telling me everything looks good. The doctor listens for the heartbeat, and checks my cervix, then examines my hands, face and ankles for swelling.

“It can be a sign of preeclampsia,” she says in an offhand way.

“Oh. Do I have that?”

“I don’t see any evidence that you do,” she adds. “If you notice any unusual swelling, weight gain, or headaches, let us know and we’ll check you again.”

“Unusual weight gain beyond having to roll me down the hall because I’m so ginormous?”

She smiles briefly at my comment. “Your weight is perfect, Harley.”

Then she reviews the signs for Braxton-Hicks versus real contractions, and I make a mental note to look them up again later because how on earth will I tell the difference?

“Do you have any questions?”

I raise my hand, even though I’m the only one in the exam room. “Can I still have sex? It’s not going to break my water or anything, is it?”

She shakes her head. “You have a perfectly normal pregnancy, and sex won’t hurt you or the baby. So, by all means, enjoy yourself. It’s a great way to take your mind off the final weeks.” She lowers her voice to a stage whisper. “I went right up till the end for both my pregnancies. Just find a position that works for you.”

When I’m done, Trey’s waiting patiently in the lobby with other expectant parents, the fathers forming a motley crew of men—some middle-aged with bald patches, some sharp in their suits and ties, one in a blue button-down with a name patch from Bob’s Mechanics, and then my guy, with thick hair I love to run my fingers through, strong arms covered in ink, and that gorgeous face, sculpted cheekbones, and the scar that’s still as sexy to me as it was the night I met him.

My young, handsome, thoroughly in love twenty-two-year-old husband of mine. We are kids having a kid, and maybe some of these other parents think we’re a joke, but I know we have an unbreakable bond. We have a brave and crazy, a messy and honest kind of love. Eight months ago, I was terrified of how he’d react to the news, and I was petrified of having a kid. Now, I’m almost there, just a few more weeks until I’m a mother. A mother. It’s so huge, and so scary, and so amazing. I know so very little, but I know, too, that we have all the essential ingredients, and more—because we have Debbie and Robert by our side.

Somehow, this has become our life, born from the darkest of circumstances, bred from the painful pull of addiction, and even so I wouldn’t change a thing.

Trey closes the paperback he’s reading, stands up, and takes my hand. We head to the parking lot, and it’s still odd to get in a car, rather than to race down the steps to the subway. I buckle, grunting playfully as I stretch the seatbelt over my basketball, and then I turn on the satellite radio, tuning in to a Katy Perry song.

Trey rolls his eyes as he backs up.

“What? Not cool enough for you? Do I need to play the college alternative station?”

“You can play whatever you want,” he says. Then he pauses. “For the next four weeks.”

“Ha. So you’re only going to be nice to me till I pop?”

“Yup.”

He navigates out of the lot, and then backs onto the main drag, toward Ocean Beach. The sidewalks are crammed with tourists and locals, enjoying the late afternoon sun, high in the sky. Women in sundresses and men in cargo shorts wander in and out of the boutiques, bakeries and cafes.

I roll down the window, letting in the warm air. The station shifts to James Blunt’s Bonfire Heart, and I nearly shout. “I love this song!”

I turn up the music, and he slows the car as we reach a red light.

I start singing along, then look at Trey, rolling my hands, encouraging him to join in. “Days like this . . .”

“I don’t know the words,” he says.

I lean in closer. “Well, I know them all, because this song reminds me of you and me. Because—” I take a beat, and wait for James Blunt to sing my favorite line, then I join in, “You light the spark in my—”

Then I’m jerked forward, and there’s a loud crunch of metal against metal. Instinct kicks in, and I raise my hands to brace myself against the dashboard, but the seatbelt snaps me back in place, slamming the back of my head against the headrest, and sending a sharp, searing pain through my skull.

The car stops running instantly. My pulse is quickening and fear gallops across my skin, centers in my chest. My head pounds, and my heart races.

“Are you okay?” Trey’s face is pale, all the color drained out.

My hands go to my belly, and I nod. But I’m so shaken, and it feels like a firecracker is exploding behind my eyes.

“Are you okay?” he repeats, his voice etched with all the worry I feel. “Say something. Talk to me.”

“I think so. But my head hurts so much,” I moan, dropping my forehead into my shaky hands.

I’m vaguely aware that there’s a knocking on his window. Trey rolls down the window, and I hear a girl’s voice. “I’m so sorry for hitting you. I feel terrible. Is everyone all right?”

She’s so young, maybe a teenager, but I can’t even focus anymore, and the conversation lasts all of ten seconds, as Trey says, “Just give me your number. I’ll call you later.”

He starts the car, the engine rumbles to life, and he calls my doctor immediately.

“Yes, I’ll take her there now,” he says into the phone. Then he tells me, “They want you to go the hospital. To get checked out. Just as a precaution.”

His voice is calm and strong. He’s unwavering as he lays a hand on my thigh, and I simply nod, and close my eyes.

Within minutes, we’re at the ER, and my head is still bursting with pain, but I’m not bleeding, my water hasn’t broken, my husband isn’t freaking out, and my baby is kicking me. Everything will be fine.

He holds my hand the whole time as we wait to be seen, talking to me, reassuring me. Soon, a nurse with a clipboard calls my name, and brings me back to a hospital room in the ER. Machines bleat out sounds, and nurses and doctors shuffle quickly in and out of rooms.

“Is the baby okay?” Trey asks, as the nurse yanks the curtain around the bed.

“Well, let’s just see,” the nurse says, and hooks me up to the heart monitor, where we’re rewarded with the most beautiful sound in the world: a loud, thumping heart. Soon, the obstetrician on call comes by, and after a quick exam, pronounces mom and baby perfectly fine.

“But let’s give her some Tylenol for that nasty headache,” the young doctor, so pretty she could be on a TV show, says to the nurse. Then to me, “And why don’t you go home and get some rest, sweetheart?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Trey says, answering on my behalf .

An hour later, I’m feeling much better. I’m tucked in bed, and Debbie brings me a grilled cheese and chicken sandwich. I take a bite, and it’s delicious.

“How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine. Seriously. The Tylenol worked, my head is better, and I don’t have any bruises or scratches or anything,” I say, holding up my arms for a display of all my scratch-less-ness.

“Good. That’s what I like to see. Now, eat your sandwich, and lie down.”

I roll my eyes. “You’re all seriously overreacting. The doctor said everything was fine.”

She rolls her eyes back at me. “I am not overreacting, nor is your husband. It is our job to treat you like a queen, and that’s what we’re going to do.”

“It was a tiny little fender bender. The doctors only checked me out because it’s standard, or something, for any pregnant patient to go to the ER after a car accident,” I say, repeating what the obstetrician told me.

“Standard, schmandard. I want you to take it easy. Why don’t you plan on watching a movie with me tomorrow? Something sweet and easy. A romantic comedy. Nothing that’s going to make you cry,” she adds.

“Will you make me popcorn?” I narrow my eyes, pretending I’m holding her hostage to my food demands.

“Whatever you wish, sweetie.”

“Popcorn it is then,” I say, and then eat more of the sandwich.

I let her take care of me, handing her the plate when I’m done, staying in bed. She leaves for her house, and Trey rejoins me, curling up next to me in bed.

