Every Second With You (No Regrets Book 3) Read online

  I grip her hand tighter, needing the familiar, as we press past throngs of our fellow students returning to school, chattering about their summers away from New York, or their summers in New York, or the classes they took and jobs they tried on for size. A guy in a brown T-shirt has his arm draped over his dark-haired girlfriend and they turn the corner, debating whether to bestow six or seven stars to the movie they saw last night.

  They’re not talking about the baby in her belly. The kid they’re going to have. The child they might lose.

  My lungs are pinching, and it’s like my organs are being crammed into smaller-sized storage containers.

  We reach the building where she has her creative writing class. “Go write something good about talking animals,” I say, and I flash a smile, trying to keep it light so she won’t know I’m withering inside.

  “I always love writing about talking animals. Meet me after class?”

  “Of course,” I say, then I kiss her on the forehead, and she opens the door and disappears. When she’s gone, I slump against the wall and sink to the ground, my head resting on my knees.

  My insides are threatening to pour out of me, to spill all sorts of fears, and that’s the last thing I want. I can’t handle that kind of mess right now. I picture the walls closing in, and I clench my fists, squeezing them tight, like they’re a vise holding in all the doubts that want to ensnare me.

  Because I know how to shut down.

  It is my greatest skill, it is the subject I’ve mastered, the class I excel in. And as I head off to my history seminar, it’s as if my veins have stopped pumping blood, and now there’s some kind of strange coolness flowing through them, as if the blood cells are made of blue liquid distance.

  I don’t meet Harley after class. I don’t answer her calls. I send her a text telling her I forgot I’m meeting Jordan for lunch. I lie to her for the first time.

  Then I do it again that night when she comes over after I return home from No Regrets. She tries to snuggle up close with me in bed, but I don’t want to be close to her, so I pretend I’m asleep. She wraps her arms tight around me, her warm little body against mine, and it’s almost enough for me to turn around and kiss her and tell her all the things I’m feeling, except I don’t want to feel anymore. Not a thing. Not for anyone.

  Not at all.

  3

  Trey

  There are five stages of grief: Denial. Bargaining. Depression. Anger. Acceptance.

  I learned them all from Michelle, my shrink. I went through some of them each time one of my three brothers died. I bypassed many of them.

  But what the shrinks don’t tell you is that there is a sixth stage.

  Faking it.

  “Let’s break this down. Piece by piece, because that’s the only way to tackle something so big,” Michelle says, folding her hands in her lap, taking my news so coolly, so calmly that I’d bet the house on her being on Xanax. How the hell else can you explain the fact that she’s not pulling out her hair or sitting there with her jaw hanging down on the floor? She’s acting like this is all too normal. Have an emotion. Have a reaction. Feel this with me.

  Or don’t. Whatever. I don’t care. I don’t want to care. I can’t care.

  “I need you to be straight with me right now, Trey.”

  “Sure,” I say, settling into her couch. Her office, with its abstract paintings of red squares, yellow brushstrokes, and blue lines, is my bomb shelter, safe from shrapnel. No bad news can hit me here. No one can touch me.

  “I don’t want anything but the truth. Promise?”

  “Got it,” I say, nodding.

  “What is your biggest fear? Being a father? Committing to Harley? Or are you—”

  I cut her off. “What? Committing to Harley? I’m committed. I’m with her. There’s no one else.”

  She shakes her head, then crosses her legs. “That’s not what I’m saying. But having a family and being parents is a huge step, and it tethers you to someone for life. You’ve only just begun your relationship with her, it’s the first one you’ve ever had, and now this. You’re not even living together yet,” she says, leaning forward in her chair. “Did you ask her like you’d planned to?”

  The window of her office is suddenly fascinating. The way the afternoon light slants through it, how the glass is spotless. “Do you clean that window every day?”

  “No. The cleaning crew does.”

  “Damn, they do a good job. Don’t you think?” I ask, turning back to her.

  She gives me that look. The one that says she knows I’m stalling. “So, what did she say when you asked her?”

