Or maybe it hurt the whole time. I never could tell.
“No,” I said too quickly. Suddenly it was hard to speak. My chest felt like it was bound in cement. I couldn’t breathe.
“Close your eyes. Inhale deeply. Focus on where you are now. The room. My voice. The here and now, Layla. The here and now.”
It wa a routine Dr. Parker came up with about two weeks after I started seeing her, when she diagnosed me not just as a trauma victim, but also with mild post-traumatic stress disorder. It was common, she said, for women coming out of abusive relationships to experience some measure of PTSD. Flashbacks. Shortness of breath. Dizziness. Those, she said, were my symptoms. We were working on learning my triggers.
“Say it out loud,” she urged gently.
“The here and now,” I whispered. I didn’t shut my eyes. Instead, I opened them wider, trying to let the light of the room banish the darkness that threatened.
“He’s gone, Layla,” hummed Dr. Parker. “He can’t hurt you anymore.”
“But he’s not gone.” Those are the words I could finally muster when my breath started to return. “He’s not.”
* * *
“Layla?”
My name interrupts the memory, and I blink at my reflection in the mirror. The dark circles that have been stamped under my eyes since last fall are still there, but they are slowly starting to fade a bit more.
I run the water in the pristine new sink and splash a bit on my face. It’s been a long day. After signing the lease this morning, Mom and I went to get my stuff out of storage, and then spent the rest of the day getting the other furniture I’ll need. Shama and I can figure out the main room when she gets here, so we just bought a bed and a desk, along with the necessary sheets and basics that I’ll need, along with a few things for the kitchen. I’m actually really thankful she came—my mom knows a hell of a lot more about setting up a new house than I do.
But now it’s done. The living room is still completely empty, but I am the proud owner of an entire taxi cab full of linens and kitchenware from Bed, Bath, and Beyond, plus a brand-new double mattress set and a plain oak desk and chair.
“It’s late. I’m going back to the hotel to pack,” Mom says as I exit the bathroom. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather just stay at the suite with me? You’ll have the rest of the year to sleep here.”
I shake my head. “You have to leave at four a.m. to catch your flight home. I’m good.”
Mom looks at her tasteful white-gold watch and tucks a nonexistent flyaway back into place. “Hmmm. Yes. I suppose.”
Then she looks up, and her blue eyes, the same bright shade as mine, float over me, in that same way they always do. Checking to make sure everything is there. Nothing’s broken. Nothing’s out of place.
“Maybe I should stay until your roommate gets here.” Mom taps a nail on the wall. “Maybe this is too soon. I don’t like you being alone.”
I sigh. I’m so tired of being looked at this way. It’s been three months of this, of her and my grandparents treating me with kid gloves, walking around me on eggshells. It’s almost like they thought I beat myself up last spring, like if they left me alone, they’d come back to find me bruised and bloodied all over again. Ever since Dr. Parker mentioned the letters PTSD, everyone has treated me like a basket case. Everyone except Nico, who doesn’t know.
Things like that don’t happen in her family. In Pasadena, abuse is done nice and neat, behind closed, carved-wood doors and the pretty white stucco walls. It’s done with cutting words, neglect, and bank accounts, not knives and fists. But abuse is abuse. And I think my mother took her fair share for years.
“I’ll be fine, Mom.”
I cross the room and give her a hug. Her thin form is stiff in my arms. We’ve never been a touchy-feely family. But eventually her hands clasp my waist, and she squeezes tightly before letting go.
“What about your prescription? Do you have enough?”
I cringe. There’s an orange bottle of pills sitting in a drawer of my new desk—a low dose of Valium that I’m supposed to take in the event of a trigger. I don’t like them. They push away the shadows, but they veil the rest of the world too. Somehow, I don’t think I’m going to find my way back to my old self when I’m on a bunch of mood stabilizers.
“There’s plenty,” I assure her. “I’ll be fine.”