“So, that was a fun evening,” he says, exhaling as he wraps his arms around me.

“I’ll say. Did you call that girl who hit us?”

“I was a little more concerned about you than the car,” he says. “I’ll call her tomorrow. I’m just glad you’re fine. How’s your head?”

“Better. Tylenol is like a miracle drug,” I joke.

“I gotta say, now that you’re here and safe and everything is fine, there was a moment there when I felt my heart stop. It was like all the air in the world was sucked out, and all I could feel was this terrible fucking sense of déjà vu,” he says, shaking his head, as if he can rid himself of whatever memories are lurking there. “Even though this never happened before. But still, I felt that way.”

“Me too. If that makes sense,” I whisper.

“But we’re here now, and you’re both good, and that’s all that matters. And hey, look on the bright side—we’ve had our big scare, right?” He smoothes my hair, runs his fingers through it, and then plants a kiss on my forehead. “Sure, it was scary for a bit, but it was minor, and now here we are. And you made it out all clear. We’re on the other side, and it’s all going to be fine now.”

“Yes. Everything is going to be fine,” I say.

“And I agree with Debbie. I want you to take it easy for the next few weeks.”

“You’re already plotting behind my back,” I tease.

He nods. “Yup. We are. You’re done with classes, and we want you to lie on the beach, read, play with the dog, watch movies—”

“Basically, stay away from cars?”

He smiles. “Exactly.”

“We’ll see,” I say with a yawn. “I think I just want to curl up to the ocean breeze and fall asleep.”

“Did you think I was going to try for a little action the night you’re all banged up from a car accident?”

I laugh. “Oddly enough, it hadn’t even occurred to me that you would put the moves on me right now.”

“I won’t. But if you want to sleep naked, I won’t complain.”

“The same goes for you,” I tell him, as I head to the bathroom to wash my face and brush my teeth. He does the same, then we return to the bedroom and I strip off my clothes, and pretend to do a sexy dance for him as he lies down on the covers. “Here’s that rain dance you said you wouldn’t mind.”

He laughs, and reaches out a hand to pull me into bed. “And I don’t mind at all,” he says then kisses my neck, my earlobe, my eyelids, soft, sweet fluttery kisses that make me feel warm and safe, the perfect antidote to a stressful day. I kiss him back once, lingering on his minty breath, before I shift to my side, and he spoons me.

Flesh to flesh, skin to skin, we drift off, and my head doesn’t hurt the next morning. As I stretch in bed, I feel back to normal, and a bit horny. Thanks to a full night’s sleep filled with incredibly dirty dreams, fueled by massive amounts of hormones cranking through my body, I am ready for a little something. Judging from the erection pressed against my back, Trey won’t need much convincing.

I reach my hand back and stroke him once, twice, three times till he stirs.

“Hmmm. Good morning to me,” he murmurs and kisses my neck, a sexy, sleepy morning kiss.

“It will be soon,” I tell him.

“Lucky me,” he says, looping his arm around me and cupping my breasts, squeezing them softly, then playing with my nipples.

I moan lightly and wriggle against him. “I’m ready,” I whisper.

“But how do you feel? After yesterday?”

“Totally fine. Like new.”

“Do you really think it’s a good idea to have sex after the car accident?”

I roll my eyes. “It was a tiny fender bender, and I’m all good. I feel fabulous. Here, let me show you.” I take his hand and slide it between my legs. He groans as he feels how ready I am for him. “See? I am one hundred percent normal and fine. I am your standard order thirty-six-week pregnant woman who still wants to have sex with her husband. And the doctor said I’m allowed. So count your blessings.”

“One,” he says, as if he’s counting. Then he strokes me more, making me gasp as his fingers draw delicious lines across me. “I’ve lost count,” he whispers sexily, working me where I’m hot for him. “But that’s only because you distracted me with your trick to have sex with me.”

I laugh. “Yes, I tricked you by dreaming about you doing naughty things to me last night.”

“Naughty things. Tell me more.”

“Trey,” I begin.

“Yeah?”

“Can we do it from behind?”

His hand freezes on my breast, and he tenses. “Really?”

“Yes,” I say, and I know he’s thinking of that time in the kitchen at his apartment. And he’s worried. But I’m not. I trust him completely. I trust him with my whole entire heart. “I want to. Besides, I’m pretty sure it’s the only position that’ll work right now.”

“Are you totally sure?”

I turn to look him in the eyes. “So sure. I want this. I want you like this.”

“I want you,” he says, “any way I can have you.”

We get out of bed only for him to line me up on the edge of the bed, my hands pressed against the mattress. He brushes my hair over my shoulder so he can kiss my neck as he edges his erection between my legs. I watch him as he enters me.

“Mmm. This is the perfect wake-up call from my wife.”

“I agree,” I say softly as he fills me up, and I shut my eyes, savoring the sensations, reveling in my need for him, my deep and hungry desire to be close to him right now, to feel him all the way inside me.

He makes love to me like that, slow at first, then faster, his hands on my breasts, then between my legs. He kisses my shoulders, keeps me close, whispers my name, telling me he loves me, he wants me, he will always want to touch me. I lift my butt higher, giving him more room to rock into me, to drive deeper, and he does, bringing me closer with each thrust. All the while he’s here with me, nowhere else, and it feels fantastic. Like we’ve come full circle.

And then we do.

* * *

I spend the day doing nothing but lying on the beach with The Sheriff, and it’s blissful, watching kids build sandcastles, and dogs chase Frisbees, and women set up under umbrellas to read their paperback beach reads. Trey’s at work, my semester is over, and I want to enjoy this free time while I can.

Besides, he and Debbie made it pretty clear they want me to do as little as possible. As the sun beats down on me, I can honestly say I don’t mind their directive. I don’t mind basking in the rays.

I even fall asleep on a blanket with the dog next to me, but when I wake up under the hot afternoon sun, there’s a dull throb in my forehead again, a reminder that Tylenol will be my best friend for a few days. As I stand up to collect my blanket and beach bag, the ground tilts momentarily, and my vision goes fuzzy. But within seconds, the dark stars in front of my eyes fade and I’m fine. Must have been from the sun blaring at me, blinding me momentarily when I opened my eyes after napping.

“Let’s head inside,” I say to The Sheriff. He stretches in that downward dog style that only canines can truly master, then trots beside me through the sand as we head inside.

I drop my bag at the kitchen table, and take two Tylenol. Then I root around in the fridge for a snack. I find an orange, grab a bowl, and return to the deck. As I peel it, I’m reminded that I’m sharing space with someone else, and that someone must have been kicking my ribs while I slept, because my side is killing me. I drop the orange peels in the bowl for a minute to rub the right side of my abdomen.

“You have strong feet,” I say to my belly as I rub. “Because you made your mama really sore.”

When Debbie stops by later, we sit on the couch and chat about her day and mine, then she cues up a romantic comedy. “It’s more like an anti romantic-comedy, but it’s still funny and still romantic,” she explains as the title credits for a little indie flick I Give It a Year flash across the TV screen. And she’s right; the film is laugh-out-loud funny, a cheeky reversal of the popular genre, but after a while I can barely keep my eyes open. “I’m so tired,” I murmur, as I try to shift into a more comfortable position on my left side because the right still hurts.

