Trey rolls his eyes. “Whatever. I got it for her.” He points to me. “But never gave it to her.”

  Jordan puts his hand on his heart. “Oh, it gets better. You’re regifting.”

  “Shut up.”

  Kristen reaches for the card. “Don’t mock this. Towels aren’t cheap, and I’m going shopping tomorrow and you’re coming with me.”

  I tap Trey’s shoulder. “Not that I’m upset, but why would you get it for me and never give it to me?”

  “It wasn’t right for you,” he says in a low voice. “Besides, I’m working on something else for you. I promise.”

  He drapes his arm around my shoulder and pulls me in close, and I feel safe and warm. I turn my gaze to the window and the wintry Manhattan night beyond the glass. Snow is starting to fall—this will be one of my last snows for a long time. We leave in thirty-six hours, and I’ll miss so much about New York, but so little too. I said goodbye to Joanne earlier today, and she made me promise I’d go to SLAA meetings in San Diego. I told her I’d already looked up times and locations.

  “I’m proud of you, and I’m also pissed, because I knitted baby booties that you won’t need,” she said.

  “I definitely won’t need booties. But thank you, and I’m glad you’re proud of me,” I said, swiping away a tear. “I won’t forget that you’re the one who showed me the ugly beautiful.”

  “And now you can take it with you, wherever you go.”

  I feel that way about my friends too, like Kristen, and Cam. Because even though they won’t be coming to California, there are pieces of them that will always stay with me.

  The most important parts of my life are coming with me though. I snuggle in closer to Trey, and he wraps me tighter in his embrace.

  Somewhere out there, our new life is about to begin.

  It is our last night in New York, before our nine a.m. flight tomorrow. Trey got a hotel room just for fun, he said. And because we’ve never spent the night in a hotel, so why not?

  Why not, indeed?

  Before I meet him at The Time Hotel in the heart of Midtown and we pretend we’re fancy, cool people who stay at kick-ass hotels all the time, there is something I must do.

  I wrap my purple scarf from Joanne around my neck, pull up the collar on my warm coat, and brace myself as I walk from the subway stop through the late afternoon crowds along Central Park West. The cold bites my cheeks, and my boots crunch against the remnants of last night’s snow. Not much is left, and what remains has become yellow and dirty. I turn onto the familiar block.

  I’ve spent nearly my whole life in this city with one person. And I may never see that person again. I’m fine with that, but there is someone else who may not be, and it’s not fair for me to make the choice for my baby. I’m not going to do to my kid what my mom did to me.

  I knock on my mother’s door. When she answers, she seems surprised to see me. Then she straightens her spine, smooths her hair, and flashes a smile. She’s not Barb Coleman for nothing. She knows how to pretend everything is fine and dandy, but the dark circles under her eyes—mostly artfully concealed by makeup, but not entirely—give her away. She’s still not sleeping well.

  “Harley, I’ve been following the news. Quite an eventful few days in the publishing world. Would you like to come in?”

  I shake my head. Even though I’m shivering and the warm air from inside my one-time home rushes to greet me, it won’t lure me in.

  I used to think I was like her. I used to feel as if we were sisters. Now I know we are not the same. And I won’t ever be like her.

  I am breaking the cycle.

  “I came here to let you know I’m moving to San Diego with my husband. I’m finishing school there, and I’m living with Nan and Pop. We’re going to raise our baby there. I want you to have my address and my contact information. I won’t do to my kid what you did to me—I won’t cut you out of his or her life,” I say, then I reach into my pocket for a sheet of paper, and I hand it to her. “That has my info on it. I’ll send you a picture when the baby’s born. And I also included the name and number of a really good shrink in the city—Michelle Milo. She specializes in intimacy issues. You might want to think about getting some help for yours.”

  She says nothing, but she takes the piece of paper, folds it up, and stuffs it into her pocket.

  “Travel safely, my dear.”

