Lauren Blakely - Every Second With You

I never used to feel like I fit in. Back in high school, and even in my first year of college, I felt like a liar, even when I walked through the hallways. I might have been a student like the rest of them, but I was a call girl at night, with a clandestine life, a secret wardrobe, and another name. Here, today, I fit in perfectly, and I love it. I no longer feel like a girl leading a double life.

I am one girl; I am whole.

I survey the menu above the counter and it has all my favorite kinds of sandwiches on it. “Have I ever told you that sandwiches are my favorite food in the whole world?”

“Only twenty times. That’s why I brought you here.”

I laugh, and then it’s our turn so I order the Brutus.

We make our way to a table in the back, but Trey points to the Frogger machine. “Want to go for a round? I’ve been watching this video-game show Let the Wookie Win, so I’ve got all my Frogger skills down.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Really? Frogger tips on a web show?”

“Yeah. Watch,” he says, sliding in a quarter, then proceeding to dart and dodge around every truck, car and cab on the street in the game.

“I had no idea you had this hidden talent,” I tease, and then he loops his arm around my neck, kisses my forehead, and for a moment I feel like we’re just a regular guy and a girl having lunch on a Saturday, our only cares whether we’ve studied for our test on time. And yet, it doesn’t entirely feel like an illusion, because we both know the score, we’re not fooling ourselves. We’re allowed to do normal things, aren’t we? Just because we’re going to be parents in seven months doesn’t mean we can’t play an arcade game, right?

I answer the question for myself.

Right.

We finish the game, and he beats me handily. When our food order is called, he grabs our sandwiches and we sit down and eat.

“So, what do we do now?” he asks when he’s done with his sandwich.

“Well, generally speaking, we bus the tables, and toss out the napkins,” I say, teasing him.

“Ha ha. Funny girl. What are we going to do about the baby? Are you going to finish school? Work full-time? Drop out? Get a shack in Jersey?”

I’m surprised by the simple directness of the questions. How he asked without a preamble or awkwardness. Most of all, he asked without freaking out. My guy is making progress. Majorly.

I snort. “Hopefully not the shack in Jersey.”

He shifts over to my side of the booth, taking my hand in his, grasping it for emphasis. “I want you to finish school, Harley. You can’t drop out.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“We have to be smart then, about everything, and I have an idea.”

There’s a nervous look in those green eyes.

Trey

Funny, how we try to plan for things, and anticipate perfect moments, but then life comes and punches our plans in the mouth, leaving us with big fat lips. But then moments circle back around, and they become more perfect than we could have planned. And this is so much better than a Bed Bath and Beyond card, or the T-shirt I wanted to buy her.

Because this is real, and it’s what we have to do, and it’s the next step. “Harley, will you move in with me?”

She furrows her brow, leans away from me. “Wow. I didn’t expect that.”

“Well?”

“I live with Kristen,” she says, pointing out the blatantly obvious.

It irks me slightly, but I push forward. I’m not backing down. “Harley, we’re having a kid. And you act like moving in together is weird?”

“We have a lease and stuff.”

“I know. But it ends eventually, right?”

She nods. “December, I think.”

“Move in with me then. You need to finish school, and there’s no reason for us to have two places. I know you’re not hurting for money in the short term, and I’m not either, but at some point we have to be smart, right?”

“Are you asking me to move in to save money?”

I shake my head and laugh. “Seriously?”

She shrugs, but her cheeks start to flush, and she knows she asked a silly question.

“I’m asking you to move in with me because I’m ridiculously in love with you. And for the record, I was going to ask you before you told me you were pregnant. This is something I want for us.”

“Really? You were going to ask before?” Her lips start to curve up.

“Yes.” I trace her top lip, mapping the beginning of her smile with my fingertip. “So is that a yes?” This time I’m not going to freak out. I’m not going to shut down. I’m going to face up to the future like a man, and I’m going to be the man she needs.

She nods happily. “Yes. You are always a yes. End of the year let’s move in together.”

Then she kisses me, sealing our deal, and doing that thing she does to me with the slightest touch.