“The last few weeks are like that,” Debbie says, and turns the volume down as I doze off.

The next couple of days continue in that same rhythm. I’m more tired than I’ve ever been, and my ribs are still so sore. My headache wakes me up each morning, and each time I down a few red pills. I must have whacked my head harder than I’d thought on the headrest. My naps turn epic, the heavy kind that last for hours, and when I wake up from them I feel sludgy and sleepier than when I started, a bone-heavy sort of fatigue.

When Trey returns from walking The Sheriff on Sunday morning, he finds me in front of the bathroom mirror rooting around for the Tylenol, with a hand on my forehead, the other one on my ribs, and he asks what’s going on.

“Stupid fender bender. My headache won’t go away,” I mutter. I start to return to bed, but the floor is coming at my face, and I grab onto his shoulder, gripping him hard. He’s so fuzzy, all black and hazy, like a TV on the fritz, and if I let go I might fall because everything around me is bobbing up and down. He grabs me firmly, but carefully, and guides me back to bed.

“I’m calling the doctor,” he says. “This isn’t normal for a minor car accident.”

Two hours later, I’m diagnosed with severe preeclampsia.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Trey

“But how does this happen?” I ask again, standing outside the ER room with the doctor. I’m stuck on repeat, asking for the fiftieth time how Harley has high blood pressure in her pregnancy. He’s already told me how, but I refuse to accept the answer.

“Some things just happen,” he says one more time, crisply enunciating each word.

No. No. No. That’s what doctors say to explain all the bad shit in the world. That’s their reasoning for death, and pain, and heartbreak. Things happen. When I used to say things happened to my shrink, she called me on it. She practically smacked me, and told me to take responsibility for my actions. Why can’t doctors do the same? Things happen is a euphemism for people die.

I hold my hands out wide, as if that will transform the information into something that makes sense. “How does she have preeclampsia?”

“It happens to some women,” the doctor says calmly. The OB on call with the practice, he’s a tiny guy and he has a baby face, as if he’s never shaved and never had to. He wears glasses and looks like he aced all his classes in school.

Admittedly, that’s a good look for a doctor. But still . . .

“She’s fucking twenty. How does it happen to a twenty-year-old? Her doc in New York said her being young was the best thing she had going for her.”

“And it still is,” he says.

“Then why does she have this preeclampsia thing?”

“Because one of the risk factors is being young. The risk of preeclampsia is higher for pregnant women who are younger than twenty, and for women in their first pregnancy. Both of which apply to your wife.”

“My wife isn’t younger than twenty. She is twenty,” I point out, as if this fact will suddenly clear up Harley’s health. She’ll sit up in bed, he’ll detach her from the machines, and he’ll send her home.

But that’s not what he’s saying.

“I understand,” he says calmly, nodding. “Even so, this is what we are dealing with. And technically, she has advancing preeclampsia.”

“So, what’s next?”

“She’s getting magnesium sulfate right now,” he says.

“Right. I know. And then after that?”

“My recommendation is that as soon as we stabilize her with the mag sulfate, which should be within a few hours, that we deliver the baby then. That’s the only treatment for preeclampsia.”

I shudder. “Is that safe?”

“She’s nearly thirty-seven-weeks pregnant, and that’s essentially full-term. When patients present with preeclampsia earlier in their pregnancies, this is about the gestational age we try to get them to. In her case, she’s there, so that’s very good. And at nearly thirty-seven weeks, the baby isn’t considered premature, so won’t need to be admitted to the NICU. You should be able to take the baby home with you.”

I exhale, and push my hand through my hair. “Whew,” I say, then breathe out hard again. “Thank god. I thought you were going to say . . .” But I trail off, because I don’t know what I thought he was going to say. I just assumed the worst, because that’s what I do. But this isn’t so bad, right? “Does any of this have to do with the accident, though? The car accident,” I add, and then quickly explain what happened a week ago.

“Hmm,” he says, tapping a pencil against his chin, as he considers. “I don’t think so. This is entirely separate. But it sounds as if her symptoms—headaches, dizziness, and tiredness—could easily be confused with the minor trauma from a fender bender. And the pain she said she was feeling in her abdomen was likely epigastric pain from her liver, since preeclampsia can impact that organ.” Then he points his pencil high in the air. “It’s a good thing she almost fainted, then. If she hadn’t, we might have thought it was all accident trauma. You caught it in the nick of time. I’ll be back shortly to see how she’s responding. And to get the results of some other routine tests we need to run for preeclamptic patients.”

He heads off, and I’m left scratching my head over his chipper attitude. But cheery is better than the alternative, I reason, as I return to the room where Harley’s nurse has started the mag sulfate drip, and is recording some information on the chart. Harley’s lying on the hospital bed, a flimsy blue gown tied at her back, her hair pulled into a ponytail. She turns her gaze to me, and smiles weakly, and then lifts her hand to wave. “Hi.”

I close the distance between us quickly. “Hi,” I say softly, standing by her side, taking her hand in mine. “How do you feel?”

“Well, the nurse said the side effects of mag sulfate include headaches and blurry vision . . . so about the same,” she says, her voice slow and sluggish, the sound of it digging hard into my heart. I wish I could take the pain away from her, bear it myself so she wouldn’t have to go through any of this.

“This should kick in soon, and reduce the risk of seizure,” the nurse says, flashing a business-like smile as she drops the chart in the holder at the end of the bed with a clang. But all I hear is that last word. Seizure. Sharp, like a nail in my back.

“What? Nobody said anything about seizures? Is this from the medicine?”

The nurse shakes her head. “It’s one of the possible side effects of severe preeclampsia. That’s why we’re doing the mag. To reduce the risk of seizure.”

Holy shit. “The doctor didn’t say anything about seizures,” I say, in a voice coated with nerves.

The nurse pats me on the arm. “That’s what preeclampsia can lead to. That’s why we need to deliver her, sweetie. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

She leaves and I turn to Harley, and it nearly breaks me as I see the rabbit fear in her eyes. But I push aside my worry because I have to be strong for her. She’s the one who has to go through this. She’s the one whose body is taking a pounding. All I have to do is be here for her, and that’s easy, and I have to show her how easy it is. I can’t let on that my heart is running the one-hundred meter dash. I squeeze her hand. “Did the doc tell you they want you to deliver today?”

She nods, her eyelids fluttering with sleepiness. I have no clue how she’s going to have the energy to handle labor. This high blood pressure is sapping all her strength.

“I guess we really better come up with a name soon,” I tease.

She nods. “Fred.”

“Barney.”

“Wilma.”

“Betty.”

“Bonnie.”

“Clyde.”

“Calvin,” she says.

“Hobbes.”

“Batman.”

“Robin.”

“Starsky.”

“Worst name ever.”

“Then you’re nixing Hutch too?”

“Yes.”

We toss out names for the next several minutes, none of them serious, all of them a Band-Aid to pass the time.

When the nurse returns, her first task is to recheck Harley’s blood pressure. We both stare hard at the cuff as it puffs up on her arm, and expands, with a tick, tick, tick. The nurse keeps her eyes trained on the readout on the machine. Then she tsks once, shakes her head, and turns to Harley. She clasps her hands together. “I need to get the doctor.”

