It was a sight I’ll never, ever forget. Nico stood on the bleachers with the other two hundred or so cadets in his graduating class. They were all kitted out in their dress blues—formal, navy-blue suits with the military-style hats that should have looked stiff, but instead just made me want to do very dirty things to my man. Nico stood taller, much taller than his not-quite-six feet. I sat with Carmen in the front row, and she held my hand on one side and Gabe’s on the other while Maggie and Selena whistled loudly with Allie straddled across their laps. And after the presiding officers called everyone’s names and shook their hands, Nico ran down the stairs and swept me up in a giant kiss before the rest of his family crowded around him with hugs, kisses. This man vibrated happiness and pride—more, I think, than he’d ever felt in his life. And therefore, so did I.
But that was months ago, and since then, he’s lived the life of a rookie FDNY firefighter. He’s stationed in Queens, which means long commutes from our place in lower Manhattan. He works forty-eight and seventy-two hour shifts for low pay, which he’ll continue to supplement with shifts at AJ’s until next year, when his probationary period is up, and he’ll start making a real salary. It means that sometimes we barely see each other, particularly if his off days fall on an exam week for me. I’m one semester away from finishing school, and I spent the majority of November and December taking the GRE and applying for graduate school. In three months or so, I’ll find out whether or not I’ll be going to the school of social work at Columbia, Fordham, or NYU, or if I’ll be waiting tables for a year while I try again.
Social work. Not law school. Because the other relief of living with someone who supports me and cultivates this feeling of safety is that I felt confident enough to pursue a future that isn’t the one planned for me. My father, who still has barely spoken to me for most of the past year, has no idea about the change of plans, and my mother hasn’t asked. But watching Nico’s family’s frustrations over Carmen’s status inspired me more, especially when I compare it to my father’s relatively easy naturalization. The more I see them struggle, the more I understand just how much of my family’s fortune is just that: fortunate. Not just a product of hard work, but one of luck. I want to give back, but that’s going to take work. And time. And probably a lot of debt.
So our lives aren’t exactly easy. They’re busy and our budget is tight, especially when we consider just how we are going to afford this apartment after I’m finished with school and my mom won’t be paying my half anymore. But those are concerns for a few months from now, and these days, we both get to come home to each other. That’s what counts.
I practically skip out of the 6 station on Spring Street, knowing he’s at the apartment waiting for me. Normally I slow down, enjoying the eclectic window displays. On this block alone, there’s a bodega, a rice pudding shop, an antique furniture store, and a kimono designer whose royal textiles loom over the sidewalk like emperors. But today, I’m practically running.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out as I dodge around a couple perusing a restaurant menu. They give me a dirty look. I ignore them.
“Hey, baby. You almost here? I forgot my key.”
The anticipation in his deep voice vibrates against my cheek. It’s that same feeling that spiraled between us, between coasts, for the last month. It thrums between us like a guitar string that’s just been plucked, pulling me closer and closer to him. To Nico.
“T-two blocks,” I stutter just as I turn down Elizabeth. God, I can barely speak.
I turn onto Delancey, the massive boulevard that cuts across Lower Manhattan, pouring across the Williamsburg Bridge into Brooklyn. I can see the corner of the six-story walk-up with the Chinese laundromat on the bottom, facing the still-green trees of Delancey Park. But I can’t see Nico yet.
“Hurry,” he says, his voice suddenly breathy and a little hoarse. “I’m…cold.”
He’s not cold. It’s unseasonably warm for late January, and the man is a furnace. Whenever he’s not out on a call, he spends most of his time in the firehouse gym. His metabolism could power all of lower Manhattan.
“I’m here,” I tell him as I reach the corner. “I see you.”
Across the street, he turns around. He’s still in FDNY-issued navy pants and a t-shirt that pulls across the taut lines of his chest under his thick black jacket. He could change at the firehouse, but he rarely does because he knows how much I love seeing him in uniform. His favorite Yankees cap, curled tightly over his brow, casts a shadow over his eyes.
