Lauren Blakely - Every Second With You

“How is your art? Are you still drawing? Designing tattoos?”

I nod.

“You were always so talented. And you’ll be pleased to know, I landed a gallery show. You know how I was pursuing my painting career.”

“Right,” I say.

The boy tugs on her hand.

“Oh! Excuse my manners. Trey, this is my son, Teddy. Teddy, this is Trey.”

I open my mouth again and try to say hi, but I’m in that nightmare where you scream and make no sound. Or maybe I’m in the nightmare where you learn you fathered a kid a few years ago, and you’re even more of a fuck-up than you already thought you were.

“Hi,” Teddy says, and the sound of his voice rips through me.

Not because he sounds like me, because he’s fucking two or three or something. But because he has more guts than I do right now. Because I can’t handle seeing his mom.

“He’s artistic, too,” Sloan says in a knowing whisper. “It runs in the family. Anyway, we have a lot of catching up to do. I just moved back into the building a few months ago, and it would be nice to see you again.”

She waves, turns on her heels, and heads to the elevators because this is just another normal night for her.

For me, it’s as if my plans have capsized.

Harley

I dial his number again.

And again.

And again.

He still doesn’t answer. I swear my fingers are turning numb from calling him.

I try his office, but it’s after hours, and it’s closed.

So I have no other recourse but to hail a taxi and head uptown to see Cam.

He texted me this afternoon to say congrats on your wedding. I didn’t think much of his text at first since I was so busy. Then it hit me—I hadn’t told him. The only way he could know would be from Mr. Stewart.

My heart is hammering against my chest, and I understand now why Trey was so worried. I feel so stupid for not thinking of Cam sooner, but I bet that’s why Mr. Stewart never did a thing to us. Because his bone to pick wasn’t with me; it was always with Cam.

I’m the horse that wouldn’t run. I’m the car that wouldn’t start. But to Mr. Stewart, Cam is the man who sold him a bum nag, a lemon of a vehicle. Cam’s the one he has the beef with—Cam’s the peddler of the product that didn’t perform for one ruthless businessman.

I bang furiously on the buzzer when I reach his Upper East Side brownstone.

“C’mon, c’mon,” I say under my breath, hoping he’s here, hoping he’s safe.

I step away from the door and peer up at the second floor window where I see the silhouette of a woman looking past the curtains.

I push hard on the buzzer once more. The harder I press, the more likely he’ll answer, right? But he’s not the one who answers.

“Hello?”

The voice is somewhat familiar.

“Hi. This is Harley. Is Cam okay? I need to see him.”

“Hold on,” the woman says, and I wait as the buzzer goes silent. I wonder who she is. If Cam has a girlfriend, or a friend, or . . . I cringe inside . . . maybe he hired an escort? Or maybe this woman works in his stable? Maybe she took over from me?

“You can come up,” the woman says, and then buzzes me in. I bound up the steps to his apartment—the entire second floor. I go to knock, but the second my knuckles touch the wood someone opens the door.

“Oh.”

It’s Cam’s receptionist; the woman with the straight blond hair in the perfect bob.

“Hi,” I say. “I’m Harley.”

She nods. “I know. Tess,” she says, extending a hand to shake.

“You’re the . . .”

“Yes. I’m the receptionist, and more.”

More. “Is he okay? Because I have this gnawing feeling in my gut.”

“He has a black eye and a cracked rib.”

My heart plummets, and I clasp my hand over my mouth. “No,” I say, shaking my head, as if I can wish away what she said. “Mr. Stewart?”

Tess nods sadly. “Come in. You can see him.”

She guides me through the entryway and into Cam’s living room, where he’s stretched out on the couch, his feet propped up on a coffee table, and his arm wrapped around his midsection, like he’s holding his ribs in place. He’s watching the television, an old episode of Facts of Life on TV Land. When he sees me, he hits mute, and smiles weakly. He’s bruised and battered under his left eye, a small lake of blue ink from where Mr. Stewart must have connected with face.

Then he notices my stomach and his eyes bug out.

“Well, isn’t this a fine how-do-you-do? You been keeping these kinds of secrets from me? Who’s the daddy? Oh, wait. Don’t tell me. It’s your hubby,” he says, and pats the cushion next to him. I sit down.

“Yes, we got married on the same flight Mr. Stewart was on, but I can’t believe he really did this to you. I’m so sorry,” I say, and my chest aches for him—for him taking the hit for me.