She leaves quickly, her rapid clip the surest sign that whatever is happening to Harley is speeding into the danger zone. My blood races at a kamikaze pace, because when the nurse takes off to find the doctor, you know the news is going to be bad.

“Sherlock.” Harley’s voice is so soft now, so weak, as she tries to play the name game again.

I’m about to say Watson when she draws a sharp breath, and slaps her palm against her forehead. She scrunches her eyes closed and moans, like a cat trapped, and the sound turns my skin cold. “What is it?”

“My head hurts so much.”

My stomach drops. I can’t sit here and let this happen. “Fuck. We need to figure out what’s going on.”

I stand up and head to the doorway, scanning the halls quickly for the nurse or the doctor. I look past the counter where all the lab techs are gathered around charts and computers, then the other direction, where I come face to face with the doctor.

“Are you gonna tell me what’s going on?” I ask heavily.

“Her blood pressure is rising, and her platelets are low,” the doctor says.

“Which means?”

“It means her preeclampsia has advanced into HELLP syndrome.”

“I have no idea what that is.”

“It’s a variation of pregnancy hypertension. She and the baby are at risk, so we need to deliver immediately.”

“Okay. But I thought that was already the plan. To deliver,” I say, and my throat is dry, my heart is thumping. “So are you gonna induce or something?”

He shakes his head. “No. We need to deliver right away. We were hoping to give her more time on mag, but we need to move quickly. She’s going to need an emergency C-section. We’ll need to start prepping her now.”

Emergency.

The word rattles in my head, rings in my ears. The word I least want to hear. The word no one wants to hear.

With leaden feet, I follow the doctor into Harley’s room where he gives her the new diagnosis.

“Is the baby going to be okay?”

The doctor clasps his hands. “Our goal is always to protect the health of the mother and the baby, and to do that, we need to get the baby out of you as soon as possible.”

She turns her head to me, and it looks like it takes all the effort in the world for her to move. “Can he be with me during the section?”

The nurse chimes in. “You can’t have the epidural with your platelets this low, so you need to be under general, and that means no one can be in there but doctors and nurses. But we’ll bring the baby to your husband as soon as he or she is born.”

“You’ll meet our baby first,” Harley says to me, and her hoarse voice hitches. “Please give my love to our baby.”

My heart lurches toward her; I’d do anything to comfort her. “I will. I promise. And you’re going to be fine,” I tell her, leaning in to give her a sweet kiss on the forehead. “I love you.”

“I love you. I’ll see you on the other side.”

And then they wheel her away.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Trey

I wear a tread on the linoleum in the hallway. I can’t bear to be in the waiting room. I can’t sit and fidget, and check messages on my phone like half the people in there are doing.

Debbie and Robert are there too; Debbie’s spent most of the time looking at her watch. But I’m in the hallway, and yeah, I’m looking at my phone, but I’m not texting, that’s for sure.

I’m researching.

And I’ve just learned how fucking awful preeclampsia is. I learn it can show up silently.

Check.

That its symptoms often masquerade as symptoms of other conditions.

Check.

That it can go to hell quickly.

Check.

Check.

Check.

But the worst part I learn is this: that HELLP syndrome is life-threatening. Those two words blare at me like a neon sign.

Life-threatening.

It can damage the liver. Some moms and babies die from HELLP. I read words like bleed out and renal failure and hemorrhage, and I want to shout, Make it stop!

My entire body is tight, coiled with tension. I want to hope so badly that everything will be fine, but I don’t know how anymore. Because all I can feel is the possibility of the end, and it’s fraying me inside.

Maybe I’m the curse. Maybe I bring bad luck to people I love. Maybe there’s no such thing as lightning only striking once, twice, three times. There is only things happen. And so many things are happening that it’s feels like I’m dodging blocks of concrete being dropped from windows in a cruel cartoon.

Everything I learn about HELLP is a canyon of awful. I open page after page, desperate for information, for a fact, a piece of data that can somehow soothe me. But even if I find it, how could a statistic reassure me? I am a statistic of one. One family—mine. And I have no idea how the hell my wife is doing. Or why this C-section is taking so long. Or when I am going to see her and the baby. Or if the baby is even okay. If my kid survived. Or if I am going down the route of planting another tree, and the prospect of that makes me feel as if a limb is being amputated.

I am existing in a black hole of information as life goes on around me, as nurses walk down halls and check on patients, as technicians roll on by with machines, as doctors make their rounds.

All the while, my Harley—the only woman I love, have ever loved, and will ever love—is unconscious with her belly sliced open, and her blood pressure rising, and her platelets falling, and I don’t have a clue what happens next.

Then I hear the tiniest little cry and I know.

Don’t ask me how.

Don’t ask me why.

I just know the sound of my own kid, and it stills all the jittery nerves inside me. It is like a balm to my aching heart.

I turn around to see a ruddy-cheeked nurse with wide shoulders and big hands walking toward me. She’s wearing Snoopy scrubs and carrying a baby wrapped tightly in a white blanket with blue and pink stripes.

“Mr. Westin?”

I nod.

“This is your daughter.”

The world slows to this moment; all time has become this second as she hands me my baby girl, and I hold her in my arms for the first time. Everything in me shifts, the terror fleeing my body as my heart starts to jump wildly, pumping joy and wonder through my veins.

She’s perfect in every way. Her face is still red, and she looks like she’s been screaming, but her eyes are wide open and gray, and she has little tufts of blond hair from her mom. I lean in to plant a gentle kiss on her soft baby cheek, and she feels like a complete and absolute miracle, and already I can feel—deep in my bones and my cells—that sense that she’s mine. And I don’t know where it comes from, how you can go from never having met someone to loving them in the blink of eye, but here it is. It’s happened to me.

I love her. “I love you, little girl,” I say, the first words she hears from her dad. “And your mom does, too.”

When I glance up, with a tear streaking down my cheek, the nurse is still here, a grave look etched on her sturdy features.

And I know too—in the blink of an eye—that something’s wrong with Harley.

“How is my wife?” The question tastes like stones in my mouth.

“It was a very rough delivery. Her liver nearly ruptured, and she’s lost a lot of blood, and she’ll likely need a transfusion.”

“Do you . . . do you need some?” I hold out an arm, as if she’s going to stick a needle in me and take whatever she needs for Harley.

She flashes a brief, but kind smile. “We have some.” Then she sighs. “But I want to let you know she had a seizure during the delivery.”

I stumble against the wall, clutching the baby tight as my back hits the bricks, and I sink to the floor.

“A seizure?”

The nurse bends down. “It happens with HELLP,” she says trying to reassure me, but there is nothing reassuring about a seizure. “The doctors are working on her now. They’ve dealt with this before. She’s in good hands.”

“Is she going to be okay? Is she going to live?” I choke out.

“We’re doing everything we can.”

* * *

But they don’t know if everything is enough. How can anyone know? Nobody can. One minute you are here, the next minute, gone.

One moment you are unborn; the next you are loved.

Life is strong, and life is fragile. It is beauty, and it is pain. I have both, so unbearably close to each other right now that it feels like a cruel game that some wicked master puppeteer is orchestrating.