When he spots me, though, that hat doesn’t hide his smile as he claps his phone shut and shoves it in his pocket. It’s a bright, shining beacon; its light emanates, calling me to him. Calling me home.
“Baby! What the fuck are you waiting for?” he shouts, laughing. “Get your ass over here!”
He looks up and down Delancey. The big street, for once, is somewhat empty, the next round of cars at least four blocks away. Unable to stifle my grin, I jog across the six lanes, right into his arms just as another rush of cars arrives.
“You,” he says as he pulls me close, “have been on the West Coast too fuckin’ long, NYU. Waiting for streetlights. Pssh.”
I can’t help but grin. No one in New York waits for lights to turn to cross an empty street. But I don’t even care that he’s teasing. That’s how happy I am to see him.
We stare at each other, until our mutual smiles start to fall, eyes drift to mouths, and the street corner, despite being mostly empty, starts to feel crowded. Too crowded.
Nico exhales heavily through his nose, chewing on his lip as he stares at mine. Every cell in my body vibrates for him.
“Um—come on,” I manage. “Let’s go inside.”
He blinks, like some kind of spell was broken, then follows me to the door of our building. Behind me, he hovers, his broad hands at my waist while I pull out my keys.
“Stop that,” I murmur as he nuzzles into my neck. “I can’t get the keys into the lock when you’re doing that.”
“Mmmm.” His deep voice rumbles against my neck. “I can’t help it—you smell crazy good, and fuuuuck, I’ve been thinking about this all week.” His tongue slips out, causing us both to shudder. “Baby, open the fuckin’ door. I’m not waiting more than a minute, and then I swear to God, I’m taking you right here.”
I smirk, even though the sudden hard length pressed into my back makes my hands fumble all over again. If anything, the last three months have made this yearning worse, rather than better. He’s ready for me too. It’s been a month of heavy breathing, daydreaming, and phone sex. And then another week of classes and training, with only a city between us. He wants me? I’m about ready to combust.
“Nico!” I squeal when his fingers travel under the waistband of my jeans.
His fingertips brush the elastic of my underwear, dipping a little further to tease at the dampness already building there before he pulls them out. Then, before I know it, I’m spun around and pressed to the glass door, and Nico’s mouth is on mine. Warm, open-mouthed, and demanding, his kiss encompasses me completely, renders me starving in about a quarter of a second. My hands knock his bill up his forehead and grab his thick black hair. We’re eating each other alive, right in front of my building, while more than one person passes us with hushed whispers and even a wolf whistle.
“Oooh, look at them.”
I couldn’t tell you who said it. Nico reaches around, pulls me into him and grinds into my waist while he messes with my keys. I can’t even think. His taste consumes me.
Then with a click, the lock opens, and we topple inside. Jesus. I don’t even care that the door is transparent. He could take me right here on the stairs if he wanted to, in front of all the neighbors that have slowly filled up our building, and I wouldn’t argue one bit.
“Up,” I mumbled in between kisses. “Up. Stairs.”
“Fuck the stairs,” Nico growls, and in a single, fluid motion, he squats down and hoists me over his shoulder l
ike a sack of potatoes.
“Aah!” I whoop in surprise, but he’s too busy stomping up the stairs like a caveman to answer.
From my vantage point, I have the privilege of watching his extremely round ass as it moves. Back and forth, back and forth. I reach down with one hand and squeeze, which only causes him to yelp and jog faster.
One of my neighbors’ doors opens as we pass the fourth floor.
“Hi, Mrs. Dukakis!” I call through a bout of laughter as Nico continues his stampede.
“Are you all right, dear?” she asks as she follows our stumbling forms.
“She’s fine, Mrs. Dukakis!” Nico shouts as he starts on the fifth flight. He’s not even breaking a sweat. Apparently being a firefighter has given him some serious stamina.
“Is the door locked?” he asks as we climb the last set, his voice only slightly winded from his little run with an extra hundred and twenty pounds slung over his shoulder.
