I am breaking the cycle.

“I came here to let you know I’m moving to San Diego with my husband. I’m finishing school there, and I’m living with Nan and Pop. We’re going to raise our baby there. I want you to have my address and my contact information. I won’t do to my kid what you did to me. I won’t cut you out of his or her life,” I say, then I reach into my pocket for a sheet of paper, and I hand it to her. “That’s my info on it. I’ll send you a picture when the baby’s born. And I also included the name and number of a really good shrink in the city—Michele Milo. She specializes in intimacy issues. You might want to think about getting some help for yours.”

She says nothing, but she takes the piece of paper, folds it up, and stuffs it into her pocket.

“Travel safely, my dear.”

And those are the last words she says to me. I wish she’d said, “Thank you, I’ll go start therapy.” I wish she’d said “Sorry.” I wish she’d said, “I’m proud of how you’ve changed.”

Yet travel safely is all I get, and I suppose in the scheme of things, it’s all I truly need.

Sometimes, we want so much more, but I walk away content that I have all I need.

As I head toward the crosswalk, I spot a dark-haired girl who grew up on the same block. She’s a few years younger than me, but has always seemed worldly in her own way, as if she knew too much, saw too much for her age. Like me. She’s walking in my direction, fiddling with a sparkly charm necklace hanging at her throat, visible even with her coat on.

“Hey Harley.”

I wave. “Hey Kennedy. How’s it going?”

Her lips part, as if she’s not sure what to say. “It’s going,” she says with a sigh.

“I know what you mean. When do you graduate?”

“Not soon enough.”

I laugh. “I guess you’re ready to get out of the house and away from your mom?”

“Like you wouldn’t even believe.”

She’s a kindred spirit. I don’t know all the details, but she’s got one of those big, bold, brash moms, and I’ve always had a hunch Kennedy craved freedom from her. I’m glad I found mine. I hope Kennedy finds her escape too.

“You’ll get there,” I say, because I want to encourage her, even for one brief instant, as Joanne has done for me so many times. “Even when it seems hard, you’ll get there. And you won’t regret it.”

Her shoulders relax, and her lips curve up. “You have no idea how much I needed to hear that right now.”

I smile, glad that I was able to give her what she needed at a random moment in time.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Harley

“Do you realize I can get a complimentary overnight hand-polished shoeshine? I honestly can’t think of anything I’d rather have right now.”

“Do it. Get your flip flops shined,” I tell Trey, as he flips through the list of amenities this chichi hotel offers its very posh guests.

“But there’s also the nightly turn-down service,” he says, tapping the picture of a freshly made hotel bed, with the white sheet pulled over a dark blue comforter, exactly like the one we’re lying on.

He pretends to stare thoughtfully at the ceiling, as if he’s considering which services to partake of. “Or room service,” I suggest even though we already had dinner at Serafina, an Italian restaurant that’s part of the hotel.

“We just ate. Don’t tell me the two of you are hungry again.”

“That was two hours ago,” I point out. “I might have room for dessert.”

He tosses aside the list of amenities, and it hits the carpet with a dull thud. Then he tugs me close to him. “I’ve got dessert for you,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows playfully.

“I bet you do. You always do.”

“And I always will. But I actually have that gift I’m working on for you.” He hops up from the bed and heads over to the chair where he left his backpack, then returns with his sketchbook. Clutching it tight to his chest, he says, “It’s not done yet. But I’m working on something for you. And the baby.”

A ribbon of excitement unfurls in me, as I eagerly watch him open the sketchbook. “Here it is,” he says, showing me two pages.

He’s sketched out a gorgeous beach, with bright blue waves rolling onto the golden sand that’s spread for miles. In the middle of the image a girl—she’s maybe six, or seven—runs across the sand, looking over her shoulder. She holds her hands up to the sky, as if she’s catching snowflakes. But she’s reaching for sparkles raining down. It’s reality meets magic; it’s the world we live in with a touch of the fantastic. But, more than that, it’s the illustration of the first card my grandparents sent me, the story I told them that they echoed back to me for my birthday years ago.

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 . . .

I trace my finger over the drawing, as if I can ignite magic in it, as if my touch can bring it to life. But it’s already alive; it’s already breathing, in its own way. I turn to Trey, and he has a hopeful look in his eyes.

“I love it so much,” I tell him. “This is the coolest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“You really like it?”

“No,” I say, correcting him firmly. “I love it.”

“I’ll do the whole set of them. I can illustrate them all if you want.”

I shake my head in amazement at what he’s done. “How is it that I found you? Do you ever realize how lucky we are?”

“To have each other?” he scoffs. “I realize it every second of every day.”

“Do you think it’s luck?” I trail my fingers down his arm, tracing the outline of the ink on his bicep.

“I think it’s fate,” he says softly.

“You do? You believe in fate?”

Scooting closer to me, he rests his hand on my hipbone, his thumb stroking a lazy rhythm there. “I do, in the sense that I believe some things are inevitable. The sun rises, the moon travels round the earth, you were meant for me, and I was meant for you,” he says.

“So you and me, we’re on the same cosmic level as the sun and moon and stars?” I raise an eyebrow.

But he is resolute. “Yes. Because here’s my reasoning. Think about the alternative. About us not being together.”

I shudder with the absolute wrongness of that image.

“See? You and me not being together is like a snowstorm in Hawaii. It’s like a glacier on the sun. It doesn’t happen. It can’t happen. Because there’s no way we aren’t meant for each other, Harley. There’s no way it can be anything but this,” he says, pointing from him to me and me to him, and his certainty is like dark chocolate melting on my tongue. It tastes amazing, and I want more of it, of him.

“Kiss me, then. Kiss me like it’s fate.”

“Gladly,” he says, curling his fingers around my neck, and bringing his lips to mine.

I moan the second he makes contact. His lips are so soft, and he kisses me so tenderly, but with so much pent-up fire that I’m soon grasping for him, tugging him close, wrapping a leg over his thigh, sliding a hand up his shirt, spreading my fingers across the hard planes of his belly.

We kiss like that for some time, all sighs and moans, and bodies pressed together, hands exploring, hearts beating wildly, until the heat between the two of us is too much. It’s like we’re in a cocoon of love and lust and want, our own little private world of desire.

We break apart, and I’m panting, and his eyes are glazed, and I know in seconds he can be inside of me thrusting, bringing me to the precipice.

My hands have a mind of their own, and I’m dying to touch him, so I unzip his jeans, and he helps me slide them off. Then I reach for the waistband of his T-shirt, lifting it over his head.

My breath catches at the sight of his naked chest. I’ve seen him naked so many times, and every time he’s beautiful. My fingertips wander over to the ink on his chest, tracing it, imprinting him yet again on me.