“Oh my God,” she murmurs as she floats her hand over the drawing, careful not to touch the paper, which isn’t covered by glass. “Oh my God, Nico. This is amazing.”
I could tell her she won’t ruin it––it’s been treated with my sister’s hairspray to make sure the charcoal won’t fade. That shit is basically shellac. But I like the awe in the way Layla hovers her fingers. There aren’t a lot of people who look at anything I do like that.
Click.
But then she turns, and she looks like she’s about to cry again. It’s not doing good things to the cracks already running through my chest. And for the first time, I’m actually sad I’m not on the subway or in the back of a cab, because if I’m driving, it means I can’t pull her close and hug her until she stops crying.
“Oh, baby...hey...fuck...” I trail off. I can’t cuss her tears away. My hand falls off the gearshift, and I grapple for hers. “I’m sorry. I thought you’d like it.”
She sniffs and wipes at her eyes. “I—I do like it. I love it. So much.”
I glance at the picture in her lap, with its carved wood frame I found at a flea market in Chelsea. It’s not much, but I thought it would look good with the rough charcoal. I’m no real artist, but it seems to have hit its mark. In the last three weeks, things have been good between us, but she’s pulled back a bit. I get it. I probably have too. Sometimes she’d look at me, and I’d see a glimmer of that heat, that emotion that I suspect is always going to be between us. She’d look like she wanted to say something. Those three words, the three words I’ve been keeping back since...well, since I met her, I guess.
But it would only last a moment, because then she’d turn away, and we’d be back to casual and carefree.
Inwardly, I’m shaking my head. I’ve been crazy about this girl from the moment I saw her. This is some Romeo and Juliet shit going on. But I know this is right, even if it hurts. I can’t stay here anymore. And she can’t come with me.
Layla finally touches the drawing, and I smile a little. I needed to tell her how I felt, somehow. I think maybe now she can see it.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Layla
We wander around the museum for a few hours, taking our time with the paintings and the tapestries and all of the other medieval art that’s there. It’s three o’clock on a Tuesday, so we’re basically the only ones at The Cloisters. Nico’s never more than a few inches away from me, his hands always touching somewhere: my hand, my waist, the back of my neck. We say little, just enjoying each other’s company. Every time we stop in front of another piece, he slips his arms around my waist and knots his fists there so he can rest his chin on my shoulder. I have no idea what the last five pieces are that we’ve looked at, because every time he does it, I just close my eyes, relishing the feel of his cheek, warm and slightly scratchy against mine, or his unique scent, soap and some sort of musk that’s only Nico.
I try not to think about the fact that this is the last day I’ll ever do this. I try not to count down the times I’ll get to feel his warmth around me.
I fail miserably.
We wander past the unicorn tapestries, and I find that I can’t even look at them. In some way, I had known even on our first day that I wasn’t going to be able to keep this beautiful man. The caged animal reminds me of the fact that Nico is going to be free. It makes me feel a little better. Only a little.
“You hungry?” he murmurs as one hand drifts down my arm and grasps my fingers.
I nod. “A little.”
My stomach is actually in knots. I doubt I could eat anything today, but Nico doesn’t like it when I don’t take care of myself. Since I ended up in the hospital, he started bringing me snacks and water every time he saw me. Karen actually got mad at how much food I had stashed behind the receptionist desk.
“There’s a cafe downstairs.”
Nico leads me to the basement level of the museum. He buys us a bottle of water to share and a chocolate chip cookie, and we carry them outside into the small cloister garden, where we sit on the wide stone wall overlooking the Westside Highway, the Hudson River, and New Jersey beyond that. West. Where we’re both going. Just not together.
“Here.”
Nico pulls the cookie out of the bag and breaks it in half. I nibble on my piece, but it tastes like sawdust. I hate that we’re here. I hate that this day is here.
“Come on, baby,” Nico cajoles. “You gotta be hungry since you skipped lunch.”
