“I was hoping you could do a cherry blossom tree,” the punk girl says, showing me a photograph she took of a tree in Japan, then running her hand from her back across her ribs and to her belly. She explains her vision, and the tat will be huge and incredibly intricate.

  “Give me a few days to work on the design,” I say, and when she leaves, I tell my boss, Hector, about her request.

  “It’s way more complex than the stuff we usually do,” I tell him.

  “Hell yeah. That’s going to take hours. I hope she can sit still for that long,” he says, shaking his head in admiration.

  “I hope I can do it,” I say.

  “Of course you can. You’re my best artist. Just sketch it out. But you should see my buddy, Ilyas, at Painted Ink in Brooklyn. He can give you some pointers. He’s a real artiste.”

  Hector calls Ilyas and sets a time for me to meet with him, and I’m grateful for the potential guidance, and the fact that I just passed another hour without Harley.

  But she’s never far from me. She’s a part of me, and when I leave the shop and walk home, my neck is bent the whole time as I scroll through pictures of Harley on my phone. Harley on the Staten Island Ferry this summer, leaning over the deck railing, her long blonde hair wild in the sea breeze. Her at the Jane Black show we went to at the Knitting Factory, singing along to her favorite songs from the rock star. Then one where she’s all tucked up on my futon, wearing only a long, clingy shirt as she’s reading a book.

  Our summer together.

  I nearly cave one night when I walk over to her block, stare up five flights to her window, and will her to sense me, to fling open the window and joyously call me up. Throw her arms around me and tell me I’m forgiven for being a dick. That doesn’t happen, so I sink down to the stoop and park my ass there for a few minutes, drawing in my sketchbook, mapping out the cherry blossom tree.

  But I feel like a stalker, so I stand, glancing one more time at her window. The pangs of being near her, but not near enough stab like little knives.

  I walk away, leaving her alone like she wants, and I wander around Chelsea, stopping in a bodega, grabbing a bag of chips, and munching on them on my way home. But I don’t want to go home and be without her, so I head for the gym, even though it’s midnight, and I work out for two hours until my body is so tired I have no choice but to crash. But my arms feel empty all through the night.

  The next night, I go to see my brothers.

  A delivery truck backs up along Eighth Avenue, ready to unload food to the all-night grocery store near the park, its persistent beeping mingling with the sounds of cab horns that never stop, cell phone conversations that flood the sidewalks, and music filtering out of bars. I cross the street and reach the park on the next block, stopping at the entryway. Abingdon Square Park is tiny, a triangular patch of greenery that straddles the beginning of Chelsea and the end of the Village. There are benches and a circular walkway, and trees and flowers that line the grass. There are no playgrounds or swings, so it’s a park for contemplation. And, to be honest, for late-night drunk pissing and the homeless, because this is New York after all. There’s no purity in the city; even a park like this could never be a place of respite.

  I head for the trees I planted years ago for my dead brothers—to remember them. I’ve visited it many times. I even brought Harley here a few months ago and she kissed the trees, and I think that was the moment when I knew I was wildly in love with her, and that the love would never stop—it would only grow. And now it’s really growing, and I’m a fucking mess.

  I touch one of the trees. The bark is rough against my hand. But I run my palm along the small trunk, remembering how awful I felt when Will died. How hard it was to tell Harley. How much I miss three people I never knew.

  It makes no sense sometimes. How could I miss a baby? But they were my blood, they were the brothers I never knew, and I miss the lost chance we could have had to be a real family.

  I grip the branch harder, and then I sink to my knees, the grass cool against my jeans. I lean my forehead on the branch and close my eyes, flashing back to the best piece of advice Michelle ever gave me. You can shut off and shut down, but none of those reactions are ultimately going to heal your heart. What will help you is being honest. But don’t jump to conclusions. Don’t make assumptions. Say only what you know to be true.

