Lauren Blakely - Every Second With You

“Can I have the form now?”

“Of course,” she says, reaching for it on the table and handing it to me. I grab a pen, spread out the form on a paperback from my purse, using it as a hard surface as I fill in the boxes while standing. I don’t want to sit down. That would imply I’m comfortable here. I’m not, and I never will be.

“Harley?”

“Yes?” I ask, glancing up from the boxes and blue ink.

Hope sneaks into her eyes, and nerves steal into her voice. “I’d like to try again.”

I shake my head, return to the form. “Mom. We’ve been there. I told you there’s no starting over.”

“I know. You did.” Click of the watchband. Unclick. Metal against metal. Like her and me. “And I’ve thought long and hard about what you said. And I’ve made a grave mistake.”

“What do you mean?” I ask, keeping my guard up as I finish filling in the last few boxes.

She sighs, and then clasps her hands together. “You were right,” she says, her lower lip quivering slightly. Barb Coleman is rattled. Call the presses. “You said I should have confronted Miranda about what she did to you. About the blackmail.”

“Yeah. You should have,” I say, jutting my chin out, reminding her of how she dismissed me so easily.

She nods several times. “I should have. I own up to that, Harley. I do. And I want to confront her now. To do everything I can to stop her from publishing that—” She stops, and it’s as if she can’t finish the sentence. She’s reached the part in her bizarre act of contrition that she can no longer stomach. “–that book .”

But I have no problem saying the name. “ Memoirs of a Teenage Sex Addict .”

She winces, her nose crinkling. “Yes. That one.”

“So, you’re going to do what? An article on how she blackmailed a former call girl? Expose her?”

“What would you like me to do, darling? What would make you happy?”

Erasing one of those two pink lines would make me happy. We’re talking erupt into a tap-dancing, heel-clicking fool kind of delight. But while I used to care deeply about hiding her secrets and closeting all of my own, this book isn’t important anymore.

“You know would what would make me happy, Barb?”

She straightens her spine, sits up taller, a puppy dog wagging its tail for a treat. “What would make you happy, darling? Anything. Name it.”

“I would like to use your fax machine and send this in.”

“Oh.” Her shoulders fall, but she gestures to her office, and I head into it. I position the paper in the fax machine to send, but the light is flashing red. It needs ink. Typical. The woman can expose wrongdoings of any high-ranking public official, but god forbid she actually maintain the technology in her office.

I grab some toner from the cabinet, open the machine, remove the used toner, drop the old toner into the recycling box, and slide in the new one. I set the box on her desk, next to her laptop, but the box knocks the corner of the computer askew, exposing a vintage card the color of eggshell.

I quirk my eyebrows. It looks like a birthday card. My mom hasn’t had a birthday recently. But I have.

I don’t think twice about snooping. I want to know why there’s a card hidden under her laptop. I grab it, open it, and gasp when I see my name on the inside. Then I cover my mouth so I don’t make a sound as my eyes roam the words.

There’s no envelope. No return address. But this is a card from my grandparents, who had promised to send me a birthday card every year.

Who never did.

Who always did?

My hands shake as I slip the card inside my purse, tucking it into the inside pocket. I check it once, twice, three times, and then zip it up. I slide the form through the fax machine, tapping my foot, urging it along, waiting for the sent notice. Once it’s there I rip it out, leave my mom’s office, and nearly run for the door.

“Thanks for the fax machine,” I say.

“Darling, do you want to talk more about next steps? How I can make this right for you? Can I take you out to dinner? Chat over sushi?”

Her voice is static, a late-night radio background blur to the noise and chatter of the last twenty-four hours.

“Another time,” I say, and leave her behind.

Harley

The first words on the card are like a headline, in big, thick letters: The Stories We Promised to Tell You.

Then, under them:

And the city girl returned to the sand, and the sea, where the sun warmed her shoulders and the sky rained silver and gold sparkles . . .

And that’s all. It’s signed Nan and Pop.

I read the words again on the muggy subway platform, waiting for the downtown train. I read it on the subway car as it slaloms through underground New York, its lights flickering once around a bend, blasting us with darkness for a few seconds. I read it once more as I walk the few blocks to my apartment, weaving in and out of the early evening crowds who are returning home from work, their earbuds or their phones keeping them company.

The card is odd, too, on some sort of vintage letterpress paper, with a raised drawing of a red aardvark in the sand. Something you don’t find in the Hallmark section of Duane Reade, that’s for sure.

But the more I repeat the words, the less I understand them. They feel like a code, and I don’t have the key to decipher this strange sort of story from my grandparents, made stranger because I thought I was persona non grata to them.

I don’t know where they live, or if they’re still in San Diego. I don’t even have the same last name as my dad’s parents. When my parents split, my mom returned to her maiden name, and changed my name, too. A neat, clean break, severing me from his side of the family.

The two of us against the world.

Now, I am untethered from her, but tied to someone I don’t even know who is using my body to build limbs and lungs and nails and eyes, all from the DNA of mine that clung wildly, and unexpectedly, to Trey’s.

The air conditioner in the window chugs loudly, then spews a thick blast of icy air into the living room. As I deliver my news to Kristen, I welcome the chill. It suctions the day off me.

“I’m a train wreck, don’t you think?”

Kristen shakes her head. “No. You’re not. I swear I don’t think that.”

I don’t know if she’s more shocked now than when I told her I used to be a call girl in high school. “That’s because you expect me to be a fuck-up.”

“You keep my life interesting, that’s for sure,” Kristen says sweetly, petting my hair as I flop down on the couch and rest my head in her lap.

“What am I going to do? I want to finish college. I want to get my degree. I don’t want to be one of those girls on a reality TV show.”

“So don’t be.”

I scoff. “How?”

“Don’t be,” she repeats. “Be different. You don’t have to be messed up. You don’t have to quit school. You somehow found a way to be a call girl and get good grades in high school,” she says, and if anyone but Kristen said it I’d punch them. But she says it admiringly.

“Like that’s an impressive accomplishment?”

“In a way, it is. You balanced crazy-ass shit. You’ll do that here, too. You don’t have to quit school to have a baby. There are a million ways to deal with this. And you’re not alone. I will help however I can.”

I reach for her hand and squeeze it. “How did I get so lucky to have you as my bestie?”

“I could say the same. And you know, there is a father involved to help, too,” she says, looking at me pointedly. “And you need to tell Trey.”

“Obviously.”