“Of course it’s locked.”
With another exuberant growl, Nico winds his way around the final post and charges to our door, which he practically kicks in after he unlocks it.
“What’s so funny?” he asks after he hauls me inside and dumps me on the couch.
I can’t stop giggling—I’ve been laughing all the way up. I yank him down to me, and his hat topples to the floor along with my purse, allowing me to sink my fingers into his flattened curls. Everything is forgotten. I’m not even sure we closed the front door.
“It’s nothing,” I say between kisses. “Just that I’ve literally wanted you to do that since the first time I met you.” His tongue is slick and urgent, and I open to it completely. “I remember thinking that your shoulders would be really good at carrying a girl some place.”
Nico pushes himself up to examine my face. When he realizes I’m serious, he rewards me with a grin, this one is even broader than before. It lights up my room, even in the dark. My body hums in response.
“Baby,” he said as he leans back down, “you only had to ask.”
Chapter Twenty
Layla
“Should we order some takeout?”
I open my eyes lazily. After conking out for about two hours after our little “reunion,” Nico and I are only barely starting to wake up. And if the grumbling under my ear is any indication, so is his stomach.
Mine responds with a loud growl. I prop up onto my elbow and look at Nico, who’s peeking at me through one open, squinted eye. I grin.
“Want me to get Chinese?” he asks. “I’ll even get dressed and go pick up those dumplings you like instead of calling the place that delivers.”
I pinch his side. “You don’t want me to cook for you? I thought maybe you would have missed my skills in the kitchen.”
He flops back onto the pillow. “Hmm. Did I miss chicken strips cooked in straight vinegar? Lemme think about that…I mean, it did almost blind me when I got home that night.”
He twists his full mouth around, like he’s really weighing the option, which makes me want to sock him and kiss him at the same time. Okay, so I’m not the greatest cook. I elbow him in the gut, causing him to keel over laughing. He grabs me and starts tickling my side, which he discovered about six weeks ago is incredibly sensitive.
“Okay, okay!” I shout as I thrash around. “I give, I give! Uncle! Tío! You win! I’m a terrible cook, and you didn’t need to miss any of it!”
When Nico releases me, he’s straddling my waist, naked in all his glory and laughing like a maniac. I sigh. I could probably go another round…but I need sustenance first.
“I missed you,” he says leaning down for a kiss. “Like fuckin’ crazy. But it’s a good thing I can make chicken and rice, is all I’m saying.”
I roll my eyes, but we’re both still chuckling as we clamber off the bed and get dressed. The bedroom is ours now—my desk was moved into the other room, across from the other desk and easel that turned into a sort of studio for Nico. He usually has a few days off a week when he’s not at the firehouse, and when he’s not sleeping or taking care of stuff for his family, sometimes he’ll escape to the other room and draw for a while. Most of the time those drawings end up looking a lot like me, but I don’t like to pry. When he’s ready to show them to me, he will. Which usually it ends up with us on the floor, since I can’t help myself after I see them.
“Sesame chicken?” Nico calls from the kitchen, where he’s dialing our favorite Chinese place on the next block.
“Egg drop soup for me. It’s freezing outside. I still need to warm up.”
I pull my hair into a messy bun, then walk into the living room just as Nico’s flipping on the Knicks game, kicking his heels on the coffee table in a pair of joggers and a t-shirt that’s threadbare enough I can see his tattoos right through the thin white cotton. He looks comfortable, and totally at home. It makes me want to pounce on him all over again.
The open space has changed a lot since he moved in. As soon as we had a little extra cash, we went to a consignment shop and bought a small dining set, a TV to replace Shama’s, and a coffee table to go in front of the couch. The walls have a weird mix of both of our belongings—a few art posters I had from my dorm, the tribal masks Nico had hanging in his old room uptown, and a few small pictures of St. Mary and St. Christopher that Carmen gave us and Nico surprised me by hanging right away.
“It’s good mojo,” he said with a casual shrug.
