“What did you just say?”

  “Harley’s pregnant,” he repeats in a steady voice, and I’m so proud of him simply for saying those words to his parents. None of this is easy for him—talking honestly to them is extraordinarily hard. His family is friendly on the outside, but a vault on the inside. “We’re going to have a baby.”

  His mom’s face is unreadable. She says nothing. She doesn’t move a muscle, doesn’t twitch, doesn’t blink. Nerves fly through my body, gnawing away at my bones. This woman scares me. She is so poised and cool, but in this moment, we’ve cut her to the quick.

  “A baby,” she says, finally finding words again. Trey’s dad reaches for her shoulder, clasping it like he’s trying to reassure her of something. But what? That the baby will be fine? Or that she’ll survive this bombshell?

  “Yes, Mom. Harley’s due in late April.”

  “Well, congratulations, son,” his father offers. Then he furrows his brow curiously. “Right? I mean, is this a good thing?”

  “Yes, Dad. It’s a good thing.”

  “Congratulations,” his mom says, her tone wooden. She reaches for her fork. But it’s not there, and she seems surprised that the fork is suddenly missing. “Where’s my fork?”

  I gulp and wait for his mom to say something more about the baby, about Trey, about me. But she doesn’t. The prospect of the lost utensil is far more fascinating.

  “It’s on the floor,” I say, chiming in as I bend down to grab it.

  And my belly moves.

  Or rather, something inside me moves, and kicks me for the first time.

  “Oh my God,” I gasp, and my hands fly to my stomach.

  “Are you okay?” Trey asks, and I can hear the fear in his voice. Before I know it, I am swarmed—all three of them have jumped up from their chairs and are hunched over me as I’m squatting on the floor with a fork in my hand. I glance at each of them, and they are like deer in the headlights, pinned by the predator of their worst fears. In an instant, I see all their pain, all their loss. I hold their worst nightmare, and they’re assuming this is the beginning of the end.

  “I’m great. The baby kicked for the first time,” I say, and I can’t help it—I burst into a grin.

  Trey’s eyes light up. “Are you serious?”

  Standing, I reach for his palm and lay it on my belly. He waits and waits, and soon he’s rewarded with the tiniest of kicks too. He smiles so wide it’s like sunshine lighting up the world, and if we were alone, I know he’d fall to his knees and kiss my belly.

  Then there’s a broken sob, a wail cut short, and Trey’s mom bolts. She heads down the hall into her office and slams the door. I don’t even wait for Trey or his dad to react. I listen to my gut, and my gut says to go to her.

  I rap once on the door. “Mrs. Westin? May I come in?”

  I hear nothing, so I take that as a yes. I turn the handle and open the door, and I find her sunk down in her leather chair, her face in her hands. I grab another chair and pull it up next to hers. Her shoulders are shaking, and she’s trying so hard to be quiet, but her tears aren’t as silent as she likely wants them to be.

  I pat her knee tentatively, rubbing it once, twice. She doesn’t shirk or pull away. “Hi,” I say.

  “Hi,” she whispers.

  “I imagine this must be hard for you. I know it was hard for Trey at first.”

  More shaking, more tears. I inch closer and rub her shoulder. Seconds pass, turning into minutes. But her crying slows, her tears settle, and she manages to speak, even though her head still hangs low. “Are you eating right?”

  “Yes. I’m a very healthy eater.”

  “Are you taking folic acid?”

  “I am.”

  “And did you get an ultrasound?”

  “I did. The baby looks great. I have a very good doctor, and he said everything is going well.”

  “Just because it’s going well doesn’t guarantee anything,” she whispers.

  “I know. But that’s okay. The only way to do this is one day at a time.”

  “Are you sleeping enough? Getting rest?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t do anything to put strain on your body,” she adds.

  “I won’t.”

  Then she looks up, and her eyes are red, her cheeks are stained, but at least she’s meeting my eyes. “Do you know what you’re having?”

  I shake my head. “We decided not to find out.”

  “Have you picked out names?”

