“Is that right, Doctor Barros? Well, where the fuck were you last year, or the year before that, sir?” I take a step forward, forcing him one step back. “Because I’m the one who’s been there. I’m the one that carried your daughter out of some asshole’s apartment after he had beaten her black and blue. I’m the one who talked her into going home even though I wanted her with me. Your daughter is my heart and soul, sir. I would do anything for her. Lay down my life for her in a heartbeat. So there ain’t no fuckin’ way that anyone gets to talk shit about her, about us like that. Not while I’m alive.” I pull myself up as tall as my five feet, almost eleven inches will let me. “I don’t care if you’re her father. I don’t care if you’re the Pope. You mess with Layla, you mess with me.”
Dr. Barros blinks, his dark, shadowed eyes burning into me and everyone else. Into his daughter. But my words fly right by him. Maybe he’s too angry to really hear them in the first place.
“Layla,” he tries again, straining, it’s clear, to keep his voice down. “We go. Now.”
“No, Dad.”
Dr. Barros gulps, hard enough that it makes his bow tie twitch. “Layla,” he tries again.
“She doesn’t want to go with you,” I tell him.
And then I make my biggest mistake, one that in all my years of training with fighters, of living in bad neighborhoods, of growing up in a city where you always look over your shoulder, I should have learned by now. I turn my back.
“Come on, baby,” I say, taking Layla’s hand and pulling her close. I press a kiss to her forehead, willing her to know that whatever happens tonight, I’m still here for her. I’m always here for her. “Let’s get out of here.”
Maybe it’s the kiss, innocent as it was. Or maybe it’s the way that his daughter is looking at me, with big blue eyes full of love, the kind that drives me every day to be something better than I am. Whatever it is, Dr. Barros sees something that sets him off. And he attacks with a roar.
“NOOOOO!”
In a split-second, I’m wrenched away from Layla, and I’ve got a pair of slim, well-groomed hands flying at me. One cuffs me on the jaw, a sucker punch I’d be able to dodge on literally any other day, any other moment.
“Sergio!” screams Layla’s aunt.
“Dad!” Layla shouts.
But I don’t know where they’re coming from, because I’m too busy fighting off the best of Brazilian society right now. Frank, my old trainer and mentor, used to say that half a good fighter is skill, and the other half is adrenaline. And that if you pit one against the other, adrenaline wins every time.
Dr. Barros might be older and weaker than me, but he’s got fury on his side.
Still, I’ve got a little of that too. A well of it, really, that will probably never totally go away. And when I think of the way he looks at his daughter like she’s nothing, that anger bubbles up in no time, and I’m ready to swing back.
“Dad!” Layla shouts as Dr. Barros scrambles at me again, his fists flying toward my face.
The guy is no fighter. His hands are soft, the slim fingers of a surgeon, not a soldier. I duck easily, parry him away as the crowd naturally spreads into a circle around the dance floor. He comes at me again, and this time, I parry away his fist, deliver an easy cross to his cheekbone, and as he falls back, grab hold of his wrist and twist him neatly into a half-nelson under my much bigger shoulder. I’m an inch or two shorter than the guy, but that means nothing in a situation like this.
“How does it feel?” I growl at him, close enough to his ear that only he can hear me. “How does it feel to be yanked around like you’re nothing, huh? You like it? Because I sure as fuck know your daughter doesn’t.”
People are shouting in Portuguese all around us—calling for help, for someone to grab me, grab the thug American beating up the eminent surgeon, no doubt. I figure I have about two more minutes of this until I’m going to have to sprint for the door.
“Let…me…go!” Dr. Barros shouts, jerking his chest two and fro, his face turning red like a tomato.
“You gonna calm down, cúlo?” I ask, unable to keep the profanity from slipping out. Somehow swearing in Spanish is worse here than at home, but I can’t help it. I don’t want to use his title. I don’t feel anything resembling respect for the guy anymore.