“That boy…”
At that, I look up. Mom hasn’t said much about Nico since we’ve been here. She watched us, carefully, when he accompanied us from apartment to apartment the night before. She listened and laughed at his jokes, but always focused sharply whenever he brushed my arm, held my waist, snuck a few kisses. I think she was relieved that he had to spend the day at the academy today before going straight to his weekend job.
“The way he looks at you…Layla, he’s very in love with you.”
I frown. She says it like it’s a bad thing.
“Well…I’m in love with him.” I don’t know why it makes me so nervous to say it out loud. It’s the truth.
She cocks her head and worries her lower lip. “Yes. I see that too.”
I know what she’s thinking. That the connection between Nico and me is too much, too soon after everything I went through. That if I was smart, I would take more time away from him or any relationship. That I wouldn’t jump into anything too quickly.
Too bad that’s not an option. Not with him. Not now, not ever.
“Mom, you don’t have to worry about Nico.” I clasp my arms around my waist. “He’ll take care of me.”
I wish that were true. On some level, I believe it. But another part of me, the scared, anxious part, can’t contain its echo: he sent you away.
But that was after he saved you, I tell myself. Before he flew across the country to rescue you. He sent you back to your parents so you could be together again, the right way. So you could pull yourself back together.
Still…I’m not the same person I was when we met, or even when he put me back on that plane last May. He loved me then. Will he love me now?
I shake the question away. “I’ll be fine.”
Mom purses her lips, like she doesn’t quite believe me.
“Mom?”
She blinks, like she thinks I’ve changed my mind. I haven’t, but I do have one question that’s been bothering me for a long time. It’s taken me all summer long to ask the question my therapist and I bandied back and forth again and again. How did I learn to be loved this way?
“Did Dad…did he ever hurt you?” I ask.
Mom pauses and takes a long time to examine the grooves of one of the doorframes. When she looks up, her blue eyes, the ones that are so like mine, are serious and wide.
“Not like you’re asking,” she says. “But in small ways, yes.”
I don’t need to ask what she means by that. I know my father. I know what kind of a demanding, overbearing, unforgiving bear he can be.
“You never really forget,” she says quietly. “And you shouldn’t. Because if you forget, then it might happen again.”
I narrow my eyes. I don’t like what she’s insinuating. The only person in my life who could “do it again” is the same man who saved me. That’s not fair to him at all.
“Okay.” Mom looks me over one more time and nods. “I’ll call you when I land.”
“Fly safe.”
With one last lingering look, she leaves, and I’m alone in my new apartment, with no one here to pull me out of my daydreams. Memories. Nightmares.
I didn’t want to tell her how scared I really am to be here again. How the corners of the city, painted gray with time and people, felt all day today like they were hiding the face that’s been tormenting me all summer. He could be anywhere.
I wander back into my bedroom and sit down on the mattress. I pull out my phone, thumbing the keypad. Nico and I talked every day this summer. Mostly at night, when he was off from the academy. He didn’t know why I had a tendency to call him at twelve at night or even later. Ho
w I’d wake up in the middle of the night shaking, and the only thing that could calm me down was the deep burr of Nico’s baritone, even lower when he’d been sleeping. But it would hum me back to a calm place while he sleepily told me about his day, told me to be good. Told me he loved me.
He never cared that I would wake him up in the middle of the night. Never asked why. He was only ever happy to hear my voice and fall back asleep on the phone with me. He doesn’t know yet that his voice is the only thing that really keeps those nightmares away.
Almost as if on cue, the screen lights up with his name. I smile. At least this time, I don’t have to call him.
“Hey,” I answer. “I was just thinking about you.”
“Good things?”
I grin into the new mirror propped against the wall. “Of course.”
“Naughty things?”
My face practically splits, but I can’t quite answer. Nico laughs, like he knows my face is bright red. I don’t know why. It’s not like we haven’t had much dirtier conversations this summer.
“I just wanted to make sure you were coming up to the club tonight,” he says. “I need to see you.”