I just look out toward the river. It’s a much different scene from the last time we were here. It’s spring now, and the park that the museum looks over is covered by trees in full bloom. All shades of green line the river bank on either side, muffling the sounds of cars. A warm breeze sweeps through the courtyard every so often. It’s a beautiful spring day, but the sound of the wind rustling the leaves sounds like crying. It sounds like how I feel.
The wind causes my hair to fly around and into my face; I’m glad, because it hides the tears that are threatening to fall again. Don’t go. The words sit on my tongue, waiting to be said. It’s selfish, but a part of me wishes he had brushed off my order. A part of my heart is breaking because I’m not enough for him to stay.
Nico brushes the hair out of my face, but the wind just tosses it back into my eyes. He pulls off his cap and sets it backwards on my head with a smirk. But his lopsided smile disappears when he catches my unguarded face. The regret I see there, the concern, the—dare I say it?—love, breaks my heart all over again. And finally, my tears begin to fall.
“Aw, baby,” he murmurs as his thumb wipes one tear away, then another.
The sweet gesture doesn’t do anything but make them come even more. I don’t move, don’t even try to make them stop. Just like the first time we met, I’m frozen—by his touch, by the depth in his eyes, by everything about him.
Nothing else in my life seems as real as this man. Washington feels a million miles away. Am I really going back there tonight? California—what’s that? School, my friends, all of the vibrant things I’ve seen and done since living in this city...everything pales next to him.
What am I going to do without you?
Nico leans in, his hand still cupping my cheek, and presses an impossibly soft kiss on my lips. He starts to move away, but I pull him back, and the kiss slowly morphs into something so much deeper. We savor each other, tongues twisting, lips drinking, hands grasping, but slowly, slowly. This is a kiss that’s saying everything our voices can’t. I feel it, and I think Nico does too.
When I pull away, his eyes are wet and shining, and his breath is haggard. I lean in and kiss him once more, echoing the soft touch of his first one. Full circle, over and over again.
“I think,” he starts when I pull back. His voice is choked. “I think we should go. Layla...Jesus. I need you so fucking bad right now.”
My chest expands. I nod.
“Let’s go,” I whisper.
* * *
We say little as Nico drives us back to Lafayette, even less as I sign him into the nearly-empty building and escort him up to my room. The apartment is bare. Nothing in the kitchen, no sheets on the plastic-covered mattresses. All my things are boxed up, ready to be taken into storage or in the duffel bags I’m bringing home with me.
As soon as the door closes, Nico pulls me into him, wrapping me into a kiss so painfully deep that I can’t think of anything else. Our hands are everywhere, pulling off each other’s clothes like butterflies shedding their chrysalises. Nico walks me backward to the couch and gently pushes me down. But then he stops when I lie back, naked. His gaze drifts over me, like he’s trying to memorize the curves of my body. Then his dark eyes blacken as he kneels in front of me and lays his head on my stomach.
My hands drift over the smooth skin of his shoulders, tracing the tattoos that cover one side.
“Don’t forget about me, okay?” he says in a voice so low I almost can’t hear it. But that baritone rumbles against my skin.
Be
fore I can answer, he presses kisses over my navel, drifting down over my hip bones, over the soft skin of my inner thighs. The light stubble scratches the sensitive skin, and my hips jerk a little at the feel of it. His tongue and lips drift to my center, finding that sensitive bundle of nerves that makes my thoughts stop completely.
My fingers weave into his thick hair while he licks softly. His eyes are closed, and I watch him work in a trance, as if he’s committing this most intimate taste to memory too.
My body starts to shake, and I can’t keep my gaze straight anymore. I fall back into the couch cushions as Nico picks up his pace, humming a little as he goes, like someone tasting exotic chocolate or their favorite foods.
“Please,” I whimper, although for what, I’m not sure. Please let me come? Please stay? Please...
“Let go,” Nico says, his breath warm and his voice low. “Let me feel you let go, Layla.”