Dr. Barros stiffens, which tells me he knows exactly what it means. “This is what you call respect?” he shouts, his face screwed up as he continues to thrash around. “This is how you wanted to ingratiate yourself to me?”
“You’re not leaving me much of a choice,” I reply evenly as I struggle to maintain my hold. I’m stronger, but my anger is fading. His, however, is going strong. But not strong enough. “If you calm down, I’ll let you go.”
My arms are straining, but I’m immovable. He’s going to hurt himself if he doesn’t stop. But then again, I’m not sure I care.
“You will never be with my daughter!” he howls. “I will die before allowing some filthy, moleque to pervert my family! You will never deserve her! You will never end up with her—over my dead body!”
“But it’s already done.”
The crowd and Dr. Barros hush at the sound of Layla’s voice.
“What does that mean?” he hisses, still struggling against my hold.
Layla steps forward, suddenly having found her voice. She glances around nervously, then zeroes in on her dad. “I’m pregnant.”
The words ricochet around the room like one of those pinballs at an arcade. I should know, because they basically hit me in the head. The DJ turned off the music long ago, probably hoping the absence would shut down the fight. And within a few seconds, the only sound is a light murmur as the people around us digest what Layla’s just said.
And when I do…I can’t feel a thing. Dr. Barros and I both freeze, and a half second later, he flops to the floor with a thump while my hands fall limp to my sides. Dr. Barros lies on the tile for a few more seconds before he sits up, rubbing his head, as if he’s not sure he heard what he just heard. But I just stare, unable to move. Did I hear what I thought I just heard?
“I’m pregnant,” Layla repeats softly, this time only to me.
She steps closer, her eyes bright and wide. The people around us strain to hear, but these words are for me.
“I only found out a few days ago, at the barbecue…I was planning to tell you when we got back to New York.” She swallows, looking guilty. “I’m sorry, I just…needed some time to digest it myself.”
At the sound of her voice—her sweet, kind, unsure voice, I jerk. “You’re…pregnant?”
Layla nods. “I am.”
I take a step back—not because I want to, but because I’m having a problem standing up straight. Pregnant. Holy shit. A baby. My baby. Holy shit.
Dr. Barros stumbles off the floor, pushing people away so he can make his exit as quickly as possible. Before I can say anything, Layla reaches out to me, her eyes eager and scared all at once.
“Nico?” she whispers. “Say something.”
But when I open my mouth, nothing comes out. Not a sound. Not a breath. I look at her, and then I look at the people still watching us openly. And then I turn around and walk out of the building.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Layla
I watch as my father stumbles one way, bloody-mouthed and hunched over in the direction of the parking lot, and Nico strides in the other, toward the beach that’s only a block or two away. Whatever I was expecting when I dropped this news—from either of them—this wasn’t it. These are the men in my life who are supposed to love me more than anyone. This isn’t how I wanted to tell either of them, by dropping the word “pregnant” like a bomb in the middle of this glitzy party. I’m lucky that only a few people around us probably really understood what was going on. But even those few are enough to bring shame on my family.
I stand in one place, swiveling between the two directions aimlessly until Bibi approaches and puts her hand on my shoulder.
; “Go to him,” she says.
She looks at me kindly, and her brown-eyed gaze, so like my father’s, but invested with humor and kindness I’ve never seen from him, drops to my stomach, over which my hand lies. There’s nothing there to cup yet. It’s a flat expanse that’s more of a dream still than a reality.
I don’t know whom she’s referring to. But I know whom I need to follow. So I turn toward the beach and make my exit.
The pavilion that’s housing the party sits in the middle of a grassy park, crisscrossed with the looming, sharp-ended shadows of palm trees, while the bougainvillea climbing the walls sneaks up the sides, black against the glare of the moonlight. The grass eventually opens onto the promenade in front of this beach, like all the others. When I step into the light, I can see the outline of Nico’s broad shoulders across the four-lane street as he strides, head down, toward the ocean. He pauses for a second on a rise in the sand, stares out at the waves, and then falls, ungracefully, to sit and shoves his head in his hands.
