Lauren Blakely - Every Second With You

“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.

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?”