The sound of my name, when usually I’m “sweetie,” “baby,” or “NYU,” is my undoing. My body seizes, and suddenly I’m no longer preparing to lose the first person I’ve ever really loved in my short life. Right now, I’m flying.
“Nico!” I cry, my hands grasping at the pillows, at his hair, at anything to keep me anchored as one orgasm flies through me, and then, almost as suddenly, another in quick, body-wrenching spasms.
And it’s only when the last gut-wrenching tremor has rippled through every cell in my body that Nico presses his nose into that most intimate part of me, inhales deeply, and then lifts himself up to kiss me gently. I can taste myself on his lips, on his tongue. The knowledge of it makes me shiver.
“I...” I say in between long, languid kisses. “I...”
But the words won’t come. Not the ones I want to say. The ones my heart is too scared to admit anymore.
“I know,” Nico says softly in between kisses. “I know, baby.”
Then he reaches down and grabs a condom from his pants. I shouldn’t do this—I know I shouldn’t—but I pull the condom away and toss it to the floor.
“It’s okay,” I say softly. “I’m on the pill.”
Nico’s brow furrows adorably. “I—you don’t have to—”
“I’m safe,” I tell him. “I was tested last month at the hospital.”
Nico gulps. “I was, too, just after we met.”
I pull him into me. I close my eyes as he nudges at my entrance. It’s stupid, but just once, I’d like to know there’s nothing between us.
“You sure?” he asks, even as he pushes in slightly. There’s pain in his voice. He wants this as badly as I do.
I raise my eyes, and neither of us can look away.
“I’m sure,” I whisper.
Slowly, he fills me, one solid inch at a time. The muscles in his arms—the cut lines of his biceps, forearms, triceps, even in his chest—tremble with the effort to go slow.
“Jesus,” he whispers as he seats himself completely. “You feel so fucking good, Layla.”
I slide my arms up his shoulders and clasp them around his neck.
“Kiss me,” I ask. “Please.”
So he does, with the same long, languorous licks that just tore me apart only minutes before, the pace of his hips matching every delicious movement he makes with his tongue. This isn’t sex. It’s making love, the culmination of the entire, bittersweet afternoon. I can’t imagine a better way to say goodbye to him, even though at the same time, it’s going to make it that much harder when I actually have to do it. It’s for the best that we waited until now to do it like this. If sex had been like this for the entire three months, there’s no way I could have said goodbye. There’s no way I could have ever let him go.
“Layla,” he says after he sucks on my bottom lip hard enough to bite a little. He’s starting to lose that careful control. “Baby—I—I’ll—”
I cup his face between my hands and kiss him again, shuttering the words that are failing. He thrusts again, then again, but his forehead wrinkles. He’s stuck on something—something that’s keeping him from letting go.
“I—” he starts again, but stumbles once more.
I trace my thumbs over his sharp cheekbones, trying to memorize every dip and valley in this beautiful face.
“What is it?” I ask. “What do you need?”
“I—” He jerks again as he thrusts even deeper. “God, Layla. I just...” His eyes scrunch closed, then pop open, black and fathomless. “I need to hear you...say it...”
My mouth drops open. “Say what?”
He pushes even further, making my body writhe like a wave.
“Say…” Beads of sweat gather over his forehead with the effort of his control. “Say that you’ll never forget me,” Nico whispers as his eyes shut tightly. “That you’ll never forget us.”
The memories of the past few months hit me like an avalanche. The lightning connection of our first touch. The kiss in the snow. Every afternoon. Every lazy morning. Every look, every touch, every tear, every kiss. Every single moment is imprinted into the threads of my being. If my life is a tapestry, this man has forever altered its weave.
“I promise,” I tell him. “I’ll never forget us. Never.”
