“I really have to get back. I’m supposed to meet my friends for breakfast.” Lie. All lies. Good God, I just want to get out of this room, dive into a vat of coffee, and crawl into my own bed.
Giancarlo looks up from his dresser, where he pulls out a pair of briefs. He tugs them on, finally covering up that...thing. Even half-erect, he’s pretty damn big. Shit, how did that fit in me? No wonder I’m sore.
“Are you sure?” he’s asking. “I will only take a second.”
“No, I’m fine,” I say. “Um...thanks. For...”
He smiles. His teeth are a little crooked, but only slightly. He has a nice smile. I feel kind of bad for blowing him off.
“Before you leave, I can give you my number?” he asks.
Damn it. I knew that question was coming. “Do you have a card?”
It’s a tactic I actually picked up from Quinn. She does it in situations where she wants guys to feel important while also giving herself an out. This guy won’t. He’s a student, like me. There is absolutely no reason for him to have a business card, which will, in turn, make him feel ashamed. And hopefully he won’t call me again.
Giancarlo scratches his head and shoves a big hand into his curly hair. I think it’s working. I owe Quinn a drink. Or, I think as a bout of nausea rises and falls, maybe just a coffee.
But when Giancarlo smiles, it changes him completely. He goes from being stern and slightly scary to magnanimous and almost sweet. “It’s okay,” he says. “No card.”
He reaches a hand out and waits patiently. He shrugs, and the movement is so charming, I can’t help but smile back and hand him my phone. I watch as he punches his number into it and calls himself. His phone buzzes on the bedside table, and he smiles as he hangs up mine and gives it back to me.
“There,” he says. “Easy.”
“Uh, okay,” I say. “I guess...I’ll see you around?”
Giancarlo nods. “Yes.”
It’s abrupt. I can’t quite tell if that’s a dismissal or not. But in the end, I give a muffled “okay” and scoot my way out of the apartment.
Outside, it takes me a second to find my bearings. We took a cab last night, and I have no idea where I am other than roughly suspecting I’m still in Manhattan. Maybe? At least, I don’t remember crossing any bridges. I walk up a short hill, keeping my skirt pulled down with both hands while my tiny purse keeps sliding down my arm. Ugh. I am a total cliché, dressed like a streetwalker while I complete a “walk of shame.” Emphasis on shame.
Once I reach the end of the block, I realize with both relief and dread that I know exactly where I am: West 144th and Broadway. Just a few blocks from another apartment where I used to spend a lot of time. I turn down the street, and despite the fact that it’s a cloudy, nondescript day, despite the fact that the air is full of emotionless car honks and subway rumbles, despite the fact that the catcalls I receive make my skin crawl as I walk as fast as I can down Broadway, just about every conflicting emotion I’ve been feeling for the past week and a half comes bubbling up to the surface.
Because everything about this neighborhood is him. Correction: everything about this neighborhood is us. Every bodega is a place where we bought drinks, gum, condoms, snacks together before racing up to his apartment to have our way with each other. There’s the Dominican restaurant that makes his favorite chicken; there’s the cheesesteak place where he flirted shamelessly with me over ginger ale. His laundromat. His grocery store.
His...brother?
My eyes are so full of threatening tears that when I turn into the subway entrance, I run smack into a familiar lanky form.
“Oye, watch it!” Two hands land on my shoulders to steady me as I almost teeter down the steps. Then: “NYU?”
I blink furiously, willing the tears to recede. They finally do, and then I look up. “Gabe! Hey.”
Nico’s younger brother, Gabriel, looks me over like he’s checking that I’m actually here. As if realizing he’s touching his brother’s girl, he yanks his hands away like I’m made of fire, and it’s then he gets a look at what I’m wearing. His eyes almost fall out of his head.
I immediately blush. Yep, what I’m doing is that obvious. I didn’t even wear a jacket last night since the late summer nights are still warm enough to go without. This dress is basically lingerie, and I’m wearing five-inch heels at eight in the morning.