  And those are the last words she says to me. I wish she’d said, Thank you, I’ll go start therapy. I wish she’d said, Sorry. I wish she’d said, I’m proud of how you’ve changed.

  Yet travel safely is all I get, and I suppose in the scheme of things, it’s all I truly need.

  Sometimes, we want so much more, but I walk away content that I have all I need.

  31

  Harley

  “Do you realize I can get a complimentary overnight hand-polished shoeshine? I honestly can’t think of anything I’d rather have more right now.”

  “Do it. Get your flip-flops shined,” I tell Trey, as he flips through the list of amenities this chichi hotel offers its very posh guests.

  “But there’s also the nightly turndown service,” he says, tapping the picture of a freshly made hotel bed, with the white sheet pulled down over a dark-blue comforter, exactly like the one we’re lying on.

  He pretends to stare thoughtfully at the ceiling, as if he’s considering which services to partake of. “Or room service,” I suggest, even though we already had dinner at Serafina, an Italian restaurant that’s part of the hotel.

  “We just ate. Don’t tell me the two of you are hungry again.”

  “That was two hours ago,” I point out. “I might have room for dessert.”

  He tosses aside the list of amenities, and it hits the carpet with a dull thud. Then he tugs me close to him. “I’ve got dessert for you,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows playfully.

  “I bet you do. You always do.”

  “And I always will. But I actually have that gift I’m working on for you.” He hops up from the bed and heads over to the chair where he left his backpack, then returns with his sketchbook. Clutching it tight to his chest, he says, “It’s not done yet. But I’m working on something for you. And the baby.”

  A ribbon of excitement unfurls in me as I eagerly watch him open the sketchbook. “Here it is,” he says, showing me two pages.

  He’s sketched out a gorgeous beach, with bright blue waves rolling onto golden sand that stretches to the edges of the pages. In the middle of the image, a girl—she’s maybe six or seven—runs across the sand, looking over her shoulder. She holds her hands up to the sky, as if she’s catching snowflakes. But she’s reaching for the sparkles that are raining down. It’s reality meets magic; it’s the world we live in with a touch of the fantastic. But more than that, it’s the illustration of the first card my grandparents sent me, the story I told them that they began echoing back to me years ago on every birthday.

  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…

  I trace my finger over the drawing, as if I can ignite the magic in it, as if my touch can bring it to life. But it’s already alive; it’s already breathing in its own way. I turn to Trey, and he has a hopeful look in his eyes.

  “I love it so much,” I tell him. “This is the coolest thing I’ve ever seen.”

  “You really like it?”

  “No,” I say, correcting him firmly. “I love it.”

  “I’ll do the whole set of them. I can illustrate them all if you want.”

  I shake my head in amazement at what he’s done. “How is it that I found you? Do you realize how lucky we are?”

  “To have each other?” he scoffs. “I realize it every second of every day.”

  “Do you think it’s luck?” I trail my fingers down his arm, tracing the outline of the ink on his bicep.

  “I think it’s fate,” he says softly.

  “You do? You believe in fate?”

  Scooting closer to me, he rests his hand on my hip bone, his thumb stroking a lazy rhythm there. “I do, in the sense that I believe some things are inevitable. The sun rises, the moon travels around the earth, you were meant for me, and I was meant for you,” he says.

  “So, you and me, we’re on the same cosmic level as the sun and moon and stars?” I raise an eyebrow.

  But he is resolute. “Yes. Because here’s my reasoning. Think about the alternative. About us not being together.”

  I shudder at the absolute wrongness of that image.

  “See? You and me not being together is like a snowstorm in Hawaii. It’s like a glacier on the sun. It doesn’t happen. It can’t happen. Because there’s no way we aren’t meant for each other, Harley. There’s no way it can be anything but this,” he says, pointing from him to me and me to him, and his certainty is the balm to my soul. And I want more of it, of him.

  “Kiss me, then. Kiss me like it’s fate.”

  “Gladly,” he says, curling his fingers around my neck and bringing my lips to his.

