Nico’s mouth is a straight line. “He wouldn’t have touched you. I would have killed him first.” Then he looks down. “I don’t know if today is the best day to be making snap decisions, NYU. Especially with something permanent.”
I shake my head. I’m saying this wrong.
“It’s not like that. It’s more like…” I tip my head to the side, trying to come up with the right words. I tug down Nico’s shirt collar so I can see the edge of the big compass tattoo over his heart. “Why did you get this?”
He’s told me this story, but he reiterates it anyway. “It was to remember,” he says. “Not to lose track of who I was. My direction.”
“Do you remember my bruises? The cuts on my face?”
His face darkens. “How could I forget?”
I chew on my lip. “This city, other people. My dad. Giancarlo. Other people marked me. Today, I want to mark myself. I want the next intense thing I feel to be because I wanted it, not because someone else did it to me. Does that make sense?”
Nico watches me for a moment, his black eyes burning under the streetlight. “You want control,” he says softly, in a voice that’s almost dangerous.
Slowly, I nod.
Nico examines me for a few more moments, like he’s trying to figure out some other puzzle about me. Finally he nods back and pulls the brim of his Yankees hat down low.
He glances at the shop, then takes my hand. “If you’re going to do this, we’re doing it right,” he says. “Come on. I know a much better place.”
Chapter Seventeen
Nico
Fifteen minutes later, we’re standing in front of the tattoo shop on Second Avenue where my friend Milo has worked since we finished high school. Milo did my ink back then too, when he was an apprentice still learning his trade. Most of the art on my shoulder and half sleeve was me providing a canvas for him to practice on. I’d sketch, he’d trace, and I’d zone out on his table, half-enjoying the pinch of his needle. I figured I was already a fuckup, so I might as well get some badass art to look like it. My mom freaked when she first saw the swirling lines that Milo put all over my shoulder and arm. She said it made me look like a thug.
“Isn’t that what I am?” I asked her at the time.
“No,” she replied, in both Spanish and English so I’d know she really meant it. Even if it’s the same word in both languages, my mother has a way of making them sound different. Again and again and again.
Turns out, of course, that she was right. But I didn’t really believe it until I met the girl standing next to me, a person in the same exact place I was when I stood outside these doors, back for Milo to put the compass on my chest. I had just gotten my first legit job, the one with FedEx. I wanted something that was mine.
I don’t regret any of my tattoos, and I’ll probably get more one day. They’re a map of who I am, who I thought I was, what I wanted. Reminders of a life I wanted to put behind me, and another I wanted to have. If Layla wants that grounding, I’ll help her get it. And I won’t have her do it alone.
The bell above the door to the shop jingles when we enter. A white girl with blue hair, dime-sized gauges in her ears, and skinny arms full of multicolored tattoos, some of which I recognize as Milo’s designs, is paging through a book at the glass counter.
She gives us both a bored look. “Can I help you?”
“Is Milo free?” I ask. Layla drifts away to check out the tattoo designs on the walls
“WHO THE FUCK IS THAT?” A loud voice calls from behind the red curtains that protect the rest of the shop from prying eyes.
I roll my eyes at the gauges girl. “Looks like he found us.”
She shrugs and turns back to her magazine. Layla comes to my side as Milo charges through the curtain in the doorway.
Average height, wearing a white t-shirt, jeans, and a red backward Giants hat, Milo looks pretty much like your average Irish kid, with the exception of one thing: everything but his face is completely covered in tattoos, including his fingers and neck.
“What the fuck. Nico fuckin’ Soltero––how you been, man?”
I slap my friend’s palm and let him pull me in for a quick embrace before he steps back to look me over.
“I heard about you and the FDNY,” he says, noticing my uniform. “That’s the shit, Nico. Congratulations.”
“Thanks, man.” I shrug, like it’s no big deal, but I don’t know if I’ll ever get tired of hearing people say this. Talk to me with that kind of admiration. Beside me, Layla grins. Yeah, I’ll never get tired of that either.