  I bite my lip, as if I can hold it all in. But it’s simmering inside me, bubbling up. The ground feels uneven, like it’s swaying and ready to crumble under me. I grab harder onto the branch, trying to hold on. But it’s no use. I can’t hold on. I have to let it out. A thick, giant tear rolls down my cheek. “I’m so fucking scared,” I whisper. “I’m so scared the baby is going to join you, and I don’t know how I’m going to get through this in one piece. Because if I lose someone again, I don’t think I can handle it.”

  A nearby car somewhere slams on its brakes, causing a chain reaction of honking horns.

  “You can.”

  Someone is speaking to me, and I stand and swivel around. I see a guy leaving the park, nodding at me, tipping his cap. “You can,” he says again, and walks off into the night.

  I shake my head, because maybe I’m seeing things. Maybe I’m hearing things. But maybe this is an example of the kindness of strangers, saying what you need to hear.

  Fate. It works like that, right?

  I take out my phone and snap a picture of the trees. Then I tap out a message to Harley, baring my truth.

  7

  Harley

  “Let me try. Move your fat ass,” Kristen says, bumping my hip.

  I roll my eyes as I scoot over on the carpeted floor of our apartment. “Oh my God, how long are you going to make fat jokes? I’m only eight weeks along. I’m not even showing, beyotch.”

  She strokes her chin, adopting a contemplative look. “Hmm. Let’s see. If my calculations are correct, I’m going to make jokes for the next seven months. Now, watch what happens when a pro with the camera takes the shot.”

  Kristen is a film major, and I’m not sure that means she takes better cell phone pictures, but I’m just glad to have a partner in crime. She centers her phone in her line of sight, and snaps a photo of one of the vintage cards. Our coffee table is littered with them.

  Kristen has been playing detective with me for a few days now. I started by googling my father’s first name—John—and San Diego. But, big surprise, that didn’t narrow anything down. Then we stopped in a fancy stationery store in the Village and I showed the owner the cards, but she shrugged and said she had no clue where they were from. After that, Kristen pretended to hypnotize me into remembering my grandparents’ names.

  The added benefit of playing detective? It helps me to not think about Trey. I have a focus for my too-busy mind. This is a puzzle, this is something to be solved, this is a task that I can figure out.

  “All right, the weird owl that’s looking at me is done,” she says, pointing to the card with a raised illustration of an owl with huge eyes.

  “That’s what they do. Owls stare.”

  “Spoken like an ornithologist. Now that one.” She snaps a picture of an orange fox with a bushy tail. “And how about the hedgie?”

  I slide the chubby hedgehog card across the wood, and she captures its likeness.

  “All righty,” she says, wiggling her fingers. “Let’s have Google do its magic.”

  She emails me the pictures. I flip open my laptop, download the images, and then upload them into a Google image search.

  I cross my fingers. “Dear Google, please tell me everything.”

  But Google returns a search result for an online store that sells rubber stamps with the owl design.

  I try the others. The hedgie yields a craft shop. And the wise old owl? Nothing but related images of cartoonish owls. I flop down on the carpet. “This sucks. I was hoping to find out who made the cards, or if this is some crazy business my grandparents own, and then I could call them.”

  “I know. And I hate to suggest this, but do you want to try your mom?”

  I snort. “If she kept them from me since I was six, why would she tell me now?”

  “Because she wants you back in her life,” Kristen says matter-of-factly, looking at me over the top of her red cat-eye glasses. “And you can use that as leverage.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Really?”

  She nods, several times. “They do it in all the movies. Trust me.”

  “But I can’t stand her.”

  “Obviously. But she has information you need and want, so we need to figure out how to get it from her. Call her for dinner, and let’s come up with a plan,” Kristen says, rubbing her palms together.

  As I’m about to dial her number, a picture pops up on my phone. A text message from Trey. I hate that my heart bangs wildly when I see his name, because I’m still pissed about what he did. But when I slide open the picture, I clasp my hand against my mouth. It’s a picture of three trees. And a note from him. This is why I’m afraid.