“Well, technically he didn’t do it. Some big ass bouncer type who looked like Vin Diesel was responsible. Because if it were Mr. Stewart, I would have grabbed his bald ass, locked him in a choke hold, and made mincemeat of him. But Vinny Boy is a lot bigger and meaner,” Cam says, flashing me a mega-watt smile.

“How can you smile at a time like this? Aren’t you in pain? Doesn’t it hurt?”

“Baby doll, they’ve got these things known as Vicodin, and I fucking love them. Tess gave me two with a nice big glass of cold milk, and bam. I feel no pain,” he says, and Tess perches on the edge of the couch. Cam gazes at her, doe-eyed, and then pats her hand.

My jaw nearly drops when she slides her fingers into his, and clasps his hand in hers.

“Are you guys a couple?” I point from him to her and back.

She nods. “Yes.”

Cam turns back to me, a sappy smile on his face that almost makes me laugh. He’s so loopy right now from the meds. The fact that he’s not moaning and groaning on the floor only makes me feel the slightest bit better. But not much, because I’m responsible for this mess he’s in. “How long?”

He looks at Tess again. “Few months now,” he says. “She got me on the straight and narrow.”

Tess nods proudly.

“Really?”

“Yep,” she says, beaming at Cam with admiration in her eyes.. “He pursued me, and I made it clear he needed to clean up his act, or there’d be no Tess in his life.”

“So you stopped your side business?” I say, shocked that Cam’s no longer a pimp, and no longer a loner.

He shrugs. “What can I say? Couldn’t let a gal like Tess pass me by. I always spied her reading at the desk, and it turned out we had the same taste in books. Besides, getting pummeled in the eye does make a man reassess his priorities in life.”

Tess turns to me. “And I want to thank you for giving him that Sophie Kinsella book,” she says with a flirty bump of her shoulder against him. “We read it together.”

“That’s adorable.” I smile again, and something just feels right about this. About Cam changing his stripes. Even if he never did, I’d still care for him, because his heart is in the right place. But to see him kick his old habits for a woman is even sweeter.

The only problem is, he’s paying my debt, and I can’t let him.

“So, what happened?” I ask again, returning to the issue at hand—the damage Mr. Stewart’s heavy wreaked on my former man. “I feel terrible. This is all because of me.”

“Oh, this one was for the elephants.”

“What?” I ask, furrowing my brow.

Cam sighs deeply, holds his arms out wide, and then winces, as if he just remembered it hurts to gesture like that. “Old Vinny Boy said Mr. Stewart’s elephant charity is way down in donations since the gala. He seems to think there’s a connection between him being stood up by you last summer, and the lack of funds.”

“That’s crazy.”

“I know,” he says. “But what can you do?”

“Cam,” I press. “I need to do something. Or he’s going to keep coming around and hurting you.”

But I haven’t the slightest clue what to do. How on earth can I fend off Mr. Stewart’s random acts of retribution against Cam?

“That man’s crazy. He claimed he’d leave me alone if I shored up his failing charity, but it’s not like I have 50K just lying around. Why does he think I got into the side biz in the first place? Your old man Cam had way too much debt to pay, and I just got myself out of it. Now he thinks I’m going to hand over some blood money,” Cam says, shaking his head.

Tess reaches over and pets his hair. He leans into her touch, and pretends to purr. “Mmmm. That feels good, baby,” he says, and then takes a deep breath. But as he exhales, he winces, his face contorting, his shoulders pulling in.

Shit. I’ve done this to him. I drop my head in my hands. The past is a ghost, lurking in dark corners, hiding in alleys, silent, but dangerous. Even when you think you’ve done your time and made your amends, the past chains you up again, reminding you that you’re a prisoner to all the bad things you’ve done.

Some debts are never paid.

All this time, I thought Miranda would trip me up. That someone from my memoirs would recognize themselves, track me down, and hold my stories against me. But instead, my blood debt is to the man I left alone at a charity fundraiser. A man who loves elephants more than people.

Then my brain hits the brakes, and I swear I can hear my mind backpedal. Not to the gala. But to Miranda.

I raise my head. “Miranda,” I say out loud, her name like a hiss on my tongue.

“Your mom’s editor?”

I can see the deck of cards in front of me, the hand I’ve been dealt. All I have to do is play them right. But I know how to do this. I watched my mother for years. I saw her juggle source after source, story after story. Now all I have to do is play it on the other side. “Cam, do you still have contacts at other papers? Or news outlets? Online? Besides my mom, obviously,” I quickly add.