Lauren Blakely - Every Second With You

“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 . . .

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.