“And who’s this?” Milo sticks a hand out to Layla, who shyly takes it. “How’re you doin’?”
“Milo, this is my girl, Layla. Layla, this is Milo. He’s the talented bastard who did all of my work.”
Layla brightens at the mention of my tattoos, and I stifle a grin. She never says anything, but I can tell she likes them by the way her eyes light up whenever I take off my shirt, or the way she traces the black lines with her fingers.
“Nice to meet you,” she says. “I, um, I’m an admirer.”
Milo leers. “Yeah, I bet you are, sweetie. But you know I just put down the ink. Your man here is the one with the real talent. You ever seen him sketch?”
Layla immediately blushes. She’s thinking of some of my sketches of her; I’d bet money on it. She then turns beet red when I lay a kiss on her cheek.
Milo winks at her, then turns to me. “So what are we doing? Are you looking to add to your sleeve? I have this crazy new pattern I’ve been wanting to try out. If you want something new.”
I shake my head. “Maybe after I graduate. Today we’re paying customers. Actually, Layla’s the one who wants something.”
I look down at her, asking wordlessly if she still wants to do this. Her full lips quirk into a half smile before she turns to Milo, who’s looking her over more appreciatively. I just focus on her.
“All right,” he says. “Come on back. I’m pretty much done for the night, so I think we can figure something out.”
We follow him behind the curtain to his booth in the back of the shop. It contains a padded table that’s curtained off for privacy and the various equipment Milo needs to do his thing. He gestures for Layla to take a seat on the table, and she hops up while I lean back against it next to her, my hand on her thigh.
“So,” Milo says as he leans against the counter across from us. “What are we doing today, pretty? Something on the wall?”
“Easy,” I warn him, but my friend just rolls his eyes.
“You gotta keep this guy on his toes,” he tells Layla. “Now that I know he’s going to get all big bad wolf on me, I’m going to have to flirt with you all day. You down with that, honey?”
I growl. I can’t help it. Layla just laughs and drapes her arm around my neck.
“I’m okay with it,” she says before she kisses my temple. “I kind of like the big bad wolf sometimes. But he knows deep down that he’s the only one that matters anyway.”
I know he’s joking—they’re both joking—but her words still calm me, and I relax into her touch. I can save my growls for later, when we’re alone.
“I…want a script,” Layla says. “I was looking at some of the ones on the wall, but actually…” She shifts uncomfortably, and I turn to find her blue eyes wide and uncertain. “I was hoping you’d write it for me.”
I frown and turn completely so I’m facing her. “You want my shitty chicken scratch on your body?”
Layla strokes my cheek lightly. She opens her mouth, then glances at Milo, like she’s not sure she wants him in the room. Then she swallows and speaks in a low voice.
“I want you on my body. You’re already there. Knowing you has changed me. You make me stronger. Your love and belief in me makes me stronger. I…”
She blinks, and for a split-second, a slight shimmer glosses her eyes. She’s trying not to cry in front of Milo, and damn if it doesn’t make me choke up too.
Layla looks s
traight at me. “I don’t ever want to forget it.”
For several seconds, I can’t speak. It feels like my heart is lodged in my throat while every emotion I have buried inside is rushing to my head.
“I love you,” Layla whispers. “So much.”
“Fuck,” I finally breathe, sliding my hands around her waist and pulling her flush to me. “You have no idea, mami. No fuckin’ idea how much I love you.”
We stand like that for a few moments until Milo clears his throat behind us. I swallow and turn around.
“I guess I’m writing something down,” I tell him.
Milo chuckles and shakes his head. He’s looking at me the way we used to look at our other friends who paired off with girls. Like they were jokers, the poor schmucks, totally pussy-whipped. And maybe I am. But I couldn’t be happier about it.
Milo gets me a piece of paper and a Sharpie. “Don’t worry about size,” he says. “I can blow it up before I make the trace. Just make sure it’s written the way she wants it.” He glances at Layla. “Don’t forget, pretty. This ain’t comin’ off.”