Not once, not even in the overactive far corners of my mind, did it occur to me that I could lose Harley. I only ever believed I could lose a baby. That’s all I ever worried about. That was the fear I had to face every day, the fear I had to learn to live with every second. But never, in all those moments of staring that fear in the face, of walking past it and through it and by it and over it, did it ever dawn on me that I could have my child safely in this world, healthy and whole, and with a strong beating heart, all while Harley lies bleeding out, unconscious on a hospital table somewhere nearby, and I am helpless to do anything.

But click.

The nurse takes the baby back to the nursery for monitoring, and I pace the halls, hunting out more info. I can’t stop looking at site after site, and I don’t know why I’m doing this, sticking my finger in the fire and letting it burn. I can’t turn away, even when I start watching a video on my phone of a young father who lost his wife to HELLP. When his voice starts to break, and he lowers his head to his baby, I hit stop.

I can’t take it anymore. I can’t watch another second. I turn off my phone, and jam it into my pocket. Now my head is cluttered with facts that have done nothing to change my reality, or Harley’s. I return to the nursery to hold my child.

I cling to my daughter, clutching her in my arms so tightly. She is my anchor. She is rooting me to this earth. Without her, I’m sure I’d fall off the planet, tumble into the void of space. I reach for her hand, small and precious, and she grasps my finger instinctively, and we hold onto each other.

One half of me is singing; the other is caving in. I am empty without Harley, and I am flooded with happiness for the six pounds of joy in my arms.

Soon, Debbie and Robert find us, and sit with the baby and me. Tears flow down their cheeks too, for the new life, for their granddaughter, for everything that is lost and found at the same terrible time.

Chapter Thirty-Six

Trey

The minutes tick by, knitting themselves into an hour, and the nurse threads her way over to me in the far corner of the nursery. She tells me two things.

One, Harley’s having a blood transfusion now.

Two, she also thinks I ought to feed the baby.

Life hangs in the balance, and yet daily needs must be met.

The nurse gives me a bottle, and I feed my hungry child for the first time, and the four of us wait and wait and wait. Only the baby is immune. She sucks down the formula as if it’s all that matters in the world, her tiny lips curved around the bottle tip.

I watch her the whole time, the way she’s so focused on one thing only—eating. She’s determined to fill her belly. When she finishes, she pushes the bottle away with her lips, closing her mouth, content with the meal inside her. And still, there is no Harley. No news. No reports. Only other doctors, other nurses, other parents roaming the nursery.

Then, someone clears her throat. The doctor is in the house, but not the baby-faced guy. This doctor is older, with lines on her face, and dark blue eyes that have seen more than I want to know. I stand up, and give the baby to the nurse. My hands are shaky, and my legs are jelly. I follow the doctor into the hall, Debbie and Robert close behind.

“What’s going on?”

“I’m Doctor Strickland, the surgeon who took care of your wife.”

Took care.

That’s good, right?

I try to form words, to ask how she is, to ask if she is. But the doctor is faster than me. “She’s out of surgery, and in recovery.”

Recovery.

With that one beautiful word, relief flows fast in my veins. Doctor Strickland keeps talking, saying transfusion, and lost a lot of blood, and still not awake, but all I can think is she’s alive.

I want to grab the doctor and kiss her. I want to fall to the ground and hug her knees, and cry thank you over and over. But most of all, I want to see Harley.

“When can I see her?” I say, the words practically blasting out of my mouth.

“Not yet. She’s in the recovery room. She’s not awake. Probably not for another hour.”

The next hour is the longest of my life, and I wish I had asked for an extra dose of patience for Christmas because it would have really come in handy as I watch the minute hand move so slowly. But the nursery is a safe haven, and my daughter falls asleep on my chest, warming me with her tiny little body. Somehow, that patch of heat against my heart makes me feel as if everything is going to be okay.

Okay.

I have officially decided that’s the only word I ever want to hear anymore.

Okay.

“She’s going to be fine,” Debbie says, squeezing my shoulder. “And you two are going to get to work soon on naming this sweet little girl.”

“Yeah,” Robert says, chiming in from our little huddle in the corner. “Why don’t you have a name yet? We want to start cooing at Sally, Jane, Mandy, or something, instead of saying Hi Baby all the time.”

“Not Sally, Jane or Mandy. She’s definitely not a Sally, Jane or Mandy,” I say as I stroke her cheek softly. She releases a small, contented sigh as she sleeps so peacefully in my arms.

“Well, she needs to be something soon,” Robert says, and it feels so good to be having this conversation about names instead of about blood.

* * *

Two oxygen tubes snake out of her nostrils, coiling around the bed, and slinking up into a machine that sends breath to her nose. Her arms are covered with bandages, the crook of her elbow has been target practice for needles, and an IV drip pumps into her body. Her gown has slipped down her shoulder, her collarbone exposed, the arrow from her heart tattoo peeking out. A yellow blanket covers her, up to her chest that’s rising and falling slowly.

Her eyes are closed, though, and I would give anything for them to flutter open. They haven’t yet, and no one knows why. It’s been like this for the last two hours. I’m sitting next to her, holding her hand, hoping.

I’m doing so much hoping that there’s no room in me for anything else but this desperate, frayed desire for her to wake up. Every nerve in me is a piece in a mechanical clock, and a malevolent clock winder is turning the cranks, over and over, maniacally cackling as they start to break.

All as I wait for a sign that still hasn’t come. Harley is deep in some sort of post-surgery cocoon that no one expected to last this long.

“Any minute now, I’m sure,” an ICU nurse tells me as she checks on Harley’s vitals. This nurse has a long black braid down her back, and pink scrubs with dog bones on them. “She’s just taking her sweet time to wake up. But all her tests look normal. Her vitals are fine.”

“She was supposed to wake up two hours ago.”

“She’s taking a little longer than we thought,” the nurse says sweetly.

“But I don’t understand,” I say, and my voice sounds whiny, and I hate it, but I hate the lack of knowing more. I hate it so damn much. Because they keep telling me she should wake up, but she keeps lying here, breathing in and out, and that’s it. She’s been out of surgery for four hours, out of recovery for two hours, and she’s still not awake. She’s still not responding, not to light, not to voices, not to touch, not to the life going on around her.

Not a bat of the eyelids, not a wiggle of the fingers, not a cough.

The nurse says nothing, just shoots me a sympathetic smile.

I drop my head onto the mattress, and squeeze Harley’s hand. “C’mon Harley. I know you’re there. Just give me a sign. Squeeze my hand, or something,” I mutter.

She doesn’t squeeze my hand.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Trey

My daughter is six hours old and nameless.

The nurses in labor and delivery would probably tease me if we were simply that couple who hadn’t picked a name yet. But the nurses don’t tease me. They call her Baby Westin, and Baby Westin has had her second feeding already, and her diaper changed, and she’s sleeping again.

She’s doing everything she’s supposed to be doing: opening her eyes, squeezing my hand, crying, sighing, eating, living.

She’s living.

And Harley is only breathing.

It’s midnight now, and the watch continues, and nothing changes except the ICU doctor. Doctor Strickland is gone, and now Doctor Whitney enters the room, introduces himself, and says he’s on rotation now.

I launch into questions. “Why doesn’t she open her eyes? Why doesn’t she move? Why is she only breathing?”

“Let me examine her,” he says calmly, and then asks me to leave for a moment, so I do, waiting in the hallway.