  8

  Harley

  The second I hear the screechy sound of the outside door, I buzz him in. He’s in the building entryway now, and then he’ll be on the stairs, and I can’t wait to see him. I fling open the door, and I’m wearing only a T-shirt and leggings and big fluffy socks, but I run for the stairwell anyway. I can hear him, his boots hitting each step quickly, so quickly, matching my stride. He’s faster than me, and I make it down one flight and he’s there, scooping me up, wrapping me in his arms, and nuzzling my neck and my hair.

  “I’m sorry, Harley. I’m so sorry. You were right. I was terrible. I used you that night, and I’m sorry. I’m so fucking scared. I’m so scared, and I don’t even know what to do with it.”

  I kiss his face, his lips, his cheek, tasting saltiness, and I know he must have cried, and that makes me start to cry. I cup his cheek, stroke his stubbled jawline, and try to reassure him with my touch. “I’m scared too, Trey. We can be scared together.”

  He pulls me closer. “We can do everything together. I don’t want to be without you. I know it’s only been a few days, but I can’t stand it. You have to let me apologize sooner if I’m an ass again.”

  I push his chest. “How about just don’t be an ass again?”

  He shoots me a smile that melts me, that crooked grin lighting up his beautiful face, his green eyes sparkling, the gold flecks in them doing a happy dance. “Yeah, I can do that too. How about I start right now on Project Don’t Be an Ass to the Only Girl I Will Ever Love in My Whole Life?”

  “Okay, show me what you’ve got, Project Manager.”

  He loops a strong arm around my waist and picks me up. I shriek. Then he carries me, Rhett Butler and Scarlett O’Hara–style up the final flight, two by two. My eyes widen. “You’re strong.”

  “Yeah, I am,” he says, and then he elbows open the door and deposits me on my feet, closing the door behind us. “Is Kristen here?”

  I shake my head. “She went to Jordan’s when she heard you were coming over.” He takes my hand, brings me to the couch, and sinks down on it, facing me.

  “Talk to me,” I say. “Just because I let you carry me doesn’t mean I’m that easy. I’m so glad you’re here, but you can’t fall into me and use me again. You need to tell me what you’re feeling. Don’t bury it inside, or in sex.”

  He reaches for both of my hands, clasps them in his, and leans his forehead against mine. “I don’t want to go through something horrible again, Harley,” he whispers.

  “I don’t want to either.”

  “And it would be worse this time. Not just a brother, but a son or a daughter.”

  “I know,” I say softly. “I know.”

  “I can’t lose someone again. I don’t know that I can survive it.”

  “We just have to hope. We have to hope for the best. Because there are no promises.”

  “I don’t want to be scared though. I don’t want to live each day remembering how awful it was to lose them.”

  “So don’t, Trey,” I say, meeting his gaze and not letting go. I place a hand on his cheek, so he has to look at me. “Make a choice. Make a choice to live going forward. We don’t get to have a protective facade.”

  “Some days I just want to escape.”

  “And when you feel that way, you need to talk to me, okay?” I grasp his hands harder for emphasis.

  He squeezes back and nods. “I will.”

  “One day at a time, right? Isn’t that what they all say?”

  “Yeah, but sometimes the fear feels so insurmountable, and I want to be strong for you.”

  “You are strong, Trey. You are.”

  “And then there’s the whole matter of, you know, being twenty-one and having a kid.”

  “This isn’t what I would have chosen for us. Not now, at least. But it’s our reality, and we have to deal with it,” I say, then a dark thought crosses my mind, and I tense and pull away. “Wait. You didn’t come here to end it with me?”

  He stares at me like I’m a puzzle that makes no sense. “Seriously? Did you seriously ask that?”

  I nod, jutting out my chin. “Yes. I seriously asked that.”

  “Let me ask you a question. Do I look insane?”

  I pretend to inspect him, peeking behind his ear, checking out his face. “No.”

  “Then no. Never. You’re not getting rid of me. Because here’s the thing you need to know: I’m in love with you, and we’re a package deal. And that means no matter what, I’m by your side. Whatever happens, I’ll be here. I might be scared out of my mind, but I’m not running. You’re stuck with me, Harley,” he says, and shoots me another lopsided grin that makes my stomach flip.