“Ah, how you doin’?” Gabe asks, clearly working very hard not to move his gaze from my eyes. He’s staring so hard I might end up with a hole through my head.
I shrug. “I’m okay. You? How’s school? You started at CUNY last week, right?”
Gabe nods, like he’s not sure what I just said. “Um, yeah. It’s good, I guess. A lot harder than high school. So, you, um...”
He trails off, and I can tell he’s struggling to find a way to ask me what I’m doing in this neighborhood dressed like this without coming right out and saying it. I bite my lip. This is the last thing I want. After those stupid photos—fucking Quinn sent them, I’m sure of it now—Nico is going to think I’m stalking his family now just to niggle him. I might be mad at him, but I don’t want to hurt him. I’d never want that.
“I just crashed at a friend’s place,” I offer.
He must know it’s a lie, but Gabe’s shoulders relax visibly. “Okay, okay,” he says. “Fun night?”
Shyly, I nod. “Yeah. Maybe too much fun. I need to get going, though. Lots to do before my classes start this week.”
Gabe looks me over a little more frankly. It’s not a look like some of the ones I got walking down the street. It’s a look that’s more critical. And I can only guess who’s going to hear about what he sees.
“Yeah, me too,” he says as he meets my eyes again. “It was good seeing you, NYU.” He leans in, like an afterthought, and gives me a quick kiss on the cheek. A familiar greeting I’ve only experienced in Brazil. It’s a move that’s both awkward and sweet. When he finishes, I smile.
“You too,” I say. “Later.”
I watch for a moment as he walks up the street toward the apartment I used to know so well. I wonder what it looks like now. I wonder if it’s changed.
And before I wonder more, my cell phone buzzes again in my purse. Speak of the devil.
Nico: Im sorry.
I deflate right there on the subway steps. All the anger I felt is gone. I don’t like being mad at him. And if this little walk through memory lane has shown me anything, it’s that I don’t want to have a life where I don’t know him anymore.
I press the call button. His deep, scratchy voice answers almost immediately.
“Layla?”
I sigh. I’m still standing in the middle of the subway stairs, but there’s nowhere for me to go. “Hey.”
“Hey, baby.”
The familiar moniker guts me. How can something that feels so good hurt so much? Tears rise again.
“I just...” I trail off. “I saw all your texts. Nico, I’m so sorry about that photo. I didn’t take it or send it, I swear.”
“But that’s you, right?” His voice isn’t mad—just sad. Dejected.
I gulp. “Yeah.”
He sighs. “Well, I’m not gonna pretend I liked it. But...hey. I don’t exactly have a right to be angry over here.” He pauses. “Are you happy?”
No. “Sure.”
There’s another long sigh. “Where are you?”
I glance around like he can see me. “Um, just on the street. Getting some breakfast.”
I know that Gabe is going to call him and spill the beans, but I don’t want to rub it in his face. Nico’s smart. He’ll put two and two together, and if he wants to ask me about it, he can.
“I just wanted to say...I’m sorry,” I rush on. “And that I’m not...well, I’m not mad at you anymore, okay? I shouldn’t have run off like that. I was just in a really messed-up state of mind, with my dad and everything.”
“Of course, of course, sweetie.” Nico’s voice is warm, and it makes my heart
lift a little. Gah...I miss him so freaking much.
He pauses, and we sit there silently on the phone together. It’s quiet on his end; he can no doubt hear the sounds of cars and the rumble of the trains on mine.
“We friends again?” he asks finally. “I just want to be your friend, Layla. Tell me I can at least be that.”
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. “Of course. Nico, I’ll always be your friend.”
“Even when you tell me to fuck off?”
I can’t help but smile. “Even then.”
He chuckles. “Okay, then. Maybe don’t send me any more photos like that, okay? I might be your friend, but I’m not that kind of friend.”
“Okay,” I agree. “That’s fair. I don’t really want to hear about...you know...either.”
An awkward silence falls, like there’s something Nico wants to say. But doesn’t.
“Of course,” he says finally. “It’s a deal.” There’s another brief pause, and then I hear a rustling in the background. “I actually need to get some sleep,” he says. “I got home not that long ago.”