  “I didn’t ask. I meant to. But it didn’t seem like the right time.”

  She nods. “I can imagine. But then, maybe it would have been the best time. Are you afraid to ask her to move in now? Afraid to be that close?”

  I sneer. “No. Not afraid of that whatsoever. We’re already close. It’s just…” I say, but my voice trails off.

  “Just what, Trey?”

  “I just need space to process this, okay? It’s kind of, like, a big fucking deal.”

  “Right,” she says firmly. “It is. It is a big deal. That’s what having a kid is. So are you pulling away from her?”

  “No! I’d never do that to her.” Then, I admit in a quieter voice, “I’m trying not to.”

  She nods. “Then I need to ask you the next question. We need to talk about the elephant in the room.”

  My chest rises and falls. I know what’s coming. I don’t want to know what’s coming. I hold up a hand, but she asks anyway.

  “Are you thinking the baby won’t make it?”

  Armor. I put on my armor.

  I scoff, like that’s a ludicrous suggestion. “That’s crazy. There’s no way that would happen. I mean, how could it? We’ve done our time, I’ve paid for it. That doesn’t happen. Does it?”

  Michelle sighs deeply, and fixes me a look I’ve seen before. One I know well. Kindness laced with sympathy. She feels sorry for me already?

  “Trey,” she says in a soft, gentle voice, “it’s unlikely it would happen again, but there are never any guarantees of that sort. I’m not going to lie to you and tell you that prior loss is a hedge, that it preempts the possibility of any future problems. Because that’s not true. Anything can happen at any time, though I hope your baby will be fine.”

  I draw in a sharp breath, and push my palms hard against the couch. “It won’t happen. I won’t let it, Michelle. Everything will work out fine.” The more I repeat it, the more it becomes true. “There’s no way that could happen. The universe won’t let it. Everything will be picture perfect.”

  I try to impress this upon Michelle for the rest of the session, and by the time I leave, I nearly believe it. I press hard on the down button in the elevator, then rest my forehead against the panel and close my eyes. It will all be fine. Lightning doesn’t strike twice. Or in my case, four times.

  See? That’s the proof there. There’s no way on earth it could happen again.

  I have immunity now. Absolute and utter immunity from that kind of loss.

  The cool of the panel feels good against my skin, cocooning me in a protective bubble. Because I am safe. Even when I leave Michelle’s building and the late August heat smacks my face, it doesn’t faze me, because everything is fine here.

  A cabbie slams on his horn, the crude sound blasting into my ears, but it doesn’t bug me. Because I know how to protect myself.

  I have a shield from pain.

  I turn the corner, and a burly guy smoking a cigarette crashes into me, nearly knocking me against a building, but I sidestep him nimbly. See? Nothing can hurt me. Nothing can touch me.

  I make my way to Third Avenue and turn left, heading north, heading somewhere, passing familiar shops. Florists peddling bouquets that rich husbands bring their beautiful wives to say they’re sorry for working late, but then they do it again the next night, and the next, the lure of the deal, the boardroom, the ne
gotiation more potent than her. Then they buy diamonds from the jewelry shop on the corner here. Or send them to this spa for the day, where it’s tranquil and calm, as the women lie with cucumbers on their eyes, drifting off to the memories of pleasure.

  Then I walk past doormen I have seen before, town cars pulling up, ladies spilling out. And then, finally, the maroon-uniformed man greets me with a nod and holds open the door, since he’s known me for years.

  And I’m honestly not sure how I got here, but this is where I am: my medicine cabinet, where I keep my pills. This is where my robot feet have taken me, where my cool, perfectly modulated heart is beating. Across the rose marble lobby, into the elevator. Doors close, I press the button, and fifteen floors later and a whoosh later, here I am. The plush brown carpeting, the cool quiet of the hallway, the doors ready to reveal naked bodies. What’s behind door number one? How about door number two?

  Or maybe, just maybe, 15D?

