Lauren Blakely - Every Second With You

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.