  I moan the second he makes contact. His lips are so soft, and he kisses me so tenderly, but with so much pent-up fire that soon I’m grasping for him, tugging him close, wrapping a leg over his thigh, sliding a hand up his shirt, spreading my fingers across the hard planes of his belly.

  We kiss like that for some time, all sighs and moans and bodies pressed together, hands exploring, hearts beating wildly, until the heat between the two of us is too much. It’s like we’re in a cocoon of love and lust and want, our own little private world of desire. And it’s always like this.

  Then he pulls back. “Do you remember the time on the beach?”

  “Of course.”

  “I want to watch you.”

  “Watch me?”

  A grin spreads across his face. “I want to see you touch yourself. For me.”

  I pause. Trey and I have done a lot, but I was new to all of this before him and this is vulnerability on a new level.

  But Trey and I share everything, and I want to experience this intimacy with him too.

  I nod, and he begins stripping me slowly, reverently. He arranges the pillows against the headboard, making a cushion for me. “Lie down,” he tells me, and I do, resting my back against the pillows.

  “I want what you want. But I would really like for you to be naked too while I do this,” I say.

  He reaches for the hem of his T-shirt, lifting it over his head, and my breath catches at the sight of his naked chest. I’ve seen him naked so many times, and every time he’s beautiful. My eyes wander to the ink on his chest, tracing it, imprinting it again in my mind, as my fingers begin roaming over my body, all the places I like to be touched—my neck, my collarbone, my breasts, my belly.

  Trey pauses in the act of unzipping his jeans and pushing down his boxer briefs, fixated on me as I part my legs, letting my knees fall open. His eyes widen, and he stares between my legs. The heat of his gaze makes me hotter, wetter.

  Then he’s completely naked too, and the sight of him, unable to keep from stroking himself, his eyes on me the whole time, sends a rush of heat through my body. The fire settles between my legs where I ache for him. And because I can’t help it, because I am comprised of nothing but lust and love, I start to lift my hips, my body taking over, then I lower my hand between my legs and slide my fingers across myself.

  “Oh, fuck,” he says as I open wider, rubbing myself where I am swollen and needy for touch. “You touching yourself is the hottest thing I have ever seen.”

  I don’t stop moving, I don’t stop touching, because I am so turned on I think I may actually slide into another realm of pleasure, where touch and sensation are all that exists. I begin rubbing harder, grabbing one of my breasts with the other hand, pulling on a nipple. Suddenly, Trey moves, pressing his hands on the inside of my thighs and spreading me further, then he buries his face between my legs, and I scream.

  It feels so good.

  My head falls back, my shoulders sink, and my grip on reality loosens and falls to dust. He devours me with his mouth, those soft lips kissing me greedily, his tongue lapping me up. He breaks away for one brief second. “Come on me,” he says hungrily. “Come on my face, now.”

  He returns to me, licking and kissing with fervor until my hips shoot off the bed and I am writhing and shouting his name, screaming out with pleasure that is consuming my whole being. I shatter into a million beautiful pieces and ride this orgasm to the far ends of the earth and back.

  Then he’s hovering over me, his arms pinning me, his hard length between my legs. “I need to be inside you,” he says, his voice bordering on a growl. His green eyes are so dark, so intense. I’ve never seen him look like this before, like he’s going to take me.

  “I want you inside me,” I say, and I’m still floating the waves of my orgasm as he enters me in one swift move, filling me completely.

  “You are so hot and wet.”

  “You made me this way,” I say, as I reach for his shoulders and pull him closer. I wrap my legs around his ass, opening myself up further to him, to take him in as far as he can go.

  He bends his head to my neck, burning a trail of kisses on my skin, making his way to my ear. “I love it so much. I love how turned on you get. You touching yourself was so fucking sexy.”

  Grabbing his firm ass, I pull him deeper into me, his hard length rubbing against me where I want him the most. “Because it was for you. That’s why I got so turned on,” I say.

  “I told you, that’s why we’re perfect for each other. Because of this. Because of how we are together. Because of everything.”

