Vinny just shrugs before we cross the street to an NYU building now jammed with students. A massive purple banner bearing the university logo flaps in the harsh breeze, just above the brass rotating doors.
“All right, Lay, I’ll see ya,” Vinny says as he leaves me standing in line for the elevators. His class is on the first floor, lucky bastard. “And don’t worry!” he calls from down the hall, attracting the tired glances of a few other students. “It’ll all work out in the end. You’ll get laid before you know it! Trolls or no trolls!”
I turn red and try to look as if I’m not the one whose sex life has just been broadcast all over campus. As I step forward in line, I pass a jumble of cardboard hearts decorating the student center window next to the stairs and sigh. Today is Valentine’s Day, but I am singularly without a Valentine. One can only hope.
* * *
As it happens, Karen calls in sick to work today, so I’m left alone at the desk without her imperious glare and with a little extra spring in my step. I know there’s a better than decent chance that Nico has a date for tonight—with my luck, he probably has a girlfriend. But I can’t not try to make something happen. It doesn’t matter that he’s seven years older than me, and it doesn’t matter that he’s just a FedEx guy (though my parents and Quinn would certainly disagree on both counts). Whether it’s lust or actually some weird form of love at first sight, I can’t deny this feeling. And I’m petrified of regret—always have been. It’s just not in me to be passive.
As if solely to boost my confidence before six, Alex keeps stopping by my desk all afternoon to chat. He asks how my weekend was, demands to know what I’m studying, compliments my outfit. It’s flattering, if slightly annoying and verging on inappropriate.
“So,” he says on his fourth “coffee break.” “Here’s a new topic of conversation for you. Is there a Mr. Barros, Ms. Barros?” He waggles his eyebrows in a way that makes them look like lively caterpillars.
I can’t help but giggle. “Ah, no, not at the moment.”
“And how is it that a gorgeous girl like you is single? I just flat out don’t believe it.”
I giggle again, even though I’m pretty sure this counts as sexual harassment. The consistent eye rolls in his direction from other female employees tell me I’m not the only one who gets this kind of attention. In a weird way, his charm offensive reminds me of my dad. He’s also tall and handsome and has that same charisma. I try not to wonder if my dad talks to the receptionists in his office like Alex is talking to me.
“What can I say?” I ask, tossing my hands up. “I’m a particular woman who knows what she particularly wants.”
At that moment, the elevator doors open, and he whom I particularly want very badly wheels in his dolly with a large smile that fades immediately at the sight of the attractive attorney leaning over my desk.
* * *
Nico
“You’ll have to tell me more about that some time.”
Asshat is back. Son of a bitch. This time he’s leaning so far over Layla’s desk she practically has to recline her seat.
A glance at Karen’s shut door tells me she’s gone. If this guy weren’t here, I’d be able to do what I’ve been planning all week: ask Layla out on a date.
This guy. All his packages come from fashion designers and modeling agencies—he represents some of the biggest names in the business. But right now, the only name he’s into is the girl whose face has been imprinted on my brain for the last two weeks, the girl I still haven’t managed to get a moment alone with. The way he’s sneaking looks down her shirt makes me want to toss him down the stairs and teach him the real meaning of “New York state of mind.”
“Maybe over lunch?” he’s saying. “I’m a member at the Princeton Club, you know.”
I roll the dolly into the lobby, and just like last time, while Layla glances at me with a friendly smile, this shithead doesn’t even look my way. Go figure. To people like him, people like me are invisible. Yeah, forget that.
Layla smiles, but it’s not the kind of smile she gives me when I tease her about her hair or her dance moves. It’s the kind of smile that’s uncomfortable, the kind of smile that says she wants this asshole out of her personal space, but doesn’t feel like she can tell him that.
“That’s so nice of you,” she says, “but I doubt I could make time. My class schedule is pretty tight. I’m downtown all morning before I come here, and I have to study for midterms.”