  I shake my head again. “We can’t seem to agree,” I say, laughing. “I like Tom and Henry for a boy, but Trey says they’re too traditional. He likes Walker and Travis.”

  “What about for a girl?”

  “We can’t seem to agree on that either. What names do you like for girls?”

  She presses her lips together tightly, and I can tell she’s trying to rein in another round of tears. She pushes through, speaking quickly. “Allison. That was the name we picked out for a girl.”

  I smile. “I like that name.” Then my eyes widen because there he or she goes again. My baby is riding a roller coaster in my tummy. “I think the baby is doing dives.”

  Sadness and memories flood her green eyes. “That was my favorite part,” she says in a choppy whisper.

  I reach for her hand, bring it to my belly, and place her palm over the place where her grandchild is growing inside me.

  Her voice hitches again, but she doesn’t move her hand. She keeps it firmly on my stomach, feeling the baby kick against her hand.

  The tears are unleashed once more. But this time they aren’t only laced with pain—they are mixed with hope.

  18

  Harley

  The plane touches down and the sky is bursting with blue.

  I turn to Trey, and I can’t hide my excitement. I’m tapping my foot, squeezing his hand, and smiling so wide.

  “A little excited, are you?”

  I nod. “Oh God, I hope they like me.”

  He rolls his eyes. “They already like you. They already love you.”

  “They don’t know me. They can’t love me,” I say.

  After the plane taxis to the jetway, I practically bolt out of my seat, but I’m not going anywhere, since we’re all milling about in the aisle.

  I motion for Trey to come closer. “Should I pull the pregnancy card?” I joke. “Pregnant lady. Let her through.”

  He laughs. “We need to save that one. Milk it for when you’re basketball size.”

  He gently runs his hand over my belly and plants a kiss on my cheek. This has become his new normal. Ever since we’ve been together, he’s had his hands all over me. He still touches me all the time, but now he also touches my stomach, runs his hand over the swell of my belly, and waits patiently for kicks. I love watching him change, seeing him start to embrace how our lives are transforming. And because I am an emotional beast, and the hormones swirling in my body make me more so, I lean into him as he scoots into the aisle, and I whisper in his ear, “You’re going to make a great dad.”

  I am rewarded with a smile, and then he gestures me ahead of him as the line starts to move. He carries both our bags, and soon we’re off the plane and heading toward the terminal. My insides are a cocktail of nerves and hope, as they both jostle for space in me. I run through a million what-if scenarios. What if we have nothing to say? What if it’s weird or awkward? What if they don’t like me?

  The nerves intensify as we walk, and he holds my hand tighter, especially when a businessman in a suit nearly bumps into us as he flies by in a race to catch his plane. Announcements of departures and arrivals, of delays and last-minute gate changes, crackle overhead. We near the security checkpoint, and there are throngs of people on the other side, all waiting, craning their necks.

  But then, soon enough, I see them. Debbie and Robert look just like the picture on the café website, smiling and happy and holding hands. There’s a moment when I wonder if I’m supposed to run to them like in the movies. We’d embrace, tears would streak down our faces, and it would be a picture-perfect moment, a family reunion. But instead, I simply walk up to them and say, “Hi, I’m Harley.”

  And Debbie throws her arms around me. “Oh, sweetie. It is so good to see you again.”

  She smells like oranges, and her blonde hair is springy and streaked with sun. Though I hardly remember when I was six, something about this just feels… familiar. Comfortable. Safe.

  Especially when I see her T-shirt. It’s black with a neon-blue cartoonish sketch of a chipmunk.

  “I like your shirt. I have the same one.”

  “You have excellent taste,” Debbie declares, and wraps an arm around me. “And I hope you’ll forgive me for not dressing my age.”

  “Forgiveness granted,” I say, and I can’t stop smiling, because this is so much easier than I’d thought it would be. It’s like we slid right into a natural rhythm.

  Trey clears his throat.

  “Oops!” I turn around, grab his arm, and introduce him.

  “And this, obviously, is Trey,” I say. “My boyfriend.”

  “And as I understand, he’s also responsible for that,” Robert says, pointing at my belly. He smirks and laughs, and Trey joins in too.