Pacing again.

So much pacing.

Robert and Debbie are parked in chairs outside the room. He yawns, and Debbie does the same, but no one goes, no one leaves, no one sleeps. Debbie takes another sip of her coffee, and Robert offers to get me one.

I shake my head.

“Diet Coke then?”

“No thanks.”

Doctor Whitney pokes his head out, and invites us back in.

“We thought she’d be awake by now,” he says. “And her tests are fine, her vitals are fine, everything suggests she should have woken up, but she has slipped into a comatose state.”

And I break.

I fucking break.

I shatter into a million angry pieces.

“What?”

The doctor nods, and shifts his hand back and forth like a seesaw. “She’s been teetering between unconsciousness and coma, and she remains unresponsive to stimuli, like light.”

“What the fuck does that mean?” I shout, pushing my hands through my hair, fire exploding in my brain, torching my fucking heart.

He holds up his hands, maybe in admission, maybe for protection from me. I don’t know. I don’t care. I want to kill him for telling me this.

“It means that we’re baffled as to what’s going on.”

“Baffled?” I repeat, fuming. “How can you be baffled? You’re a fucking doctor. You’re not supposed to be baffled.”

“We will continue to monitor her. We will continue to look for answers.”

“Yeah, because a coma’s not a fucking answer,” I shout. I push my fingers hard against my temple, pushing, hurting, something, anything to make this stop. I take a step closer. “Make her wake up.” Another step and he steps back, and I beg harder, grabbing for his white lab coat. “Make her wake up. Make her wake up. Make her wake up.”

“I would appreciate it if you could leave right now,” Doctor Whitney says in a wobbly voice, as he struggles to step away from me.

“Make her fucking wake up,” I say, trying to reach for him again, pleading.

Then I feel strong arms hold me back, drag me away from the doctor I want to throttle. I’m pulled out of the room, into the hall, inside the elevator, down to the lobby.

Outside. Where it’s dark and starless, and Robert has wrapped his arms around me, and my face is buried in his shirt, and the splinter in my heart hurts so much, jagged as it expands, hollowing out my insides, until all I am is this empty ache.

“I don’t know what to do,” I sob in a voice I don’t recognize anymore, a voice I never wanted to hear coming from me. “I don’t know what to do without her.”

He’s crying too. I can hear the hitch in his throat as he speaks. “All we can do is hope. That’s all we can do. Hope.”

* * *

I imagine her words. Her laughter. Her singing Bonfire Heart. I feel her hands, her hips, and her body.

But it’s all in my mind, because I wake up quickly, snapping out of a restless few minutes of sleep here on the edge of her mattress.

I wake up because there’s noise in the room. The same nurse with the long braid is back, doing her thing, checking on my wife.

“How’s she doing?”

“She’s the same, honey. Harley’s the same.”

At least she calls her by her name.

When my first brother died at birth, too young to live, my parents hadn’t named him. I was only thirteen years old, and I insisted we name him. I named him Jake.

Then came Drew. Then came Will.

They came and they went, touching down on this earth for seconds in some cases, for a few days in others. But they were named. I made sure they were named.

By all accounts, my daughter is staying. Her heart is strong, and she’s healthy, and there’s not a thing about her that baffles any doctor. But no one knows what is happening to my wife, and so no one can help her, no one can save her. She exists in the in-between. I long for her voice with every cell of my body; I’d give anything to hear a snippet of a word from her lips.

I flash back to our days and nights together, to the little moments, like playing Frogger and making her a cheesy miracle, then the bigger ones, like bringing her to the tree in New York, telling her I loved her for the first time, marrying her in the sky.

They were all amazing in their own way. All precious.

“Can I be alone with Harley?” I ask the nurse when she’s done.

“Of course, sweetie,” she says, patting me on the shoulder as she leaves.

I swallow, and the lump in my throat hurts so much, like a hard knot that will never leave. I take her right hand, and wrap my fingers around hers.

We always held hands. The night we met, I held her hand as we walked to the train station. When we were just friends, I held her hand as we walked throughout New York. Then the night I took her away from Mr. Stewart at the Parker Meridien, we practically flew out of that hotel, holding hands.

I’ve held her hands as I’ve made love to her.

I want to hold her hand for the rest of my life.

It’s such a small thing, such a simple act, but such a privilege; such a gift.

Like every single moment with her.

And I don’t know if I’ll have that luxury for much longer. So it has to matter. Every moment matters, because sometimes they are all we have.

“Harley,” I whisper, wishing this were a TV movie and she’d squeeze my fingers when she heard me say her name. But I’ve been saying her name for a long, long time tonight, and it hasn’t happened. “I don’t know if I’m going to see you again. I don’t know what’s going to happen. But you have to know that I love you more than I ever thought was possible. I have loved every second with you. You made me believe in love, you made me believe in myself, and you made me a new man. But I’m not here to talk about me, or even about you right now. Because there’s something else we need to talk about. We need to name our daughter. I can’t wait for you to meet her, Harley. She’s beautiful, and she’s so fucking healthy,” I say, my voice breaking as a salty tear hits her hand.

“Her heart works perfectly, and when you place your hand gently against her chest, you can feel it beating under your palm, and it’s the most amazing thing I’ve ever felt. She has blond hair already, and it’s soft, like a duck. But now that I think about it, I’ve never touched a duck. But I bet a baby duck has really soft hair, and so does our daughter. And she smells good too. Is that weird that I think that? But I do. She just smells sweet and powdery, and you’re going to fall madly in love with her too. You have to meet her, Harley. Just squeeze my hand, so I know you’re going to meet her, okay?”

I wait for a response, and for the briefest of seconds I’m convinced she moved, shifted a knee, an elbow, something. But the room remains still and quiet. “It’s okay if you can’t squeeze back. I know you hear me. I believe it. And I know what we need to name the baby. Her name is Hope. That’s our daughter’s name. Her name is Hope.”

Then the tears fall again relentlessly, and that hollow deepens so much more. I didn’t know there was more of my heart to carve away, but the pain tells me I was wrong. There is.

* * *

Later, I visit the baby in the nursery to feed her. After her bottle, I take a pen and add her name to the pink cardboard sign on her bassinet.

Hope Westin.

When I lay her down for her nap, I start the trek back to Harley’s room. On the way, I spot a sign I hadn’t noticed before.

I follow it, and as the sun rises I find myself in the hospital chapel. I’m not a religious person, I don’t even know if I believe in God, but I am consumed by this overwhelming need to make some sort of peace.

The chapel is a small room with wooden benches, a few plants, and pictures of serenity hanging on the wall. There are no signs of different faith in here. Only one faith, one wish—that the ones we love heal. Here, we all pray to the same god.

I walk past each picture. The first is an image of the woods in spring,with emerald green grass and mossy trees. Next, a cove on a beach, as the sun sets in a fiery orange glow. Then I stop hard in my tracks when I see a painting of a cherry blossom tree.

The design I’ve perfected over the last several months.

I touch it. I’m probably not supposed to, but nothing stops me as I trace my fingers along the trunk of the tree, then up to its branches, lush with pink blossoms, like the ones I drew on Harley that night in New York.

I marked her with a sign of what might come. I didn’t know it then. Who would have known it then? But there it was, in pink blossoms, red leaves, and brown branches on her body.

