Lauren Blakely - Every Second With You

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.

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.”