Layla smiles shyly. “I know.”
Milo leaves to get the materials to do the trace for the tattoo, and I turn to Layla with the paper and pen. “What am I writing, baby?”
Layla bites her lip, then leans over the paper with me. “Three words. The first word is spelled s-a-u-d-a-d-e.”
It’s not until I’ve written out the letters that I realize what I’ve spelled. I look up.
“Saudade?”
Layla nods shyly. “And then write, para tí.”
I finish scratching out the words on the paper, then stare at the uneven black letters as I register what she’s telling me. A little over a year ago, right before everything went to hell, Layla and I sat together on a beach in California and confessed what was in our hearts. At the time, it felt like there was nothing to lose. We were apart, with no real future ahead of us. It was a moment, just a recognition of what we were. How we really felt.
* * *
“Brazilians have a word for that, you know,” she said as she played with my fingers. “Saudade. It’s…it’s hard to explain because there isn’t a translation. But the way I had it explained to me, it’s like when you yearn for something or someone. Like your heart speaks to their heart, and when they’re gone, it’s that emptiness that remains. It’s a longing, maybe for something that never even happened.”
In Portuguese, they say it: “eu tenho saudade.” And to that, I whispered in Spanish: “para tí.” For you.
* * *
I blink, pulling myself back to the present.
“But you have me now,” I wonder aloud. “How can you miss something you have? Because you do have me, Layla. I ain’t going nowhere.”
Layla shrugs, her cheeks flushed. “I’ll always miss you a little,” she says. “The bitter and the sweet, right?”
I watch her for a moment as I begin to understand. She’s right. No matter how much I love Layla, no matter how close she lets me come, a part of me will always want to be closer, will always want more of her. It’s the feeling I have when our bodies are joined, when I’m buried so deep in her I think she might split in two. We devour each other, again and again, and still my heart, my soul, my entire fucking being shouts for more.
Saudade. A longing that never leaves. The bitter and the sweet. Just like us.
“Okay,” I say. Then I hand her the pen. “Then you have to write it too. How do you say ‘for you’ in Portuguese?”
Layla’s soft pink lips quirk into a half smile. “Are you…?”
“If you’re doing this, I am too,” I tell her. “It’s something we both have, right? Write it down.”
With another shy smile, Layla writes out the phrase “saudade de voce” in her neat, slanted cursive. Her handwriting is delicate and curling, unlike mine. I run a finger over it, and when Milo comes back in, I hand him the paper.
“We’re doing two,” I tell him as he examines the paper. “That one’s hers. The other’s mine.”
Milo nods, not even bothering to challenge me. He knows me too well. “Where are they going?”
“Right here,” Layla pipes up. She points to her ribs, the side of her torso, just under her arm.
Milo bares his teeth. “You sure about that, pretty? That spot is really, really painful. I wouldn’t recommend it for your first time.”
Layla presses her lips together and nods vehemently. “I want to feel it,” she says fiercely as she looks at me.
I nod, then turn to my friend. “Me too,” I tell him. “Let’s do it.”
* * *
Thirty minutes later, after Milo enlarged and then sketched our messy writing onto the transfer paper, my words are stamped on Layla’s side. She lies on the table in only her bra, side up, while Milo scoots on his stool next to her as he snaps on a pair of thick latex gloves.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” I ask again.
Layla props up on her elbows, which pushes her breasts together, putting some very inappropriate thoughts in my head. It’s been a long time since that night at Frank’s. I’m not exactly crazy about the fact that my buddy is seeing her like this, and unfortunately, the wild look in her big blue eyes is only making the effect that much worse. I shift awkwardly on my chair, trying to adjust myself without giving it away.
“Do you think it will look stupid?” she asks.
“No!” I protest. “As it happens, I think you’d look fuckin’ hot with a little body art,” I answer before I can stop myself. Well, it’s the truth. “I just don’t want you to hurt.”