Because this tree may be a symbol of beauty, but it also signifies the fragility of life. In Japan, the cherry blossom trees bloom beautifully each year but for a short time, and their brief flurry is a reminder of how lovely, but terribly short life is.

Gone, before we know it. Before we can have all we want from it.

I want so much more from this life. I want so much more with her.

But even if she dies now, even if she leaves this earth and my arms for good, she will leave knowing love. Knowing that I loved her with every ounce of my heart, mind, body and soul. That I held nothing back. That I gave her all of myself, all of my love, all of my heart. That our love is unbreakable, that it’s for all time, and that even if it’s short, it was great. It is great. It is the greatest thing I have ever known.

She is my everything, and she will always be the love of my life, the love of my death, the love of my soul. I have loved her with no regrets, and I will continue to for the rest of my life, and even then some.

Even then some.

Because not loving her is like not existing, not breathing, not being. I don’t know how to live without loving her, and if that’s how I have to spend the rest of my days on this earth—loving a ghost—that’s how it will be.

* * *

When I walk past the nursery, Hope’s not there.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Harley

Something slips through my fingers. I don’t know what it is, maybe a blanket, maybe a touch, maybe just a dream.

But then it’s gone.

And the world goes black again.

Until it’s not black. Until something bright shines in my eyes, and I blink.

My eyelids close, and I hear a gasp. A thrilled sort of sound.

Noises filter in and out of my head. Voices I don’t know, saying words I can barely process.

Scale. Response. Stimuli.

Then I hear a grunt, a soft ohhh. And I don’t know where it came from until I feel my lips moving, and it registers that the sound came from me. I try to move, to shift up on my elbow. Pain sings through my body like an opera, vibrating powerfully inside me. My hands fly to the source—my stomach.

And it’s not hard and round anymore. It’s soft, and covered in bandages, and it hurts. But then I forget about the hurt as one thought blares in my head, loud and clear.

“Where’s my baby?”

A woman with a long thick braid and dog bones on her clothes swivels around. “Oh, sweet lord in heaven! You’re awake.”

“Who are you? And where’s my baby?”

“Oh, honey, we’ll go get her for you.”

Within seconds, it seems, a nurse rushes into my room holding a baby. “Here she is,” the nurse says, handing me a bundle.

“I had a girl?”

“You sure did. She was six pounds, five ounces, and she’s one day old.”

I look down at the little person who was once inside of me, and I have no clue how she got out or what’s happened for the first day of her life, but she fits in my arms so perfectly. I try to bend to kiss her, but even my neck hurts. Still, I manage, as her sweetness, her softness, fills me up.

My little girl.

I have a daughter now, and she’s the most wonderful person I’ve ever met, and I already know I want to give her everything: all of my love, all of my heart. I snuggle her as close as I can manage, and she lets out a contented little sigh; the sound tells me she knows—instinctually—that I’m her mama.

I hear running. Boots smacking in the hallway. Loud, heavy, fast, then skidding to a stop. And when I raise my eyes to the doorway, there he is. My Trey, in jeans, boots and a T-shirt, and I’ve never seen a person look happier in my entire life.

His whole face is lit up, almost as if he’s glowing with joy, as if it’s radiating through his body, lighting him up from the inside out.

He runs to me, and at first I think he’s going to drop down to his knees and hug me, then I think he’s going to scoop me up in his arms, but he doesn’t do either, and I’m glad, because I think both would hurt immensely. Instead, he brushes my hair off my cheek with his gentle fingers, softly tucking the strands behind my ear. Then he kisses me on the forehead, so lightly it feels like a butterfly has touched me, and that’s what I need right now.

This soft touch. His joy. Our baby.

“You’re okay,” he says, like that’s a miracle, too. Then it becomes a question. “You’re okay?”

I nod into his already-wet cheek. “I’m okay.” A beat. “What happened?”

“It’s a long story,” he says, staying close to me, reaching for my free hand. He laces his fingers through mine, and then brings our clasped hands under our baby. I glance down at our hands, linked together, holding our little girl. “I’ll tell you soon. But for now, I named her Hope. Is that okay?”

He pulls back to meet my eyes. I’m sure they are brimming with tears; the happy kind.

“It’s perfect. And her middle name is Allison.”

* * *

“I was in a coma?”

The gray-haired man named Dr. Whitney explains that the entire intensive care unit was baffled. “By all accounts, you should have woken up after surgery.”

“Why didn’t I?”

“Seeing as you have no lasting deficits or complications from the seizure or the blood loss, I believe it was your body’s way of coping and healing itself.”

“So the coma healed me?”

He nods. “In a way, it did. The body does amazing things, and sometimes it needs to shut down before it can wake up. Coma, in and of itself, is a response to injury, and your body went through a lot of injury with HELLP, and the bleeding in your liver. It’s possible your body needed to compensate by shutting off nearly all functions to heal itself.”

Heal itself. That’s what my body did while the world kept spinning, while my daughter had her first meal, while my husband nearly broke. But he didn’t. He was strong through it all. Like he was before, with all he’s been through.

We all have to cope in different ways. Trey and I learned to cope in our own ways growing up. Then we learned to heal, both alone and together, in our time. Our bodies, our hearts, our minds.

* * *

Three days later, they release me. A nurse insists on wheeling me out, even though I can walk just fine. But once the doors to the hospital shut behind me, I stand up, and walk to the car, Trey’s arm in mine. Debbie is buckling Hope into her car seat, and then my husband drives us home, under the blue skies, with the radio playing one of our favorite songs as the sun beats down.

We reach our house and he parks at the curb. He scrambles around the car to open my door, then to the backseat to unbuckle the baby. He holds her and we walk up the steps, Debbie and Robert close behind.

Our family.

The five of us.

Six, if you count the dog, and I do, seeing as he’s waiting on the porch, wagging his tail, eager to meet the new addition.

Trey holds the door. I step inside the house. The windows are open, and the ocean air is breezing in, greeting me.

“I’m home,” I say to him.

“You’re home.”

We both look at the little girl in his arms.

“We’re home,” we say together.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Three Months Later

Harley

A girl builds a sandcastle as high as the sky, its towers reaching the clouds. The sand glitters and the clouds glow with a radiant white light that ignites the sky into sapphire.

“You finished it,” I say, as I stare mesmerized at the final illustration in Trey’s sketchbook for me.

“I told you I would,” he says proudly, kneeling next to me, watching over my shoulder as I look at the pictures spread out in front of me on the blanket. Hope is sound asleep in my lap as I sit cross-legged on the beach, the salty tang of the ocean waves nipping in the air.

“I love it so much,” I say, tracing the final image once again. He illustrated all of the stories from my grandparents’ cards, creating a fantastical tale of a city girl who was out of place amidst the skyscrapers, then found her way home to the sand, where she lived out her days underneath the bluest of blue skies. “I kind of feel like we made a book together,” I say, under my breath.

“Because we did. My art, your words.”

I lean back against him, and he loops his arms around me. “Our story.”

I can feel him smile as he plants a soft kiss against my shoulder, then as he brushes my blond strands away, and kisses the cherry blossom tattoo he inked on the back of my neck for my twenty-first birthday a few weeks ago. The perfect gift.