  That one. Yeah. The fucking painkiller that’s going to make everything fine, sliding down my throat like a couple of Vicodin. There’s only one thing that can erase uncertainty, that can take away pain, and it’s calling to me in its siren song that blots out the sounds and noises of old New York.

  I step out of the elevator onto Sloan’s floor.

  4

  Harley

  The key slides into the lock. Of course the key slides into the lock. The key is made for this lock.

  But my heart is sputtering, and I can hear it loud in my ears. I still feel like I’m slipping a credit card into a door, all clandestine and furtive, because I might have a key, but this is not my home anymore.

  I used to come and go as I pleased. Not only when I was younger, but also my first two years in college. I’d stop by for dinner, or pop by in the mornings, or crash here at night every now and then.

  The door groans as I open it, inch by inch. I glance down the stoop at the sidewalk, across the street, up and down the block, making sure no one sees or hears me.

  The house is silent, except for the low purr of the dishwasher. My mother always sets it to run midday so the dishes are done when she returns home. My heart aches the tiniest bit as I remember this detail about her—a meaningless detail in the scheme of things, but one of the many pieces that add up to her. How she likes order. How she likes neatness. I know so many things about her. Too many things. Except not enough, and that’s why I’m here, sneaking in after my last class of the day.

  “Hello?”

  I call out, but am only greeted by my own echo. Instinct kicks in, and I leave my purse on the table in the living room where I always leave it, then I find myself heading for the kitchen to grab a soda. But I stop in the doorway. Nature is a powerful force, and I fight back. I’m not here to make myself at home with a Diet Coke. I’m here to find things she kept from me.

  “Anyone home?” I try again, just in case.

  One of the last times I came here in the middle of the day, I ran into her latest suitor. Naked. I cringe at the memory of Neil’s furry parts. I don’t even know if she’s with him anymore.

  I head straight for her office. Her laptop is gone, but that’s not a surprise. She probably took it with her to the office today. I take a deep breath and picture myself as some cool, calculating, soulless spy. I imagine slipping on leather gloves, then methodically exploring each drawer with ruthless efficiency till I find what I need.

  I open the top desk drawer and flip through papers, Post-its, scissors, and tape.

  Nothing.

  The next drawer is crammed with old bills. Another one contains folders full of her pay stubs over the years, then her royalty statements from her publishers for her best-selling books. I narrow my eyes at those, because her editor is a witch.

  But that’s it. Nothing out of the ordinary. No cards from my grandparents. No telltale notes from my dad. Nothing special, just the necessary documents to run her business. I scan her bookshelves, then run my fingers over the edges, hunting for a card or something poking out between pages.

  I don’t even know what I want to find for sure. But I know I want more. I want something more than her.

  The books are only books though. Stories of politics. Tales of war-room negotiations. Tell-alls about campaigns marred by bad behavior.

  I try the drawer under the scanner, even though I rummaged through it the other day and it only had paper in it. I yank it open, but there’s still only paper.

  And a package of batteries now.

  Double-A batteries.

  My stomach curls. She always bought them online. Kept herself well-stocked in batteries. And the things her batteries go in aren’t in her office. They’re in her room.

  Her bedroom.

  The one room I stopped going into when I was a teenager. I didn’t hang out in her bathroom anymore to prep for parties; I didn’t help her pick out clothes for parties. I had my own room, my own bathroom, and we’d meet in the hall.

  If I were her, trying to hide something from me, I wouldn’t hide it in the office. That’s a harmless room. And I wouldn’t stow it away in the kitchen. It would be in her bedroom. Sure, the card I found the other day was hidden under the laptop, but that was a way station, I bet. She hadn’t shuttered it away yet.

  I reach her room, and the door’s wide open. I walk in, and my nostrils are assaulted with her lingering perfume, the scent marking her territory: Obsession.

  Her bed dominates the room, a huge king-size creature that has claws and a heartbeat. It’s living, breathing, and watching me, complete with red satin sheets. I tiptoe around the bed on quiet feet, keeping a distance, as if it might bite me. I reach the nightstand, wishing I had rubber gloves, like from the doctor’s office.