“I need to go too.”
“Okay, baby. Be good.”
A few minutes later, I step onto a crowded train, ignoring the knowing looks of a few passengers: the what a slut expression of the woman sitting with her kid, the curious leers of the two boys on the bench across from me. I shrink into myself, trying to avoid the touch of other people’s bodies. It’s hard; the train is jammed with morning commuters, even though it’s Saturday. But unlike last night, when I was craving the feel of skin on skin, now the thought of a random person’s touch feels repulsive. And yet, my skin still has that sensation of displacement. It covers my body, making me feel like a stranger in my own skin. That prickly feeling is still there. If anything, it’s gotten worse.
II
“I Got You.”
Chapter Nine
November 2003
Nico
The worst thing about studying is the sound. Last week I invested in a new pair of headphones and a couple of CDs because I can’t stand the scratch of pencil on paper or the way my breathing picks up when I concentrate. But when I move to a public place, I get too distracted. I like to people-watch too much. I notice too many things to focus on a piece of paper with a bunch of dry questions. It’s ironic: the qualities that I think would make me a great firefighter are what might make me fail this stupid test.
It takes me a while to get into the groove, so when I do, I don’t get out for a while. It’s not until Jessie’s cold fingers slide over my shoulders and slip under the collar of my t-shirt that I even realize anyone is in my room with me.
“Jesus!” I start and yank off my headphones, then turn around in my seat. “You scared me.”
Jesse looks curiously around me at the papers scattered over my small desk. “What are you doing, sketching?”
I fiddle with my pencil, tapping the eraser on the desk. “Not exactly.”
Jessie leans over me, a long waterfall of blonde hair draping over my neck. She’s been at a photo shoot and had some extensions put in. She looks like she’s been dipped in makeup, and her hair is about a foot longer than it was this morning. The ends are itchy on my skin, and her bright red nails dig into my shoulder. Why girls think they look better when they add all this fake shit to their bodies makes no fuckin’ sense. I want to be able to pull hair without worrying it’s going to come off, if you know what I mean. I want to be able to kiss a woman’s skin without getting a mouthful of makeup.
Well, one woman’s skin. But she’s not here right now. We’ve been talking every now and then over the past two months, but it’s hard. Layla and I...we can’t not be in each other’s lives, but at the same time, it’s painful. I know she’s doing a lot of things I don’t want to know about. Going out with her friends. Meeting other men—she’s beautiful, how could she not? And there is plenty about my life I can’t tell her either. Details about Jessie, who, if I’m being honest, acts more and more like my girlfriend these days and less like a roommate. And if I’m being really honest, I don’t do much to stop her. I get tired of sleeping alone, even if the body next to me isn’t totally the one I want.
“What’s this?” Jessie asks, squinting down at the stack of practice tests and the legal pad full of notes.
I repress the urge to shut the book and turn over my messy chicken scratch. It’s been a while since I took notes on anything, and I wasn’t exactly a great student before. No one but Gabe even knows I’m taking this test. Not K.C. Not my mother. Not Layla. No one. I’m not sure why I haven’t told anybody. Maybe it’s because I don’t want to hear the obvious: that I’m not exactly a brain, and only the top five percent of test-takers even have a chance at a call back. I looked it up. The last time they held this test, they had thirty thousand applicants. That means maybe fifteen hundred of them got a real interview. The odds aren’t great.
But that hasn’t stopped me from trying my best over the last two months. I’m twenty-seven now, having celebrated my birthday checking IDs last week. The FDNY doesn’t hire anyone over thirty, and they won’t do this again for another four or five years. This is my last chance.
“Seriously, what the hell is this?” Jessie asks again as she pushes me to the side and starts leafing through my notes. She picks up one of the practice exams that I’ve taken at least three times. It’s highlighted in four different colors. “The FDNY? Seriously?” She flips through some of the other tests. “How long have you been doing this?”