“Well, that’s just the reality, man,” Milo puts in. “You know that better than anyone. But I don’t think you’ve had anything as bad as the ribs, to be honest.”
He turns on the needle. The buzz fills the small space, enclosed by the red curtains.
Layla looks back at Milo. “I said I want to feel it,” she says clearly over the buzz, to both him and me. “I’m not going to hide from pain anymore. Do it.”
Milo looks at me. I nod, even though my stomach clenches. Here we go.
Layla flinches the second the needle meets her skin, and I flinch with her as I watch. Her sweet face screws up as Milo starts drawing over her delicate skin and moves across bone. It’s a feeling I know well. The slight pinch when the needle first sinks into your skin, followed by a slight burning as the area around it reacts. It’s a shock at first, but slowly, your body acclimates until it moves over a nerve or a particularly sensitive spot. But until then, the pain doesn’t fade. It just regulates, steady like the hum of the needle.
“It hurts,” Layla whispers, even though just moments before she was demanding the pain.
She extends a hand, clearly struggling to keep still as the needle digs into her ribs.
But for a second, I’m not sure if she’s actually talking about Milo’s needle. Her eyes are wide, and her lip trembles. Yeah, baby, I know, I want to say. This life we chose together was never going to be easy. And I’ll never stop feeling guilty about that.
But then her gaze drops to my mouth, and there’s a very different thought practically shimmering across her face. Take it away, those baby blues seem to say. Or maybe…balance it out.
I take her hand between mine and press my lips to her knuckles.
“Ow,” she whimpers as the needle passes over her ribs again.
I wince myself. They say it’s closest to the bone that hurts the most. I wouldn’t know—mine are all over muscle.
“Hey,” Milo puts in when Layla jerks again. “I’m going to screw it up if you keep doing that.” He looks to me. “Can you help her stay still?”
I look back at Layla. She wants this, I know. So when Milo’s needle starts buzzing again, I do the only thing I can think of to distract her, to take the pain away. I kiss her.
Almost immediately, she sighs, and her fingers relax their iron grips. Deep down, this is Layla’s sweet spot, just like it is mine. For better or for worse,
neither of us ever learned to take the good without the bad, the pleasure without a bit of pain. Love always had to hurt a little.
She moans as our tongues twist together. Suddenly I don’t care that my buddy is two feet from us with his face six inches from Layla’s breasts, close enough that he can smell her flowery scent or know the curves of her body. I don’t care that we’re sitting in a “room” divided only by flimsy fabric, surrounded by an entire shop of people who can hear everything we do. I can feel the vibration with her, feel the sting of the needle along with the sweetness of her kiss. And the combination is like a powder keg that’s just been lit.
“All right,” Milo says several minutes later. “I’m done.”
Layla blinks at me as I pull away. “What? Already?”
She sits up, her long, dark hair falling like a waterfall over her shoulder. Her wet, pink mouth falls open, and just like that, I’m zero to sixty. Jesus, she’s so fuckin’ beautiful. And it’s a really good thing I’m sitting down.
Milo smirks. “Maybe you should make out with all my clients when they get something painful,” he says. “She went stone-still after you started with that.”
“I don’t think so,” I say with a grin. “Layla’s the only one I’m kissing anymore.”
“Lucky you,” he replies.
Layla blushes while Milo applies a bit of Vaseline and then a light bandage over her new tattoo, and then scrambles back into her t-shirt. She hops off the table, and I whip off my shirt and take her spot almost as quickly.
“All right,” I tell Milo as he reaches for the other transfer. “My turn.”
I sit still, watching Layla’s eyes light up as her handwriting is printed onto my ribs, the opposite side as hers, so that when we stand together our words will face each other. Milo hums as he presses the paper down, and then removes it a few seconds later.
“All good?” he asks.
I check myself in the mirror on the opposite wall. “All good.”
The machine starts again as I lie on my side.
Bad Idea: The Complete Collection Page 87