Chapter Four
Harley
The first words on the card are like a headline, in big, thick letters: The Stories We Promised to Tell You.
Then, under them:
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 . . .
And that’s all. It’s signed Nan and Pop.
I read the words again on the muggy subway platform, waiting for the downtown train. I read it on the subway car as it slaloms through underground New York, its lights flickering once around a bend, blasting us with darkness for a few seconds. I read it once more as I walk the few blocks to my apartment, weaving in and out of the early evening crowds who are returning home from work, their earbuds or their phones keeping them company.
The card is odd, too, on some sort of vintage letterpress paper, with a raised drawing of a red aardvark in the sand. Something you don’t find in the Hallmark section of Duane Reade, that’s for sure.
But the more I repeat the words, the less I understand them. They feel like a code, and I don’t have the key to decipher this strange sort of story from my grandparents, made stranger because I thought I was persona non grata to them.
I don’t know where they live, or if they’re still in San Diego. I don’t even have the same last name as my dad’s parents. When my parents split, my mom returned to her maiden name, and changed my name, too. A neat, clean break, severing me from his side of the family.
The two of us against the world.
Now, I am untethered from her, but tied to someone I don’t even know who is using my body to build limbs and lungs and nails and eyes, all from the DNA of mine that clung wildly, and unexpectedly, to Trey’s.
* * *
The air conditioner in the window chugs loudly, then spews a thick blast of icy air into the living room. As I deliver my news to Kristen, I welcome the chill. It suctions the day off me.
“I’m a train wreck, don’t you think?”
Kristen shakes her head. “No. You’re not. I swear I don’t think that.”
I don’t know if she’s more shocked now than when I told her I used to be a call girl in high school. “That’s because you expect me to be a f*ck-up.”
“You keep my life interesting, that’s for sure,” Kristen says sweetly, petting my hair as I flop down on the couch and rest my head in her lap.
“What am I going to do? I want to finish college. I want to get my degree. I don’t want to be one of those girls on a reality TV show.”
“So don’t be.”
I scoff. “How?”
“Don’t be,” she repeats. “Be different. You don’t have to be messed up. You don’t have to quit school. You somehow found a way to be a call girl and get good grades in high school,” she says, and if anyone but Kristen said it I’d punch them. But she says it admiringly.
“Like that’s an impressive accomplishment?”
“In a way, it is. You balanced crazy-ass shit. You’ll do that here, too. You don’t have to quit school to have a baby. There are a million ways to deal with this. And you’re not alone. I will help however I can.”
I reach for her hand and squeeze it. “How did I get so lucky to have you as my bestie?”
“I could say the same. And you know, there is a father involved to help, too,” she says, looking at me pointedly. “And you need to tell Trey.”
“Obviously.”
“When are you going to tell him?”
“He’s at the gym right now. He texted earlier that he wanted to see me when he was done.”
“You need to tell him soon,” Kristen adds.
But telling him feels like dropping the blade on my own neck. Insert head in guillotine. Pull the rope. Watch head roll. “I’m so scared to tell him,” I say, a thick sob lodging in my throat.
“I know, sweetie. But he’s stronger than you think.”
I don’t know if he is, though. I don’t know if he can handle this.
A few minutes later, the phone rings. Trey’s name flashes on the screen. It’s past nine, now.
“Kristen, can you tell him I have another headache and I went to sleep?”
She shoots me a sharp stare from above her red glasses. “Really?”
I sigh heavily, and another tear roadblocks my throat. “I get a pass right now. Don’t I?”
She huffs. “Fine. But this is your one and only I-haven’t-told-my-boyfriend-I’m-preggers-so-I’m-asking-my-roomie-to-lie-for-me pass. Got it?”
I’d like to laugh. Really, I would. “Let’s hope I don’t have to use it again.”