I didn’t argue. It seems to have been working.
The cupboards aren’t empty anymore either. Nico, I discovered, is an incredibly clean eater and a reasonably competent chef. Remnants of his boxing training. He’ll splurge once a week or so to eat out, but when he cooks, it’s usually something simple: chicken and salad, or fish and a vegetable, but always tasty. Considering that I’m not much of a cook at all, I’m usually happy to do the dishes on the nights when he’s home, and grab something cheap out on the nights he’s not.
“You’re going to ruin your liver if you keep eating that crap,” Nico says as I flop down onto the couch with an open bag of Doritos and a book. But he grabs a handful of chips for himself and plucks the book from my hand, flipping through it for a second before handing it back. “Borges, huh? Sounds like some nice light reading. I liked the Neruda you read last semester better.”
When he wasn’t at the firehouse, Nico basically took half my classes with me last semester, browsing through almost all of my books as I finished the first term of my senior year of college. He bent over my shoulder while I wrote my essay on Caribbean trade patterns and another on Cuban immigration history (he was very interested in that one). He quizzed me before I took the GRE exam in December and read and reread the admissions essays I sent out for graduate school.
“What did Ileana say last week?” I ask as I snuggle into Nico’s side. I inhale his scent, which is warm and a little smoky. He must have been called to a live fire today.
Nico’s hand drifts over my shoulder, and he starts playing with my hair. He likes it curly because he can twist it around his fingers. I think he finds it soothing.
“We’re still waiting on Gabe’s application,” he says. “It’s been almost three months. We should hear back any day.”
He rubs his face. After resubmitting the application for a travel license to go to Cuba, this time on an informational license, he and his family have been waiting on pins and needles for the Treasury to get back to them. It’s a long shot, Ileana said back in October. Since they weren’t journalists or government employees, it was unlikely an informational visit would be granted. But they still had to try. And keep trying. Otherwise, Carmen would be at the mercy of an immigration judge who may or may not believe her claim to Cuban nationality. And if they didn’t, Ileana said, it wasn’t a given she would be allowed to stay. That entirely depended on the judge.
“I don’t know,” he says sadly. “I’m starting to think I should just try to sneak in. I’ve heard of people doing that. They fly through Venezuela or some place l
ike that and change their money there so they don’t break U.S. law by spending money in Cuba.”
I frown. “Couldn’t you get in trouble for doing that?”
Nico shrugs. “I don’t know. But I doubt it would be worse than my mother being deported.”
We sit there quietly for a bit, letting the basketball game fill the awkward silence. He’s tense, and I hate that there’s no way for me to solve this problem for him. I’ve been doing my best to pay attention to the things I’ve learned in school about Cuban immigration, but it always comes down to one thing: to guarantee residency, Carmen needs documentation of her birthplace, or else she has to risk court. But getting those documents is another matter entirely, and I’m not sure I like the idea of Nico risking everything he’s worked for to do that.
“So, I forgot to ask you earlier since we were, ah, busy,” Nico says as I flip through my mail I still haven’t gone through from the last month. His fingers draw absent circles around my shoulder. “What did your mom say when you told her we were living together?”
I gulp. This has been a sore spot for a while. Nico has been patient, knowing that I wanted to tell her face-to-face after we spent some time together again. As far as my conservative mother knows, I have a roommate, but it’s another NYU student. She likes Nico, but she wouldn’t be so keen on him if she knew we were living together without being married. I don’t want to think about what my father would do if he found out. We may barely speak these days, but I’m pretty sure the idea of his daughter living in sin would have him on a plane within twenty-four hours.
“Layla.”
I sit up and turn to him. The guarded look on his face tells me he already knows what I’m going to say.
“I’m sorry,” I squeak out. “I just…I couldn’t. Not yet.”
His face falls. And it just about kills me.
“Layla. Two months I’ve had to pretend I’m not here when she calls. Had to listen to you tell her about another roommate. It’s fucked up, baby.”
Bad Idea: The Complete Collection Page 89