Behind them, I snort as I start to unload packages. There’s only a few for them today, but I’m taking my sweet time. Dickwad doesn’t even notice, but I see Layla bite her lip at my response. There’s my girl.
My girl. Fuck me, I haven’t even taken her out yet, and I’m already thinking things like that. What the fuck is wrong with me?
“Well, the offer’s open anytime.” Twatwaffle winks as he pushes off the desk.
I’m still staring daggers at the guy when Layla reaches up to tap my hand. I practically jump, and she scoots back a little. It’s then I realize I’m still glaring—at her.
“H-hi there,” she says just before she bites her lip again. Fuck me, she really has to stop doing that.
She offers a shy smile, and it pretty much melts away the jealous rage. I smile back, and she relaxes.
“Hey, NYU, you fixing a date with the geriatric ward?” I toss my head in the direction he went. It’s none of my business, but I can’t help but ask.
Layla just snorts, and like always, it’s pretty much the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. “Absolutely not. Alex is a flirt, but he’s married. I don’t think he really means anything by it.”
“Oh, he means something all right,” I say, leaning onto the desk. “Pretty girl like you, of course he does, sweetie. But he’s kind of old for you, don’t you think?”
God, I’m an asshole. It’s none of my business if she wants to flirt with her co-workers, which she wasn’t even doing in the first place. I’m fishing. I want her to say she doesn’t like him, that she likes me instead.
“Well, I don’t mean anything by it,” she says.
Immediately, I feel better. Too much better. To cover it up, I make a big deal out of scanning all of the packages I’ve lined up on the desktop. Be cool, Nico. Jesus, I am better than this.
“So, what are you doing tonight for Valentine’s Day?” Layla asks, standing up and leaning over to watch me at work. “Got big plans with a sweetheart?”
I look up and see her staring at me, a waterfall of her wavy hair dropping down one shoulder. She’s so damn beautiful, and I can barely register what she’s saying. Wait...Valentine’s Day...is tonight. I think about that fucker asking her out for a drink after work, which I know he will, and suddenly the only thing I want Layla to say is that she’s got plans. With me. The invisible FedEx guy.
“Not much,” I say, trying to be playful as I mimic the sing-song quality of her original question. We’re both trying to play it cool. I’m failing miserably. “I’ll probably go out for a drink when I’m off. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do on Valentine’s Day if you’re single? Drink yourself stupid?”
Layla chuckles. “Sounds about right. I’ll probably do the same, I guess.”
She nods nonchalantly as if in agreement, but my heart is soaring at the word when she agrees with the word ‘single.’ I didn’t think she had a boyfriend, but somehow, I’m really damn glad she confirmed it.
“You’re going out drinking, too, NYU? No boyfriend to give you hearts and flowers?” God, I really can’t help myself. “I’m sure Legal Beagle back there would take you to the Princeton Club.”
She snorts again, holding in her laughter as she glances nervously back toward the hallway. “I don’t think he looks anything like a beagle.”
I just shake my head, enjoying this little game we’re playing.
“Please,” I say as I restack the packages neatly on top of the desk. I’ve probably reordered them five times at this point, and now I’m going
to do it again. Anything to stay here and make her blush. I lean onto the wood surface. “Dude was looking at you like a bloodhound.”
This time she full-on giggles, and the sound makes me feel like I’m walking on air. How can someone’s laugh do that?
“Maybe,” she says. “Anyway, yeah, I’m planning to spend some quality time at the bar tonight, just like you. No boyfriends in sight.”
“Well, then we should probably do it together. Be a shame to drink alone, don’t you think?”
I’m an asshole. I should just tell her I want to take her out. That I want to go on a proper date, not just sit together at a shitty bar or run into each other at all my different jobs, where I have to act like I don’t really care so much if she smiles or looks hot in a dress. I want to get her alone so I can show her just what those tight pants she wears do to me. I want to kiss her until we both can’t think straight anymore.
“You think?” she parrots me.
