Nico grew up in New York during the eighties. I’ve seen pictures. My father used to travel here sometimes; once we even came on vacation as a family in the nineties. I was only thirteen, but I remember even then the way my dad skirted around certain blocks like the plague. How he wouldn’t take the subway for fear of being mugged. And yeah, he might have been overprotective. I’ve certainly never felt unsafe here. But looking down Ninth Avenue, I can easily imagine how that shadow might have taken over a lot of the city at certain points in time. How maybe it’s not really ever vanquished, just being held at bay.
Maybe that’s all Nico will ever be for me too. A shadow I just have to keep at bay.
My heart aches. Most days I don’t regret anything that happened between us. But there are times, like right now, when I wish to God I could just get rid of all of it so I could stop feeling this way.
“Layla?”
I turn around at the familiar voice. “Giancarlo?”
The tall, lanky form of the Argentinian lopes down Forty-Ninth. It’s been well over a month since I saw him last—a few weeks before Nico arrived Thanksgiving, when I was too excited to think of being with anyone else but him. And for the last three, not being able to keep my mind off him.
“Hello,” Giancarlo says almost formally, unafraid to let his accent out. He uses it like a point of pride.
I notice then that he’s dressed up in a tie, a collared shirt, and slacks underneath his long black coat. He wears the same square-toed loafers so popular with the European crowds here. I see them at the clubs a lot. His thick black hair is combed back from his face, and his smile, if a bit brusque, screams confidence.
“It has been a while,” he pronounces, even as he slides a familiar hand around my back and kisses both of my cheeks. “You are good?”
“I...yeah. I’m good,” I agree, still slightly stunned to see him. “What are you doing in this part of town?”
Giancarlo frowns, his deep-set eyes growing a little dark. “Why? Is there a reason you wouldn’t want me to see you here?”
Suddenly flushed, I shake my head and shove my hands deeper into my pockets. “Um, no. No, I don’t think so,” I say, only just realizing the second “no” makes me sound guilty.
Giancarlo examines me, and I have to force myself not to look away. I haven’t seen him for a while. I had forgotten just how intense his dark eyes are. Intimidating, and...a little arousing. I shift back and forth on my feet.
“St. Andrews is the closest Spanish Mass for me,” he says abruptly, finally breaking the awkward silence.
The well-lit doors of the red-brick building just down the block are open, welcoming Spanish speakers around Hell’s Kitchen for evening Mass, the same church where Nico and his family went while he was growing up. Where Carmen and her kids still go. A priest stands outside, accepting the handshakes and occasional kisses of the parishioners. It’s a Friday night. Not a busy night for church, but a steady trickle of people enter the double doors.
“Would you like to come with me?”
I look back at Giancarlo, who still hasn’t turned his gaze from me. “What?”
He shrugs. “You are Catholic, no? Your family is Brazilian.”
I haven’t been to Mass in months, not since my father left. This time last year, they would have asked if I had started celebrating the Advent. Had been giving confession before Christmas.
I finger the new gold watch on my wrist, the early Christmas gift from my dad. On the back of the face is an engraving: a minha filha, which means “to my daughter.” Apparently now that he’s living in Brazil again, he’s actually comfortable using Portuguese with me in a way he never would have before.
“Sure,” I say finally. “Why not?”
I follow Giancarlo into the church, nodding politely when the priest greets us both in Spanish. I know enough now to answer politely in kind.
It’s an older building, probably built sometime in the early nineteen hundreds. Sturdy and tall, the inside opens into high, arched ceilings that tower above the T-shape of a traditional basilica. It’s a familiar shape, one that reminds me of St. Anne’s, the big cathedral in Seattle my parents and I attended every Sunday, but which also recalls the smaller churches in Brazil. The ones my dad might be visiting with his family these days.
I glance around, weirdly hopeful and nervous. But no, I don’t see Nico. There’s no sign of the shoulders I’d know anywhere. And of course not. He wasn’t coming back for Christmas because of all the time he took off at Thanksgiving.