I trade my pencil back and forth between my hands. Jessie’s looking at me like I’ve betrayed her, but honestly, this isn’t any of her business. She and I don’t really talk much, considering we’re on completely different schedules, and when we overlap, it’s usually for sex, and that’s about it. Sometimes we do nice things for each other, like make an extra cup of coffee in the morning, or order the takeout the other likes. But those are roommate things, right?
Sure, asshole. Keep telling yourself that.
“A while,” is all I say.
Jessie stands up with a pout. “You could have told me.”
I shrug. “We’ll see what happens.”
She tips her head like she’s trying to figure something out. Then that look appears—one I know pretty well at this point. One side of her painted pink lips lifts as she leans over, giving me a nice view down her shirt. She’s a typical California girl, tan and golden in a pair of short shorts and a loose white tank top. She’s pretty; some might say gorgeous. But as she sinks to her knees and runs her hands suggestively up my thighs, I’m not feeling it. At all.
“I can’t,” I say as I lift her hands off me. “Look, I’m sorry. But I’m taking the test next week when I go home for Thanksgiving, and I’m still not doing very well on the last section.”
Jessie frowns and stands back up. “You know, I’m getting kind of sick of this shit from you.”
“And what shit would that be?”
“This hot and cold bullshit,” she snaps. “You were kind of off when you first got here, but I figured that was just getting used to each other again. You mostly got back to normal though, and that Nico wouldn’t say no to some cookie if it was two a.m. and he had the flu.” She squints her eyes a little. “Is it that girl? The one from the beach that day?”
Now it’s my turn to frown. “I told you not to talk about her.”
“You told me not to say anything disrespectful. I’m not.”
I stare at her for a moment. Then I shrug. “Yeah. Well. That was almost three months ago, Jess.”
“And you’ve been kind of different for three months. I know you still talk to her.”
“So what? We’re friends. She gives me study tips.” It’s a lie, sort of. Even though Layla has no idea I’m doing this, picking her brain about her classes tells me a lot about what a good student looks like. My girl is smart. Really smart.
Jessie, on the other hand, isn’t exactly big on education. She moved
to LA when she was seventeen, as soon as she graduated high school. As far as she’s concerned, there’s nothing else but LA, nothing but modeling and auditions and nightlife.
She grimaces. “Why? What’s the fucking point?”
I scowl at the mess of papers, feeling my face get hot. This is exactly why I didn’t want to tell anyone. “You know why.”
Her frown deepens. “Why would you want to be a firefighter anyway? You’re a promoter. You could make more money doing that than you ever would at the FDNY. And you won’t die of lung cancer or whatever before you’re fifty.”
I roll my eyes and slump back in my chair. “I’m a doorman, not a promoter. And maybe I want to do more with my life than check IDs, Jess.”
“Like be a big, strong fireman? What are you, three, watching Sesame Street? Should I get you a play ax too?”
I just stare her down. That’s fucked up, and she knows it. Jessie knows how many times I’ve applied to the FDNY. She knows it’s all I’ve ever really wanted to do—I told her that last year, when we first met.
“Maybe,” is all I say finally. “Can’t hurt to try again.”
Jessie steps closer, forcibly takes my hands in hers, and pulls me off my chair. We’re basically eye to eye. I’m not a huge guy—I’ve got big shoulders, but I’m not quite five-eleven—and Jessie tops five-ten in bare feet.
“I don’t want to be mean here,” she starts.
I cross my arms. “Then don’t.”
“Nico.” She tugs my chin so I’m looking at her. “They. Don’t. Want. You. I’m sorry, but it’s the truth. Hon, you need to come back down to reality and join the rest of us.”
“Should I say that to you every time you get turned down for a job?” I ask. “You think being a supermodel is any less of a pipe dream?”
Jessie rolls her eyes. “It’s not the same thing. And second of all, I’m getting work regularly these days. You...you’re not going to be a firefighter, Nico. Maybe it’s your record; I don’t know. But it’s time for you to just give it up. Come back to earth, baby.” Her hand slips across my chest and up my neck, and her thumb brushes over my lower lip. “I could probably convince you to stay if you let me.”
Bad Idea: The Complete Collection Page 44