  “Yes, sir,” Trey says. “I am indeed responsible for that.”

  Trey extends a hand and the men shake, and I see that Robert has a tattoo on his bicep. Trey notices too, then shakes his head, as if he’s seen a mirage. But nope, my grandfather sports ink on his arm.

  “You have a tattoo of a typewriter,” Trey says, his voice full of surprise.

  “Observant fellow too,” Robert quips, and I think I might be in love with my grandfather’s dry humor already.

  Debbie rolls her eyes. “Watch out for this one—he’s a jokester.”

  “Duly noted.”

  Then Robert returns his attention to Trey. “Yes, I got this hideous thing many moons ago in a galaxy far, far away.”

  “I gotta tell ya, I’ve seen a lot of tats, and done plenty, but I’ve never seen a typewriter tattoo. What made you get that?”

  “Let me tell you the story,” Robert says, and we all start walking out of the airport. “I was a journalism student in college. Thought I was going to be a sports reporter. Travel with the team. Write about every single pitch. Devise fantastic analogies and compelling stories about baseball and how it’ll break your heart. So, one night, feeling all bold and brash, I got a little drunk and got myself a typewriter tattoo. Like it was some kind of emblem, a symbol of my future.”

  “And did you become a sports reporter?” Trey asks as we reach the doors. When we step outside, I am bathed in the most delicious warm air and sun. And even though we’re at the airport, with cars and shuttle buses streaking by, stopping to pick up and drop off passengers, the air feels cleaner and fresher.

  Better.

  Robert shakes his head. “Nope. I was assigned to cover a college basketball game. I hated every minute of it because it sapped all the joy out of watching the game, and I decided that I didn’t want to be a reporter—I wanted to be a fan. And so that’s what I am.”

  “A sports fan with a typewriter tat,” Trey adds.

  “Yep. An ugly, faded one at that, but I wear it like a badge of honor.”

  “That’s the only way to wear one,” Trey says.

  As we reach the parking garage, Robert shoots a lopsided grin at Debbie and me, and points to Trey. “I like this one. He’s a keeper.”

  On the drive to their house, Debbie spends the entire ride twisted around in the front seat so she can chat with us in the back, playing tour guide. She tells us about the old-school feel of Ocean Beach where they live, and the mom-and-pop shops, like bakeries, boutiques, and indie bookstores. Next, she chats about their dog, The Sheriff. After that, she mentions the dinner she has planned for us tonight.

  “You probably figured we were going to take you to Once Upon a Sandwich,” Debbie says with a glint in her blue eyes.

  “I wouldn’t mind.”

  “Nah. We were thinking we’d take you to our favorite burger joint for burgers, fries, and milkshakes. Would that work for you?”

  I glance at Trey, and he’s smiling and nodding. It’s such a simple plan, and it’s so us, and it’s so them, and it feels so right.

  “Do you think he’s watching us?” Trey asks, nodding at the black-and-white border collie.

  I check out The Sheriff. He’s curled up and sleeping on the hardwood floor of our bedroom in the duplex adjoining their cottage-style house. Debbie said they usually rent the duplex, but it’s currently vacant, so we have our own little home on the beach during our stay. It’s bedtime, alone time, on our first night here. Trey has already kissed me madly, nibbled on my collarbone, and stripped me down to nothing. Now, I’m lying naked before him in the dark of a moonlit night in California.

  I shake my head. “Nope. His eyes are closed.”

  “Good,” he says, running his strong hands across my skin. He trails his palms along my thighs, and when he reaches my knees, he parts my legs. My breath is already uneven and needy.

  “Why is it good? Are you going to do something naughty to me? Something you don’t want the dog to see?”

  Trey raises an eyebrow suggestively. “Even if he saw, dogs keep secrets, right?”

  I smile. “So I’ve heard. Their secret-keeping abilities are legendary.”

  “Then he won’t tell a soul what I’m going to do next,” he says, pressing his lips to the inside of my thigh, kissing me behind the knee as he taps his fingers slowly up and down my legs.