Her eyes are suddenly a pool of light I want to dive into. I don’t say anything, suddenly paralyzed that I royally fucked this up by not asking for a date like a gentleman. This isn’t the kind of girl you have a drunken hookup with at a bar. She’s the kind of girl you take home to meet your mother.
My mother? What the fuck is wrong with me?
“Yeah, that could be cool,” she continues.
That’s it. I’m done. I can’t stop the giant monkey-grin on my face when I realize she’s just agreed to a date. Suddenly, we’re exchanging numbers on Post-It notes, and I’m tucking that thing into my breast pocket like it’s made of solid gold. I don’t even care that today is the most overrated, overhyped, loved up day of the year. The only thing I care about is that the girl of my dreams just agreed to spend it with me, not some rich asshole with a club membership. Me. Nico.
“I get off between seven and eight most nights, and I can come straight from work,” I tell her as I hand her my number. “Text me when you’re home and ready to go? Want to meet up around nine for dinner? And drinks, of course.”
She stares at the number for a second, as if it says something more complex than just ten simple digits. Then she tucks the small blue slip into her purse and pats it, as if to assure me she’ll keep it safe. She nods, and her blue eyes sparkle when they turn to me. Now this is definitely a legitimate date.
“Yeah,” she says softly. “That sounds good.”
“All right, sweetie.” I tip my head to one side, mimicking the same action she’s doing. “I guess this means you’re my Valentine, huh?”
She gulps and grabs the edge of the desk, but doesn’t say anything. It’s probably for the best. I’m barely keeping it together myself.
I collect the clipboard and the dolly and wheel back to the elevators, careful to avoid her gaze in case she can see just how damn excited I am. I wink again—corny shit is becoming a habit with this girl—but when the elevator doors close, I collapse against the wall and exhale heavily. Holy. Shit.
Chapter Eight
Layla
At exactly seven-thirty, I sprint into the apartment, tearing off my clothes because I have less than an hour and a half to get ready for what feels like the most important night of my life. He called me at seven and said he would pick me up at Lafayette at nine, maybe a bit later depending on the train. I gave him the address, biting back all the other things I wanted to say. Things like, by the way, the sound of your voice makes my panties basically disintegrate or, oh hey, I’m in love with you and want to have your babies.
I have about a million questions I want to ask him. I want to get to know the man behind that gorgeous face, the person who exudes that magnetic charisma. What are his siblings like? How did he come to love art? Why wasn’t he scared that guy would beat him up outside the club? Is he content working as a FedEx guy? Has he ever lived outside of New York? Where does he see himself in ten years?
I don’t even care about looking desperate anymore. I’m just giddy about the prospect of having him all to myself for an entire evening.
While I’m tearing literally every single piece of clothing I own out of the tiny closet Quinn and I share, all my roommates crowd into my bedroom and alternately coach and tease me. Jamie, predictably, is almost as giddy as I am. Shama is more practical, trying to help me find an outfit. Quinn just sits on her bed with her books open and acts the part of the cynical peanut gallery.
“I mean, it’s one thing if it’s just a little fling,” she says to Jamie, who’s looking through my jewelry. “But let’s be honest. It’s not like she can have a real relationship with a twenty-six-year-old FedEx thug from Hell’s Kitchen.”
Shama and I both turn from the closet and glare at her.
“Seriously?” I say. “You don’t even know him. Why are you being so negative about this?”
“I’m being realistic,” Quinn counters. She turns to Jamie. “Lay’s just mad because she knows she’s slumming and doesn’t want to face up to the truth.”
“What the fuck...” Shama trails off behind me.
I hurl a sweater onto the floor and march into the center of the room, where I face Quinn with my hands on my hips.
“What the hell, Quinn?” I say directly.
She just stares at me calmly and sets her book aside. “Lay, calm down.”
I rub my forehead. “I’m calm. I’m not the one being racist.”
“Oooh, here we go,” Shama says.
Jamie shakes her head. “Guys, we don’t really need to do this, do we?”
