Lauren Blakely - Every Second With You

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.

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.

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.