  I grapple at his back, his hips, clutching him, wanting to be closer than we’ve ever been before as he drives into me so far, so deep, that neither one of us can speak anymore. All we can do is feel. I feel him so completely, so wholly that I’m not even sure when my climax begins because it feels like it’s been happening the entire time, as if I’ve been coming since I started touching myself, and now I’m coming again with him, as we ride the intensity of our passion.

  32

  Harley

  Four Months Later

  It’s not a stretch when I say the last four months in San Diego have been the happiest of my life. The busiest too.

  I finished my junior year of college, I learned to drive, and I’ve expanded to the size of a house. I’ve gone shopping with Debbie’s daughter, who lives nearby and has two kids a few years younger than me. I’ve also spent a winter in shorts and sandals, served sandwiches when I’ve filled in at Once Upon a Sandwich, and gone to the movies every Saturday night with Trey, Debbie, and Robert. It’s become our tradition, and I love it.

  We still don’t have a name for the baby, but every night Trey and I toss out new options, and I kibosh his ideas and he nixes mine. I’m pretty sure we’re at the point where we’re each blackballing the other’s ideas just for fun. But soon, we’ll have to settle on names.

  Meanwhile, my husband has landed a job at one of the best-known tattoo shops on Ocean Beach. He entered some of his designs in a contest, and he won his first award as an artist for a cherry blossom tree he inked on a woman’s upper back. He also learned to drive too—and gave Robert an ulcer in the process, because it turns out Trey has quite the lead foot.

  Trey’s better now behind the wheel, and I’ve told him that driving like an old man is much more appreciated by his wife and child. So as he parks at the doctor’s office for my thirty-six-week appointment, gently gliding the Honda into a spot, I pat him on the arm, thanking him for his “feathery touch.”

  In the exam room, the nurse weighs me and takes my blood pressure, telling me everything looks good. The doctor listens for the heartbeat and checks my cervix, then examines my hands, face, and ankles for swelling.

  “It can be a sign of preeclampsia,” she says in an offhand way.

  “Oh. Do I have that?”

  “I don’t see any evidence that you do,” she adds. “If you notice any unusual swelling, weight gain, or headaches, let us know and we’ll check you again.”

  “Unusual weight gain beyond having to roll me down the hall because I’m so ginormous?”

  She smiles briefly at my comment. “Your weight is perfect, Harley.”

  Then she reviews for me the signs for Braxton Hicks versus real contractions, and I make a mental note to look them up again later, because how on earth will I tell the difference?

  “Do you have any questions?”

  I raise my hand, even though I’m the only one in the exam room. “Can I still have sex? It’s not going to break my water or anything, is it?”

  She shakes her head. “You have a perfectly normal pregnancy, and sex won’t hurt you or the baby. So, by all means, enjoy yourself. It’s a great way to take your mind off the final weeks.” Then she lowers her voice to a stage whisper. “I did right up till the end for both my pregnancies. Just find a position that works for you.”

  When I’m done, Trey’s waiting patiently in the waiting room with other expectant parents, the fathers forming a motley crew of men—some middle-aged with bald patches, some sharp in their suits and ties, one in blue coveralls with a name patch from Bob’s Mechanics, and then my guy, with thick hair I love to run my fingers through, strong arms covered in ink, and that gorgeous face, those sculpted cheekbones, and the scar that’s still as sexy to me as it was the night I met him.

  That young, handsome, thoroughly-in-love twenty-two-year-old husband of mine. We are kids having a kid, and maybe some of these other parents think we’re a joke, but I know we have an unbreakable bond. We have a brave and crazy, messy and honest kind of love. Eight months ago, I was terrified of how he’d react to the news, and I was petrified of having a kid. Now, I’m almost there, just a few more weeks until I’m a mother. A mother. It’s so huge and so scary and so amazing. I know so very little, but I know, too, that we have all the essential ingredients, and more—because we have Debbie and Robert by our side.