Even from here, little more than a shadow, he’s so beautiful. Streetlights glint off the sheen of his hair, and the broadness of his shoulders still captivates me from afar. They sag, though, clearly feeling once more the weight of the world.
I never meant to add to his burdens.
I make my way across the street, ignoring the whistles out of the cars that pass, and remove my high-heeled shoes before crossing the beach to where he sits. Once I’m there, I sink into the sand quietly.
He hasn’t looked up at me yet, but he knows I’m there. He always knows I’m there––he probably knew I was watching him from across the street.
For a while, we sit in relative silence, listening to the low roar of the cars behind us filling the air along with the sound of the waves beating the surf.
I wonder where my father has gone. If he went back to his apartment, just over the big bridge in the distance, to continue drinking himself silly while he ruminates on his daughter’s shame. He was already drunk at the party. I doubt he would have made such a scene otherwise. And then I had to add to it by admitting to being pregnant out of wedlock in a roomful of staunch Brazilian Catholics. To my father, to his family, it doesn’t get much worse than that. It’s not like it doesn’t happen; it happens all the time. But the appropriate way to deal with it would be to get married quietly, before anyone could notice completely, or else get rid of it, equally as quiet.
What must my father be thinking now? He left the United States to escape social castigation. And here I am, bringing it to his feet. All my life I’ve tried to make him proud. He’ll never look at me the same way again. He’ll never forgive me.
It occurs to me, right then, that I legitimately may never speak to him again. This isn’t the kind of thing he would ever be able to forget.
Nico shifts where he sits, bringing me out of my dark thoughts. He lifts his head to look out toward the ocean, and I see waves of worry flowing from his beautiful, strong face. He rubs his hand over his eyes, down his rounded nose, over his full lips and up his chiseled jaw. Then he sighs, long and low.
What my dad thinks no longer matters. What’s most important to me is right here, I realize, with some measure of peace. What matters is the man next to me, the man who owns my heart. What matters is us. Our future. Together.
If we still have one.
“What am I going to do?” Nico wonders softly, so low his voice almost has the same timbre as the waves on the shore.
My heart drops, heavy at his words. I say nothing at first, just wait patiently until Nico leans his head on my shoulder. It’s warm, solid, though I can feel him shaking.
“Are you…so you’re upset then?” I ask, unable to stop my voice from quaking slightly. I toy with my ring, twisting it around my finger. Maybe he’ll want it back.
The idea crushes me. My chest feels like it’s caving in. I know I’m too young. I know it’s too soon for us. I know to everyone else, we’re just a couple of poor, crazy kids who have no business jumping into a marriage, much less starting a family.
But even with that, a part of me had hoped that Nico would be happy about this news that we had created something out of the bond between us. I’ve only carried this knowledge with me for a few days, but already it’s a part of me. Already, I would do anything for it.
“Upset?” he repeats. “No, baby. I’m not upset.”
I turn to look at him, take in his beautiful profile—the jaw that could cut glass, sprinkled with the slightest stubble. The nose that’s rounded at the end, just a little too long, but which fits his face. The dark eyes, lined with thick lashes, that look at everything with so much soul.
“So…what are you?” I wonder.
Nico just stares out at the ocean for what seems like an interminable amount of time. Then, finally, he turns to me with eyes so wide they could swallow me whole.
“Layla,” he whispers as a lone tear tracks down his cheek. “I’m so fuckin’ happy I feel like my chest is about to split open. But, baby, I can hardly speak, I’m so scared.”
His calm is eerie. I want him to do something. Laugh. Run. Cry. Shout. Anything but this strange stillness that seems to have taken over.
“I just…fuck. I don’t know how to be a dad,” Nico says, his voice shaking slightly. “I never had one. The closest thing I saw was David, Gabe’s dad, who…”
He closes his eyes, as if in pain as he trails off, pressing his forehead into his arms. He doesn’t want to voice those memories out loud. I know the feeling.