Quinn’s forehead wrinkles as she stares at me. “Are you serious? What did I say that was racist? Is he not from a shitty part of town? Is he not a FedEx guy? Is he not twenty-six?”
“Just because his family doesn’t have money doesn’t make him a thug,” I retort. “And Hell’s Kitchen is not that bad anymore, either. Would you be saying this about him if he were white? Would you be saying that about him if he wasn’t Puerto Rican?”
“No, I wouldn’t be saying it if I hadn’t seen him shove and physically threaten a couple of guys just for saying something he didn’t like,” Quinn says. “He’s dangerous, Layla, and you know it.”
“Those guys were being assholes to all of us, and you know it!” I argue back. “He was defending your honor. And if it had been a nice investment banker from Stamford, you’d have been all over it. I can’t believe you right now!” I look to Jamie and Shama, who are studiously avoiding my gaze. “You guys. Come on. Back me up here.”
Jamie just swallows and goes back to looking through jewelry. Shama sighs.
“I think you’re both right,” she says diplomatically. I roll my eyes. I expected more from her. “Quinn, you can’t make massive generalizations about someone based on one interaction and a few things you know about him,” Shama continues. “Coming from someone of your background––no, girl, really––it does come off sounding racist. So you need to be aware of that.” She turns to me. “Still, Lay, you can’t deny that what he did was kind of scary. Hot, yeah. But Quinn’s got a point. I do think you need to be careful with him.”
I sigh and pick my sweater up off the floor.
“I’m not ‘slumming’,” I mutter as I turn back to my closet. “I think I just want to get ready on my own.”
Behind me, Quinn sighs. “Stop. I’ll go.” I stare at my clothes while listening to her gather up her books. On her way out, she pauses behind me. “I hope you have fun tonight, babe. Be safe.”
She goes to the other room while Jamie and Shama stay, and we fumble around in awkward silence for the next twenty minutes while they help me pick out what I’m going to wear. It’s starting to snow outside, so my outfit needs to be warm, but I don’t want to look like the Michelin Man either.
“Hair curly or straight?” Jamie asks as she goes back to perusing my jewelry box.
I have a bit of decent jewelry courtesy of our trips to Brazil. My dad’s family lives in the center of Minas Gerais, the gold and gemstone mining state, so I picked up a few quality pieces when
we visited.
“Curly, definitely curly,” I say. “If it gets snow on it, it’ll just get wavy anyway, plus I don’t really have time to straighten it. He’s going to be here in less than an hour now.”
Shama critically flips through a few more outfits.
“I think you should just wear jeans and some sexy shirt,” she says. “You don’t want to look like you’re trying too hard, and this is a last-minute thing. He didn’t make reservations anywhere, did he?”
I shake my head and wonder if that should bother me as I continue towel drying my hair. I know we’re just supposed to be drinking, but should I expect anything more because it’s Valentine’s Day? Nico mentioned dinner, but no reservations.
“No, I think we’re just going to play it by ear. Grab food somewhere easy and then find a bar or something like that.” I walk back into the bathroom to grab the leave-in conditioner that will keep my curls in check throughout the night.
“K, these are the jeans,” Shama announces when I return.
She’s laid a pair of moto-style gray jeans on the bed that usually fit me like a second skin, flattering my ass and making my legs look a little longer than usual. They have a few tears in the knees, so they look nowhere near formal. The opposite of try-hard.
Shama yanks several different tops for me to choose from—all of them, I notice, are cropped. I can’t argue with that; my abs are one of my best assets. I pick one of the ones I brought home from Brazil last summer: a magenta shirt with long sleeves and two long panels of extra fabric extending from my ribs that I wrap around the remainder of my torso to fit as I like. When I’m done, only small patches of my stomach and waist peek through the twisted fabric. I tie it just above my belt, leaving a sliver of skin exposed around the top of my pants. My abs are on display in the tight material, but not so much I look open for business. Mom would be proud.
Bad Idea: The Complete Collection Page 7