“You are practicing your Spanish,” Giancarlo observes as we walk down the aisle. With a hand at my back, he steers me into a pew near the middle, a few rows away from the families sitting closer to the altar.
I nod as I sit down. “My class is immersion-based, five days a week. We’ve been learning really fast. My instructor says I have a pretty good ear.”
Giancarlo examines me a moment, then proceeds to reel off a succession of quick Spanish, out of which I catch maybe four or five words.
I blush. “Okay, maybe not that good.”
He smirks and pushed his glasses up his long nose. “It takes a long time to learn another language unless you are really talented at them. You shouldn’t be hard on yourself. I learned English in a few months once I moved here, but not everyone can do that.”
I look down at my hands, unsure of how to take his comments. They don’t criticize me directly. Obviously, he must know the difference between learning a language in class instead of by living in a native-speaking country.
“Shhh,” he says.
I frown. Did I say something?
But he points a finger toward the front of the church. “It’s starting. I will help you translate.”
Chapter Sixteen
Layla
Even spoken in a different language, the ceremony is comforting and familiar. The whiff of incense in the dimly lit space puts me into a sort of trance while the priest intones the opening lines of Mass. I’ve only ever associated Catholicism with my parents and my upbringing. To be honest, I’m not even sure I believe in most of it anymore. But the familiarity is balm to my tired heart. The rhythm of the homily is the same in Spanish as in English, and Giancarlo translates the readings and the sermon to me, his voice low and soothing in my ear. By the time I’ve taken the Eucharist, swallowed my bit of dry bread and the overly sweet wine that every church on the planet blesses, I feel a little more at peace.
We file out silently ahead of most of the other attendees as the pipe organ plays behind us. It wasn’t a full Mass, only thirty minutes, but it was long enough to cultivate that heavy sense of peace and foreboding I always feel leaving a church. My soul is somehow lighter and heavier, all at the same time.
“What’s up, NYU?”
Almost to the exit, I swing around to find Gabriel, Nico’s brother, striding up the aisle, followed by the short, slight figure I recognize as Carmen, his mother.
Oh. Shit.
“Hey,” I greet Gabe as he gives me a quick kiss on the cheek. “How are you?”
“Good, good,” he says. We step to the side of the door to let the other parishioners leave. “Just taking Mami to Mass. One of us takes her most days.”
As if on cue, Carmen joins us, and with a careful, guarded nod, accepts my brief embrace.
“Hola, Carmen,” I say.
She nods again, but remains silent, looking suspiciously at Giancarlo, who sort of looms next to us. Gabe is pretty tall, but Giancarlo still has a few inches on him. The two of them make Carmen and me look like dwarves.
“Oh,” I start. “Sorry. Um, perdón. Eso es mi amigo, Giancarlo. El está de Argentina.” I stumble through the rudimentary phrases I manage to piece together for Carmen, even though I know she understands English perfectly well. It just seems rude to speak in a language she can’t return. “Giancarlo, esa es Carmen Soltero y su niño, Gabriel.”
Gabe snorts at the awkward introduction, and I shoot him a dirty look. He just laughs harder.
“Encantado,” Carmen murmurs to Giancarlo, who shakes her hand limply.
Gabe, suddenly serious, also shakes Giancarlo’s hand. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”
I frown. From what I know of Gabe, he only speaks that formally when he’s trying to impress. He puffs his chest out a little at Giancarlo, and beside me, the taller man stiffens.
The three of them trade pleasantries in Spanish for a bit while I try to follow along as best I can (mostly unsuccessfully). Giancarlo remains stiff. Everyone does, actually. Carmen keeps squinting at him, like she’s trying to figure something out about him.
“Okay,” she pronounces awkwardly in English once there’s a lull in the conversation. Then to me: “Nice to see you, Layla.”
I nod and lean in to give her another kiss on the cheek, which she accepts awkwardly. “Adiós, señora.”
Gabe snickers at the formal address of his mother, for which he receives a quick smack in the belly from her purse. I roll my eyes, and he laughs. Carmen proceeds to drag her son out of the church.