  Teasing me.

  So much teasing that I try to wiggle closer.

  “What are you going to do next?” I ask him, arching my hips, trying to bring his delicious mouth where I want it.

  “I want to see if you taste as good in California as you do in New York.” He switches positions, moves up the bed, and flops down on his back. Then he reaches for me, his hands on my hips, moving me farther and farther forward. “Sit on me,” he whispers in a hungry voice that burns with desire.

  “Really?”

  He nods against the pillow. “I want you on my face,” he says, breathing out hard. I don’t know who’s more turned on now, but I know this much—I’m aching for his touch, for the exquisite agony he delivers with his mouth, lips, and tongue. So I don’t ask any more questions. I simply obey, straddling his face and balancing my hands on the headboard. His hands are locked on my hips, and he holds me above him. “This is a beautiful view,” he says, then tugs me down.

  I bite my lip so I don’t scream out in pleasure when he first licks me.

  “Mmm,” he murmurs as he kisses me greedily. He slides his tongue through my sex as his lips consume me. I grip the headboard, digging my fingers into the wood as electricity shoots through me like a hot buzz. I won’t last long, not with his moans and groans as he laps me up and plunders me with his tongue so eagerly, like he’s coveting my pleasure.

  Soon I start to rock into him, to buck against his mouth. He grips my hips harder, grinding me deeper and faster against his mouth until I am awash in a hot charge that pulses throughout my entire body, suffusing me with ecstasy and heat all the way to my fingertips.

  Everything is a blur as I shout his name, the orgasm rocketing through me. I exhale hard, panting still, my legs shaking. Then, as I slow my movements, I’m hit with the most fantastic aftershocks that radiate through me.

  Soon I shift off of him, collapsing on the bed.

  “Holy hell,” I say, still dizzy and glowing from coming so hard on him. “You have a magic mouth.”

  “I guess that was good for you too,” he says with a sly smile.

  “Yeah. Slightly,” I say, and then I glance down at the sleeping dog. “Guess he doesn’t mind our noises either.”

  “I knew he was my kind of wingman,” he says.

  I laugh. “So, what’s the verdict?”

  He turns to his side, brushing his lips ever so faintly against my ear. “You taste like the one thing I will never have enough of.”

  A shiver runs through me at his words. They make me feel both loved and sexy. “Let’s do it in our position,” I say, and I move onto my side too. I reach down between his legs, grasp him in my hand, and bury him inside of me. And I move with him, savoring his sounds, his breath, his ragged pants when he tells me he’s close.

  “Come in me,” I whisper, watching his face strain and twist with pleasure as I bring him over the edge.

  Later, as we lie together, it occurs to me that San Diego is already winning. That the happiest days of my life were here when I was younger, and now to be here with Trey, it seems that California is a bit like paradise.

  19

  Harley

  The sky stretches above us in endless blue, the shade so pure and perfect it seems unreal. The sun inches its way overhead, and the waves crash into the sand, the powerful Pacific Ocean pushing and pulling at the sandy shore with its mighty force.

  “I told you so,” I say to Trey the next morning. “I told you you’d want shorts.”

  He holds up his hands in surrender as he throws another tennis ball to the dog. Trey’s jeans are cuffed up, but the cuffs are soaked. He wears a T-shirt, but without board shorts, he looks out of place on the beach and, frankly, a bit silly.

  “You look like an interloper. Like a city boy. You’re embarrassing me,” I say as I kick sand onto his feet playfully, the grains sliding through my naked toes. I love the feel of the sand on my bare feet, the breeze on my arms, and the salty bite of the waves in my nostrils.

  The Sheriff returns to Trey, trotting by his side and making big puppy-dog eyes at him as we cut across the beach toward the house. Already the dog has adopted Trey, or maybe it’s the other way around. I never knew my guy had that side of him—the dog-person side. Then again, he never knew he did either.

  “I’ve never had a pet,” he told me this morning when he woke up, laughing as The Sheriff licked his face, the dog’s way of asking for breakfast. “But this dog kind of rocks.”