“We’ve made other things together, too,” I say as Hope stirs, stretching out her little arms, lifting them to the sky, then curling up once more as the sun beats down on my beach baby, her breath soft against my legs.

She belongs to us. But she belongs to others, too. To my grandparents, who help me take care of her. To Trey’s mom and dad, who came out to visit her a few weeks ago. His mom cooed, and cried, and sang songs, and played with her in the sand. I email her pictures every day, and every day she asks for more. More photos, more stories, more baby.

I turn to my husband. “What will we tell her someday?”

“What do you mean?”

“When she asks how her mom and dad met,” I say twisting around to look at Trey, at his green eyes with the gold flecks sparkling. “What will we tell her?”

He sinks down on the blanket across from me, lacing his fingers through mine. He always holds my hand. He did as my friend, he did as my lover, and now he does as my husband and father to my child.

“That’s easy,” he says, running a fingertip across my palm that sends warm sparks through me. “We’ll tell her the true story. That there is a place called the ugly beautiful, and that’s where her mom and dad met.”

My heart thumps faster. “And that’s where they live,” I say, quickly adding to the story.

“And we’ll tell her that sometimes people meet in the toughest of circumstances, and the strangest of places, and there’s no reason why they should be together, except that they can’t not be.”

“And if anyone asks if she’s heard the story of a guy and a girl who were so broken at love that they never should have happened, she’ll say ‘yes, and I know why,’” I say, reaching out to touch his beautiful face, to map the scar on his cheek. “Because it was mad love, crazy love, insane love. Because it was hard love, good love, true love. Because it was the real thing, and a love like that can’t be stopped. A love like that is inevitable.”

“It lasts forever, for always, because of the love they have and the way they love. And how they learned to love together. Fierce and true.”

“And I’ll tell her that’s how I feel for her dad.”

“And I’ll tell her that’s how I feel for her mom.”

“And that’s how we feel for her.”

As the water lapped the shore, then rolled back out to sea, we were finally where we wanted to be: with family, by the ocean, under the sun, on our terms, loving fierce and true.

THE END…

Acknowledgments

I am grateful to so many people. First and foremost, thank you to to my amazing readers. I adore every single one of you, and I am sending you virtual kisses, hugs and chocolate for your support. I love your enthusiasm, your notes, emails, tweets, posts, reviews and sweet comments. I write for you. You are all my reasons.

Next is my family. My husband and my children are the loves of my life, and I thank them for understanding my intense attachment to fictional characters. My dogs deserve more biscuits, bones and tennis balls – they are with me for nearly every word I write.

My beta readers are rock stars. Zoe always gives keen, insightful feedback; Kelly read as I wrote, suggesting tweaks and cheering me on; Crystal lent her sharp eye to a near-find draft, Monica helped refine the ending, and Kim, as always, had my back. THANK YOU. My editor Lauren McKellar helped with a final polish of the words.

Big thanks to my writer friends. Monica Murphy encouraged me to write Harley and Trey’s story in the first place, and I am so glad she did. I’m lucky too for the daily friendship, laughter and support of my girls Sawyer Bennett, Melody Grace, Violet Duke, Lexi Ryan, and Kendall Ryan. Big thanks to Kristen Proby, Pepper Winters, Jessie Evans and Katy Evans. Love ya, girls! Then there’s Tara Simone – my best friend in the world!

My publicist and friend Kelly at Inkslinger PR is my rock. I can’t imagine navigating this world without her by my side. My cover designer Sarah Hansen is a wizard. Credit for the beautiful cover photo goes to Anthony Langlois at Glimpse Photography. His work is amazing.

I am grateful to Jen McCoy who ably helped me choose an Arcade Fire wedding song. I owe a huge thank you to the amazingly talented Georgia Cates, who was generous with her time and knowledge of medicine and labor and delivery. Any mistakes in the hospital sequences are my own. Hetty, as always, was there for me – whether to read, to make a gorgeous picture, and most of all just to be a friend.

Hetty is also a part of my core group of gals – Hetty, Kim, Cara and Kristy - you are fabulous readers and wonderful women. Kim is by my side with her daily enthusiasm. Kelley is an amazing resource. Helen at All Booked Out continues to deliver stunning graphics, as do Tori at Give Me Books and Heather at Real Housewives of Romance.

The indie world is built on the passion of many amazing bloggers. Thank you to all the amazing bloggers who share their love of books every day. The list includes: Eye Candy Bookstore, Totally Booked, Rock Stars of Romance, Vilma at Vilma’s Book Blog, Jen at Sub Club, Book Whores Obsession, Reviews by Tammy and Kim, Book Addict Mumma, Two Crazy Girls with a Passion for Books, Shh…Mom’s Reading, Romance Addict, Little Black Book Blog, Flirty and Dirty Book Blog, HEA Shelf Blogger, Angie’s Dreamy Reads, Becky at Reality Bites! Let’s Get Lost, Kelly at KellyVision, True Story Book Blog, LoveNBooks, Just Booked and many more. Special shout-outs to my girls Kara Hildebrand and Sandra Shipman (love leaning on the two of you rock star readers! Can’t wait for dinner in Vegas!), Lexi at Book Reviews by Lexi, Retta Rusaw and Lisa Kreinheder at Because I Said So Book Blog, Shamika at Sticky Reads, Jaime Collins at For the Love of Books by Jaime, Cindy at the Book Enthusiast, Alissa Riker at Author Stalkers, Stacey at Reading Rainblog, Cindy Gibson, Vanessa Foxford, Yvette at Nose Stuck in a Book, Tracey K., Kelley from Smut Book Junkie Book Reviews, Patricia from A Literary Perusal, Betsy from Book Drunk Blog, that awesome chick Kenna Nauenburg, Jennifer Santoro from The Readiacs, Jennifer Reyes from Jen's Book Reviews, Jessica and Lyndsay from Little Black Book Blog, Jennifer from Jennifers Taking A Break, Wendy Racine, Carolyn Isherwood, Tami Schafer, MJ Fryer, Stacy Hahn, Sara Howe, Brenda Howe, Karen - The Danish Bookaholic, Kassie’s Book Thoughts, Tanya from After the Final Chapters, Diane from Naughty Book Eden, Jackie Uzzell, Mariana Lee, Louisse Ang from The Soul Sisters, Gretchen from About That Story, Lyndsey Aaron from The Eyeliner Manifesto, Theresa Potter, Laura at Bookish Treasures, Shey Houston at Guilty Pleasures Book Reviews, Tanya The Book Obsessed Momma, Wendy at The Geekery Book Review, Kat, Ava, Bianca and Brittany from Bibio Belles Book Blog, Julie Solorio with Love Between the Sheets, the fabulous Bette Hansen, Kim Brown at Chapter Break, Jassie, the amazing Dianne of Oops I Read A Book Again, Chelsea at Starbucks & Books Obsession, Teresa Gomez from Sinful Reviews, Jessica at Lovin’ Los Libros, Tabatha at Insightful Minds Reviews, Amy at Schmexy Girl Book Blog and so very many more.

Last, but not least, thank you to Harley and Trey. I have loved every second with the two of you and I will miss you both immensely.

Content

Every Second With You
No Regrets - 2
by
Lauren Blakely

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Acknowledgments