Turn me on.

She turns me on, always. Constantly. I groan as she nips my lips lightly, and then kisses me in a thoroughly sweet but intensely seductive way. She breaks the kiss to whisper in my ear. “You taste like a yummy sandwich.”

I laugh. “So do you.”

“I want more.”

“More sandwich or more me?”

“Both in general. But right now, more you,” she says in a low voice as she presses her lips against my jaw, and runs a hand down my arm, making me harder.

“Now, you’re not playing fair. I have a meeting in ten minutes, and you’re killing me, but I have to take a rain check.”

Ilyas strokes his beard absently as he shows me the needle he uses for thin branches. “See? It’s like a sewing needle,” he says. Ilyas is built like a football player, inked like a biker, and he speaks with an accent that’s some kind of combination of Greek and Russian. We’re in the back of his shop, and the front is filled with customers. He employs several artists and they are hard at work on this busy day.

“Like this?”

I press the needle against my forearm, demonstrating.

“Yes. Exactly,” he says, nodding.

“And that’s how I do the leaves?”

“That is precisely how you do the leaves, but first you have to see the leaves,” he says, closing his eyes, drawing in a deep breath and widening his hands in front of his face. “Like a vision. You see them, you draw them, and then you ink them.” Yeah, so he’s also a combination of arty and precise, too. “It is best when they are delicate. Have you seen ugly tattoos of trees? Fat, non-descript branches? Splotchy leaves? Hideous blossoms?” He spits on the black tiled floor, disgusted even by the mention.

I nod. “Yeah. I’ve seen some like that. I don’t want to do ones like that.”

“No. You don’t. You want to make transcendent ones. You want a tattoo that is like a painting. That moves someone, like a museum piece can do. Do you know how to do that?”

I flash back over the ink I’ve designed, the ways clients have responded, the remade heart on Harley’s shoulder. I grab my phone and show Ilyas a picture of her heart and arrow tattoo.

“That is very good. Hector said you had great talent. And if you want to make this cherry blossom, you need vision, a needle and a steady hand. And practice. I want you to draw and draw and draw, every day and night, until the cherry blossom feels like a part of you. Like a part of your heart.”

I nod.

“Come now. You watch me. I am starting a lily design in ten minutes using this technique.”

Then I spend the rest of the hour studying Ilyas’ technique, memorizing the move of the needle, the focus in his eyes, the way he shades in the lines.

When he’s done, he shows his client the design, and she gasps in awe.

That reaction never gets old. It’s one of the reasons why I do what I do For the priceless moment when a client first sees his or her ink.

“It’s gorgeous,” she says, and throws her arms around Ilyas.

After she’s done, he walks me out. “Now, you go. And you practice. You will show me the tree you make this week, and if it’s as good as Hector says, then I will introduce you to some artists you can learn even more from.”

“That would be amazing.”

I thank him many times over. Things are falling into place. This feels like potential, like possibility, like a future that makes sense. The more I hone my craft, the more I can grow and improve in my job.

As I leave, it hits me that my job is not just for me anymore.

Trey

I must be made of iron.

Harley’s been sitting topless on my futon for the last hour. The window is open, and a warm breeze filters in, mingling with The Postal Service playing faintly on my phone. The heat wave has broken, but it’s still September, and there’s a light sheen of sweat on her neck. It takes all my resistance not to lick her right now.

But then, resistance is something I’ve learned to manage better. We both went to an SLAA meeting this evening—she to the girls,’ me to the guys,’ and then we came back here so I could practice.

She’s behaved too, sitting cross-legged, wearing only a pair of white cotton underwear, as she reads a book for her literature class and I draw on her chest. Her blond hair is twisted with a pencil on top of her head, and a few loose strands have fallen. One sticks to her neck, the heat making it curl. She is the perfect canvas, and I’m nearly done. She twitches once as I finish shading in the last pink blossom right under her collarbone using a tattoo stencil pen.

“Stay still,” I tell her in a soft voice.

“I am,” she says, never taking her eyes off the pages.