“See ya, NYU!” Gabe crows loudly, earning another smack on the way out. “I’ll tell Nico you said hi!”
I’m smiling when I turn back to Giancarlo, relieved that the interaction wasn’t as awkward as it could have been. But his murderous face flattens my cheer.
“This boy. He is a lover of yours?” he demands.
I balk, glancing wildly around the church in case someone heard us. “What? No!”
Giancarlo grabs my hand and tows me outside. Across the street, Gabe and Carmen enter their building without another look at us. Giancarlo scoffs, then continues steering me toward Ninth Avenue.
“Mamarrachos pobres,” he mutters.
“Poor what?” I ask. I know enough Spanish to figure out the second word, but not the first.
Giancarlo looks at me with surprise, and if I’m not mistaken, a little embarrassment. It seems to make him angry. “It’s...an expression. In Argentina, we say it to...it refers to people who have no...it is for people who are from the country.”
I frown. “What does that have to do with Carmen and Gabriel? They’re from New York.”
“It’s...you can hear from the way they talk,” he says. “No class. They are Puerto Rican, no? None of them speak Spanish the right way.”
“What does that mean, the ‘right way’?” I ask, getting defensive on the Solteros’ behalves. “My teacher says that Spanish has hundreds of different variations and dialects. It’s a huge, diverse language group, just like English.”
“Yes, but Puerto Ricans, they don’t speak Spanish,” Giancarlo retorts, clearly annoyed. “They speak a mix. Sometimes Spanish, sometimes English. Like they can’t choose. Even words that sound like Spanish are actually from English.” He wrinkles his long nose, like he’s smelling something bad. “It is, how do you say...sucio.”
“Dirty?” I translate out loud. “What?”
“You want to speak a language, speak the language,” Giancarlo says. “Choose. Don’t mix them, like dishwater.”
He turns abruptly and guides me into a tapas bar on the corner.
“Una mesa por dos,” he rattles to the hostess, and then gets annoyed when the poor girl doesn’t speak Spanish.
“Just the two of us, please,” I tell her.
She seats us at a small table near the back of the dimly lit restaurant, and I sit back into the plush bench seat while Giancarlo folds his long legs under the table.
“Are you...are you always so abrupt with people?” I ask him after he’s settled in.
He blinks at me through his glasses. “How do you mean?”
I shrug, trying not to look away from his piercing gaze. “I mean...it’s not her fault that she doesn’t speak Spanish. You were kind of rude.”
“She works at a tapas restaurant. You don’t think she should learn the language?”
“She’s selling appetizers, not Spanish courses,” I joke.
As if he notices that he’s compromising his own character, Giancarlo flashes a sudden smile. It’s a little shocking how much it changes his face. He goes from stern into a handsome rogue in two seconds flat, and I can’t help but smile back.
“Maybe you’re right,” he says, covering my hand with his big one. “This is why I need you around. You make me a nicer person.” Before I can ask exactly what he means by that, he removes his hand and picks up his menu. “I will order, okay?”
“Okay,” I say, sensing it would probably be better to let him have his way at this point than to argue anymore. Giancarlo’s stubbornness seems a lot like my dad’s—not worth the fight. In a weird way, it’s sort of soothing.
A waitress arrives and stutters through the night’s specials before Giancarlo orders in quick succession. It’s too much for just the two of us, but I don’t argue. I am hungry. He also orders a bottle of wine, and we clink glasses when it arrives.
“Salud,” he says and nods with approval when I say it back. “Good. Your accent is not so terrible.”
I smile. “Um, thanks.”
We sip together while Giancarlo continues to study me. He never stops watching.
“I miss you,” he says abruptly just before taking a long drink of his wine.
I glance around, unsure if I just heard him correctly. “What?”
He shrugs, like he’s just informed me that it’s raining outside. “I miss you these last months. I’m not afraid to say it, like some of these men. I know you are busy. But I wonder why you don’t call.”
“You didn’t call me either.” And immediately, I wonder why suddenly I care, even though moments ago I didn’t.