  Because I bet the cards are in here. Her private drawer. Her secret hideaway.

  I pretend I’m wearing a nose mask as I gingerly tug on the handle, sliding the drawer open. I peer out of the corner of my eyes, terrified of what I see: thick purple plastic, a red one with metal balls, a slim blue number with ten different speeds, one with straps, another with leather.

  I gag, and slam the drawer shut.

  I can’t do this. Whatever she’s hiding from me isn’t worth seeing this. I broke away from her for a reason, so I’d never have to know about her sex life again. I rush to her bathroom, crank on the faucet, and scrub my hands, lathering up to my elbows like a surgeon, as I cough. It’s like I’m choking on fumes, and it’s merely from the sight of her pleasure toys. I wash harder, as if I can slough off all the layers of dirt.

  Then my stomach clenches, and a wave of nausea hits me again.

  Just my luck. I breathe deeply, as if I can will it away with a calming inhalation as I finish washing my hands. But the nausea is stronger, so I drop down to the toilet and yak up my breakfast.

  Great. Just great. So far, pregnancy is really fucking fun.

  I return to the sink and wash my face, cupping water in my hands to clean out my mouth. I squirt some toothpaste onto my finger and scrub it against my teeth. I turn to the towel rack to dry my hands, but it’s empty. When I open the cabinet to hunt for one, I spot a wooden box tucked under the fresh linens. It’s the kind of box that holds mementos.

  Shrugging, I take a chance.

  What have I got to lose now? I open the lid, and there’s a small padded manila envelope inside. On the outside of the envelope, my mother has written 21 in a Sharpie.

  21?

  The envelope isn’t sealed, and a thick pang of guilt stabs me, but I ignore it and peer inside. My heart springs up inside my chest—I’ve found the buried treasure. I nearly squeal as I paw through more cards. All have different designs of animals in that vintage raised ink. I open one quickly. It’s a card for my thirteenth birthday. Then my ninth. Then my seventeenth. All with strange little notes and tales from the grandparents who supposedly never kept in touch with me. But, it turns out, they always did.

  They kept their promise.

  I take the manila envelope, close the cabin
et, and race downstairs, my heart skittering angrily in my chest. She crossed so many lines, but this is something she took from me—the chance to know them. To know someone else in my family besides her.

  Joanne pours ample amounts of cream into her coffee, stirs in some sugar, and takes a drink.

  “Are you sure they’re really from your grandparents?” Joanne asks. She’s become my sponsor in the Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous Group that she leads and that I still attend regularly, so we meet one-on-one after the meetings.

  “As opposed to?”

  “Maybe they’re notes your mom wrote.”

  “Why would she do that?”

  “I don’t know. I’m trying to look at all the angles.”

  “They are definitely from my grandparents. I don’t remember details, but I know they told me they’d write to me every year. And they are signed Nan and Pop.”

  “So, what do you think you should do about it?” Joanne asks, her hands wrapped around the mug, both her pinkies tapping the ceramic. She’s not knitting right now, and it’s strange to see her needle-free, but her fingers seem to cry out to be busy. Tap, tap, tap.

  “I wish I knew what the cards meant. I don’t even know how to find my grandparents. I don’t know their last name, or my dad’s. She never told me.”

  “She kept that from you? Your father’s last name?”

  Even Joanne, cool, unflappable Joanne, seems perturbed by this.

  I nod. “Yep, and there are no envelopes with the cards, and it hit me why as I was walking to the meeting. She doesn’t want me to know the return address. She doesn’t want me to know my grandparents. Not only did she keep them from me, she never wanted me to know.”

  “But, to play devil’s advocate, if she wanted you to never find them, why not throw out the cards? She kept them,” Joanne says, pointing to the evidence, the manila envelope inside my purse.

  “All I know is she hid these cards and my grandparents from me. For my whole life.”