And it’s then, with a pained howl that cuts through the air, that Nico finally lets go. We both let go, together.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Nico
We lie there for what seems like an hour, wrapped up together on the couch, not wanting to let each other go. We sleep a little, tangled and uncomfortable, but neither of us wants to get up or admit that the shadows falling across the wall are growing longer and longer. Because then it will be time to say goodbye. And I’m still not sure I’m going to be able to do it.
My watch alarm beeps at six-thirty, telling me it’s time to go back to my apartment and get ready for my last shift at AJ’s. I’d take any excuse to call in sick, but I can’t lie. Between the Jeep and the three-month’s rent I just paid for Gabe and Maggie, I pretty much wiped out my savings. The extra few hundred dollars will help pay my way across the country. Away from my girl.
Layla sits up, her mussed hair a black waterfall over her shoulders. She wipes her fingers under her eyes, and I take in the simple form of her naked body: her small, perfect breasts, the curves of her hips and waist, the graceful lines of her legs. All before she covers up with her dress.
“I guess...” she trails off, suddenly intent on finding the rest of her clothes.
“Yeah.”
I sit up and grab my jeans and shirt off the floor. We’re both silent, overly focused on adjusting and readjusting fabric. Anything to delay the inevitable.
Eventually, there’s nothing left to do. I clap on my cap, and Layla buckles her sandals.
“I guess I should––”
“I’ll walk you down,” she says, and my heart sinks with relief. No goodbyes yet. I still have a few more minutes.
We ride down to the lobby together in silence, ignoring the bored security guard as Layla signs me out. Then she walks me out to where the Jeep is parked out front, clean and gleaming in the sun.
I unlock the door and toss my hat inside. I want to see her clearly when I have to do this. I turn around, feeling like my chest is about to split open.
“Well, sweetie,” I say. “This is it.”
Layla looks up, her blue eyes matching the color of the sky shining through the buildings behind her. I can admit it––it’s hard to beat New York in the spring. It’s hard to leave the city when it’s like this. When there’s someone like her in it.
“I just want to say...” I start saying some lame piece-of-shit goodbye, because what else can you say when you have to do something like this?
But Layla stops me by jumping forward and wrapping her arms around my neck. It takes me a second to register that like a faucet, she started sobbing––not just crying the little streams of tears that have been threatening all day, but big, body-shaking sobs. She lets out all the emotion I know she’s been trying to keep back all day. M
aybe for the last three weeks, if she’s anything like me.
I hold her close, trying to absorb the pain I feel emanating from her in waves, a pain that echoes through my bones. It’s weird, but I don’t know if I’ve ever seen a girl cry like this before. Little kids, sure. Allie cries like crazy when she’s mad. But Maggie and Selena learned quick that tears won’t get you much. Soltero kids don’t cry, because otherwise, they get their ears swatted.
But Layla didn’t grow up like that, and in its own way, it’s a beautiful thing to see. She lets me gather her into my shoulder while she falls apart. It’s amazing. I’ve never known anyone so pure, so open to feel what she feels.
Layla has no remorse for her feelings. She lets them pass through her, like everyone should do, but that so many, including myself, don’t. It’s contagious, and before I know it, there are actually a few tears sneaking out of my eyes while I absorb the sobs that wrack through her small body.
“Shhhh,” I croon, rocking us back and forth on the sidewalk.
We catch a few curious looks as people walk by, wondering what I’ve done to upset this girl. I shoot them glares and press kiss after kiss onto Layla’s head. She can cry as long as she wants. No one has ever cried for me like this before, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to tell her it’s wrong. She deserves better than me—and one day, she’ll find it. But for now, I can be here for her, even though I’m the asshole breaking her heart.
Eventually, her sobs subside. Layla pushes away from my chest, hiccupping a little and pushing stray tears from under her eyes. Her makeup disappeared a long time ago, and her big blue eyes are still watery, but she’s still the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. No. The most beautiful woman.
Come on. Say it, you pussy. Tell her you love her. At least give her that.
Layla takes a few long, deep breaths. “I guess…I guess it’s time.”
Bad Idea: The Complete Collection Page 35