Giancarlo shrugs again, like it doesn’t make a difference. After that display outside the church, I’m certainly not about to tell him that the reason I haven’t called is because I’ve been heartbroken. That even though I refused to go to LA for Christmas, Nico and I still talk sometimes. That we haven’t been able to stop sending each other the occasional text or even a blurry picture here and there. That I don’t want to cut him out of my life, even though having him in it hurts.
“Are you, how do you say, seeing someone else?”
I squint. “Didn’t you already ask me that?”
“No,” Giancarlo says. He leans back when the food arrives, but continues speaking, like the server isn’t even there. He has a habit, I’ve noticed, of treating certain people like furniture. It’s chilly. “I asked if that boy was your lover. You say no. So...is there another?”
I take a piece of fried zucchini and dip it into a cup of aioli. “Um, no.” I hate the way my heart squeezes when I say that. I hate that it’s the truth.
“So you are free for me.”
I balk. Is this guy for real? We barely know each other—a few random hookups do not a relationship make. I’m not sure we’ve even had an entire conversation. Most of our interactions have consisted of late-night booty calls the few times my roommates were paired off with significant others, and I was left alone at the apartment and couldn’t take it anymore.
I think of the things I know about him, things gathered from early morning musings after sex, just when we were falling asleep. He’s from Buenos Aires, I know that. The son of a shipping manufacturer there, sent here to get his degree before he goes home to run the family business. I know he’s an only child, like me. And, as I recall the way he moved through the Mass with practiced ease, that he’s staunchly Catholic.
“I—what—” I sputter.
“No,” Giancarlo says, cutting me off. “We won’t start this tonight. You are different. I can tell.”
I frown. Different from what? I have no idea what he’s talking about.
“My woman has to have her head right,” he continues. “You will, I know you will.” He leans over the table. “Look at this face. This is the face of someone who is going places. And I want to take you with me. You are beautiful. Smart. I know you will be perfect for me.”
I stare, holding my zucchini, half-eaten. This has got
to be one of the strangest conversations I’ve ever had.
“When you return home from Christmas, you will decide,” he says. He plucks the zucchini from my hand and pops it into his mouth.
“I, um, well, I’m not going anywhere for Christmas,” I tell him as I watch, transfixed, while he finishes my food. “I’m just staying here.”
I haven’t even told my roommates that. They’ll all invite me home with them, and I’m just not in the mood to play nice with other people’s families again. I just want to be alone.
Giancarlo swallows, then gives me a slow, sweet smile. “We’ll have Christmas together, then,” he says. “Go to Mass. And I can help you practice your Spanish.”
I open my mouth to argue, insist that I was looking forward to having my apartment to myself for the holiday, that I wanted the alone time. But the truth is, I’m not. I know exactly what I’ll be doing—just what Quinn says, moping around New York like I did tonight. I’ll probably find my way to the MET, to the Cloisters, even around Central Park in the freezing rain, just because they are places where Nico and I spent time together. I’ve been as sad and lonely with people as I’ll be by myself. I don’t want to feel this way anymore.
“Okay,” I agree. “It’s a date.”
Giancarlo nods with approval. “Sí,” he replies. “Good.”
Chapter Seventeen
Layla
A few nights later, after Quinn and Jamie have already left for break, I’m in my room trying trying to watch a movie. Quinn was in a giant huff after I refused to apologize. I don’t know what I have to apologize for. Being sad? She was the one who attacked me.
Shama knocks on my bedroom door, roller bag in hand. She sees me lounging on my bed, watching Crybaby on the little TV that Quinn and I share.
“Oooh,” she says as she abandons her bag and comes to sit next to me. “I love this one.”
“Yeah,” I say as I sit up. “Quinn might be a bitch sometimes, but she’s got a great DVD selection.”
We watch while Johnny Depp teaches the blonde girl how to French kiss. It’s hot for a second, but before long, we’re both giggling uncontrollably when the characters start wiggling their tongues at each other like snakes. It’s the corniest damn movie, but I remember falling in love with Johnny Depp back when it first came out.
Bad Idea: The Complete Collection Page 51