Every Second With You

Chapter Twelve

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 eight weeks. I’m not even showing, beyotch.”

She strokes her chin, adopts 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.

Kristen 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, I wasn’t able to narrow it 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 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’s 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 a tree. And a note from him. This is why I’m afraid.