I can’t stop smiling. My cheeks are starting to hurt.
“Is your mom there?”
“No,” I answer. “She went back to the hotel to pack.”
“So…she’s not staying at your place tonight?”
I glance around the empty room. “No…”
“So, does that mean I can?”
I freeze. For a split-second, there’s a war within me, one I quickly quash. How could there even be doubt about that? This is what we’ve been waiting for since the spring.
“Of course,” I say quickly. Maybe too quickly.
“And, baby?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m not saying you have to or anything…but if you did want to come up to AJ’s tonight, I wouldn’t mind seeing you in something short. And tight.”
I bite my lip. Again with that weird freeze. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I used to love it when Nico talked about me like this. I can easily imagine the look on his face when I walk up in one of the tiny dresses I used to wear at nightclubs. The way his full mouth will drop as his gaze sears over every curve I have. It’s a look of pure, unadulterated desire. Like there is no one in the world he sees but me.
“I’ll, um…I’ll see what I can do.”
There’s a chuckle. “Okay. See you later, beautiful.”
The phone hangs up before I can reply—before Nico can hear the doubt in my voice. I push away that cold feeling and focus on the night ahead as I unzip my suitcase and start pulling out clothes to change into. But one thing is bugging me. Outside, it’s dark. The shadows are long beyond the telephone poles. And beyond the safety of this room, people lurk. A person, maybe, lurks.
I pick up my phone and dial the first safe person who comes to mind. Vinny, my old friend from freshman year, picks up the phone.
“Whaddya know?” he crows. “Barros is back from the dead! What the fuck is up, yo!”
I snort. We didn’t really hang out much last year because we were in totally different dorms, but Vinny, a business student who was always determined to sound as bro-y as possible, seems like he’s the same as ever.
“I’m back,” I say. “Just finished moving into my new place over in Chinatown.”
“No shit,” Vinny says. “I’m at Lafayette again, if you can believe that. But I got one of the senior singles. Dude, it’s sweet. I’m going to get so much ass this year.”
I grin. Vinny talks like a douchebag, but he’s totally harmless. I can’t really see him using his single room as anything other than a gaming area. “Awesome, Vin. Let me know how it goes.”
Lafayette was our dorm sophomore year, where I used to live with Jamie, Shama, and Quinn, my former best friend. The thought makes me ache a little. We had fun in that dorm. It was a good year.
“So I heard about what happened last year…” Vinny drifts off, waiting for an opening.
With one finger, I press a circle into my comforter. “Oh, yeah.”
“Jamie mentioned it when I saw her at the student union yesterday.”
My shoulders drop with relief. Jamie wouldn’t tell much, and she wouldn’t make me sound atrocious.
“Damn, Lay. I wish I was around. I coulda beat that dude’s face in a long time before then. You guys always looked out for me.”
I smirk. Chasing away the silly girls Vinny likes wasn’t exactly a hardship. Those girls had voices like Disney characters and were ridiculous.
But what hurts more is the fact that I’m calling Vinny right now instead of Quinn or Jamie. Even though Jamie came with Shama and Nico to help me last May, she’s barely said a word to me all summer. It was like she saw what was really happening to me and just couldn’t handle it. Quinn and I totally parted ways when I left last spring. After the way she treated me, there’s no love lost there. Best friends don’t stand aside when their friend is in trouble. They don’t scold and hate on them when they need to be held the most. I’m better off without her, as Nico frequently tells me.
But, I realize, it’s going to be a little lonely without a posse. Starting over might be harder than I thought.
“So hey,” I say, “I’m supposed to be meeting Nico—”
“Nico? FedEx guy? You back with him?”
I sigh. I’m going to be hearing that a lot, and I know Nico doesn’t like it.
“Well, he’s a firefighter now,” I correct Vinny, enjoying the little thrill I feel when I say that out loud. I’m so proud of Nico for what he’s doing. Not to mention he looks insanely hot in his uniform. “He graduates from the academy in a few more weeks. But yeah, we’re back together. He’s, um…he still works the door at AJ’s on the weekends. Any chance you want to go up there tonight? I could be your wingman…”
“Are you kidding? I’ve been trying to get into AJ’s for months! They never let dudes in!”