“I know,” I say. “Your mom told me. After Giancarlo.”
He’s alluded to it as well. David was abusive. He would take things out on his kid, the mother of his son, and her other children. It was Nico who chased him out for good. But with violence. That I know. It was always with violence.
It’s a side of him I’ve only had glimpses of, but never seen until tonight. But I’m not scared. I could never be scared of him.
Nico turns his head on his forearms and gazes at me, eyes slightly glossed over. Fear shines through their black depths. “What if…what if I end up like that?”
Oh.
“Nico,” I begin. “You would never—”
“Hush,” he cuts me off, taking my hand in his.
In the bright moonlight, gleaming off the waves, the contrasts between us seem to be that much starker. Nico plays with his fingers, his darker skin weaving with my lighter. The glow of the moon blinks off the gold embroidery of my gown, the watch on my wrist, and probably from the diamond earrings hanging from my ears. His suit, which is slightly threadbare at the hems from years of use, swallows the light instead.
His eyes, dark though they are, still shine brighter than any diamond.
“I’m not a nice man,” Nico states plainly. “Why would I be a nice father?”
“Nico—” I try again.
“No,” he says. “Look.”
He flexes his right hand. There’s a bruise already spreading across his knuckles and a cut on the middle one. And on top of that, the evidence of other tiny nicks, calluses, and other marks of heavy labor are evident. It’s the hand of a warrior, in more ways than one.
“Do you see that?” he asks quietly. “Baby, that’s the hand of someone who is violent, just like your dad says. I just hit my future father-in-law in the face, Layla. In front of a whole crowd of people. What if—what if I did that to our kid?” His eyes finally meet mine, and his lower lip trembles. “I don’t think I could live with myself if I ever did that. But what if that’s all I know? What if, I don’t know…what if I’m like your dad? Or Gabe’s dad? What if I get mad at it or something and I just…snap?”
He clenches his fist suddenly, then drops it to the sand. His eyes squeeze shut, as if he’s in pain, and my heart squeezes right along with them. I hate that he sees himself like this. Doubts himself so much. And I hate that my family made him do it again.
“Can I ask you something?” I venture.
He looks up. “What’s tha
t, sweetie?”
I tip my head. “Have you ever hurt someone for any other reason than protecting someone else?”
Nico rubs his neck and sighs. “When I was in high school, right after I got out of juvie…there was this kid, Jaden. He was…well, let’s just say he was partly responsible for me being in the joint in the first place. What they locked me up for—he was the one who did it.”
I nod, somewhat familiar with the story. We had only known each other a short time when he revealed his past—the fact that he had been sent to a detention facility for almost two years for a violent crime that would always blemish his public record. It isn’t fair really, holding someone hostage for the rest of their life for something they did when they were only fifteen. And while he certainly had a dark side, Nico wasn’t even the one who had actually beaten the bodega owner with a crowbar while he and two other kids had robbed it. He was just the one holding the weapon when the police arrived on the scene.
“Anyway, Jaden was always a bully, and he was even worse when I got out. I remember seeing him steal this kid’s hat in school, this kid who couldn’t do anything, couldn’t stop him. Later that day, Flaco, K.C., and I saw him walking down the street. And I don’t know…I just flipped.”
Nico looks up, his brow furrowed with the memory. He folds his hands into casual fists, and the movement causes the muscles in his forearms to ripple.
“What kind of man does that?” he wonders. “I beat the shit out of a kid for stealing some guy’s hat. I lost it, Layla, plain and simple. And two months later, I did the same thing to David, Gabe’s dad. Told him to stay away from my family, or I’d kill him.” He turns to me with a steely glare. “And I meant it, too.”
I take a second to digest the story. But one thing is clear.
“So the answer is no. It doesn’t sound like you’ve ever been violent just to be violent. You just…Nico, you protect. That’s what you do.”
Bad Idea: The Complete Collection Page 100