  I snort. “Well, we’re definitely stuck together now.”

  He slides his hand under my shirt, his fingers feathering against my belly. “Yeah, we are.”

  “But you really hurt me the other night in your kitchen, and you can’t do that again. You can’t have sex with me like I’m not important,” I tell him, pressing my hand against his strong chest.

  “I know. I won’t. I promise,” he says, his eyes locked with mine, so sincere.

  “I’m not a drug, Trey. I’m your girlfriend, and I’m the mother of your child now. I don’t talk to you like I did to my clients, so you can’t talk to me like you did.”

  “I won’t. I swear.”

  “I believe you,” I say. “I just don’t want to be like them. I wish there was a position or something you’ve never done with anyone else. That could be just for me. But that’s stupid.”

  “It’s not stupid, Harley. It’s just I’ve done a lot, and you know that.”

  “I know,” I say in a low voice. “It doesn’t matter. Forget I said it. Besides, I don’t feel like talking anymore.”

  “What do you feel like doing?”

  “Making up,” I say, then I kiss him, and even though his lips have touched mine countless times, it feels like our first kiss all over again. But a new first kiss, a kiss that comes from knowing someone and hurting someone and loving someone and promising you’ll do everything not to hurt them again.

  He kisses me slowly, taking his time, sliding the tip of his tongue across my lips, parting them. There’s something both sweet and dirty in how he kisses me, like it’s a kiss and a teaser of all the other things he can do with his tongue, all the ways he touches me. I moan, roping my arms around his neck, tracing the soft ends of his hair. Then the kiss becomes more urgent, desperate, because we need each other so much.

  His hands are all over me, moving from my neck to my shoulders down to my wrists, and every place he touches me sets off a fresh wave of goosebumps. By the time he reaches my hips, I’m aflame with heat and need.

  “Come here,” he says, pulling me up from the couch.

  “Gladly,” I say, and I figure we’ll head toward my bedroom, but he stops at the bathroom and pulls me inside. He tugs off his T-shirt and starts to unzip his jeans. “There’s something we can do that I’ve never done with anyone before.”

  I narrow my eyes. I might not have done much, but I know about everything. “Um…”

  “Harley,” he says as he turns on the water. “Just a shower.”

  “Good,” I say, and we strip and step under the hot stream. “But you’re really saying you’ve never showered with someone before?”

  He sighs heavily. “I don’t want to dissect everything I’ve done, but I’ve never done this,” he says, as he gently cups my neck and leans my head under the stream of water, letting it wet my long hair so it’s a sleek blanket along my spine. He reaches for my shampoo, squirts some into his hands, and then washes my hair, his strong fingers kneading my scalp as he works the shampoo through my strands. It feels so good that I close my eyes and let the sensations flood me. The gentle way he washes my hair, his fingertips rubbing against my scalp, sends a new kind of pleasure through my body. Not just sexual desire, but peace and calm and warmth from him taking care of me. The way he’s touching me is like a promise of what he’ll do for me, for us, in the future. He leans my head back, washing out the shampoo.

  “That,” he whispers softly in my ear, his words in harmony with the beat of the water against the tile, “is for you only. Always.”

  He soaps up his hands, running them gently over my shoulders, my arms, my belly, and then higher. I bite my lip as he palms my breasts with his lathery hands. He rolls his thumbs under my breasts, and then he groans as he strokes my nipples until they turn to hard peaks.

  He wraps his hands around my ass, cupping my cheeks and tugging me against his wet body, his hard cock rigid against my thigh. I reach for the soap, lathering up my hands.

  “And is this for me too?” I ask, grasping him.

  “Hell yeah,” he says in a husky voice. I grip him harder, and he rocks into my fist. “Always for you.”

  I watch as he closes his eyes and his breathing intensifies as I stroke him in the shower, hot water raining down on both of us, his hard length in my hand. He reaches for the back of my neck, pulling me closer. “This is what you do to me, Harley,” he says, his voice rasping. “You. No one else.”