“Well, good,” I say with a grin as I pull one of my shortest dresses out of my suitcase with renewed enthusiasm. “Then it’s a date. Here, I’ll give you my address.”
Chapter Four
Nico
“Sorry, ladies. You’ll have to go elsewhere tonight.”
The three girls in front of me stick out their lips, looking even more like the children they are. I doubt they’re even eighteen, let alone twenty-one. How their parents let them out of the house looking like two-bit prostitutes almost makes me feel sorry for them, but not sorry enough to let them into the club.
The taller one, who’s wearing the tightest jeans I have ever seen and earrings so big they would give my sister Selena a run for her money, cocks her head and extends a finger to run up and down my shoulder. I glare at it. It’s hot tonight. We’re in the thick of late summer in New York, and the city smells like sweat, hot garbage, and alcohol.
“Come on, handsome,” says Earrings. “I bet we could make it worth your while.”
She leans in so I can smell the gallon of perfume she’s wearing. I cough.
“We come as a package deal, you know,” she purrs. “And my friend’s parent’ have an empty penthouse on Fifth.”
Ah, so that’s what’s going on. Rich Mommy and Daddy are probably at the Hamptons for the weekend, just like all the other rich people in the city, leaving their very underage daughters to play house for the weekend. I stare at the hand on my shoulder until she removes it, looking slightly scared.
“Look…Wanda.” I flip her shitty ID back at her. “We don’t let kids in here. And word to the wise, asking strange men to your apartment is gonna get you into trouble. Go home before I call the cops, and they call your parents for you.”
The girl’s lip trembles, and her friends, both of them wearing so much makeup they look like sad, underage clowns, stare at the concrete. For a split-second, I almost let them in, thinking that maybe it’s better if I keep them here. Then at least I could keep an eye on them. Make sure t
hey don’t go home with anyone they shouldn’t.
Shit. I’m not these girls’ dad. The last thing I want to be doing is babysitting, especially when my girl is going to be here any second. Then I have an idea.
“Tell you what, lemme see your IDs again, sweetheart,” I say. “Maybe I was wrong.”
I almost feel bad about the hopeful looks on their faces when I collect the plastic cards. Even if the pictures hadn’t been grainy as fuck, their flimsy weights would have told me they were fakes. Wanda, Josephina, and Marilyn. Jesus, these are the worst fake names I’ve ever seen. They probably spent good money on these too. Poor kids.
I pretend to examine them closely while I fish a pair of scissors out of my pocket. And then, before they can stop me, I slice them in half, then hand them back the broken pieces.
“Hey!” “Wanda” cries out, holding the broken pieces while her friends look on in horror. “What the hell!”
“You’ll thank me in about five years,” I say. “Now go home, before I really do call the cops.”
With a few more cries of protest, the girls finally leave, with nothing more to do. I know that most likely, they’ll just buy new IDs. Maybe this week, maybe next month. But at least tonight they won’t be going anywhere that sixteen-year-olds have no business going. I swear to God, the day I check my last ID will be the last time I ever set foot in a nightclub again. Ten years of my life I’ve spent working in these shitholes.
And now. Maybe a year. Maybe less. Once I’m off a probate’s salary and making a regular income from the fire department, I won’t have to do this shit. Any. More.
I settle back on my stool and run a hand through my hair. It’s too long, the tight curls getting a little bushy on top, which means more shit I have to comb through it to get it to behave in this humidity. Normally I keep it short, but the memory of Layla’s hum when I mentioned it to her last month stuck with me. I close my eyes, remember the way her fingers wove through it at the airport. My girl is a hair-puller. I’d like to make her pull on it really hard. Soon.
“That was kind of harsh.”
Bad Idea: The Complete Collection Page 75