Bad Idea: The Complete Collection

by French, Nicole

  “It bugs her,” is all I tell him. “And she likes it.”

  Mattie frowns. He’s a very literal little dude, and usually if something doesn’t make sense, he’ll push me until it does.

  Luckily, he doesn’t press it this time. A group of panhandlers starts singing at the other end of the train, their rendition of “A Hard Day’s Night” a distraction from slightly naughty nicknames and even naughtier memories. The singers are pretty good. You can’t be busking for money in this city and not have some talent.

  When they’re done, Mattie turns to me, and I already know he’s going to ask for change. He’s so much like his mother—he can’t stand to see people hurting, people in need, without doing something to help. Unfortunately, there are a lot of people in New York who need help. My wallet doesn’t have enough singles.

  “Here,” I say, pressing another few bills into his chubby hand.

  He grins, and when one of the singers comes around with his hat, Mattie gleefully drops the dollars in it.

  “Good song!” he tells the guy, and the man grins, showing a big gold tooth in the back of his mouth along with a few others that look like they need some dental work. Mattie, to his credit, just keeps smiling. It’s just another way he’s more like his mom than me—he sees the best in people, no matter what.

  About twenty minutes later, we get off in Hoboken. At one point, I hoist Mattie up with one arm to help him avoid the rush. Some people are just dicks, through and through—they won’t even slow down for a little kid.

  “I’m fine, Dad,” he says, kicking his little legs to be put down when we emerge from the station.

  “I know, I know,” I tell him as I set him on the sidewalk. “I just gotta look out, you know?”

  He brushes out his sweatshirt, then goes about taking off his backpack and digging out his baseball hat—a little black Yankees cap, just like mine. He claps it on, looks back up at me, and grins.

  “Now we’re twins,” he says. “See?”

  I nod. I can’t help but smile back when my kid looks at me that way. “Yeah, papi, we’re twins. Come on, everybody’s waiting.”

  We walk the few blocks to K.C.’s townhouse near the river. The girls are all almost ready for the party—there’s a bunch of big blue balloons tied to the iron rail of the brownstone. When we enter the apartment upstairs, I’m hit in the face by a giant cluster of blue, white, and gold streamers and a shit ton of tinsel hanging from the doorframe.

  “Ah!” I cry, spitting them out while Mattie runs into the decor.

  “Be careful!” snaps Maggie as she walks out of the kitchen carrying an armful of blue and white plates.

  I toss the streamers over my shoulder and stride in. My sad blue flowers look ridiculous compared to the fuckin’ flower shop my sisters—and I’m guessing Cheryl, because some of these bouquets look expensive—have set up in here.

  “Maggie, what the fuck—I mean, freak?” I hastily correct myself when Mattie beelines back across the room. Shit. I mean, shoot. It’s a habit I still haven’t been able to break since having a kid. It doesn’t help that everyone in my family swears like sailors, and the guys at the firehouse are twice as bad.

  “That was a curse, Daddy,” he calls out with his tiny palm turned over. “A dollar for the swear jar at home. I’ll put it in my pocket for later.”

  Maggie snorts. “Please. Papito, you gotta bill him more than a dollar if you want your daddy to quit using the f-word. I’ve been trying to get him to clean his mouth out since Allie was born.”

  “Please. Like you got any right to call me out. You need to take some Palmolive to your own mouth, gata, that’s what’s up.” I roll my eyes, then fish out my last dollar and hand it to Mattie. “Don’t tell Mommy,” I tell him, and clap him on the head while he runs off to find his cousin.

  “Ma’s here?” I ask. “Where is she? Or Selena and Alba?”

  Maggie tosses her head back toward the kitchen. “Alba and Selena are in there making the rest of the pasteles, and Ma went with Scott to the store to get some more fruit for the punch.” She clicks her tongue. “I’m glad. They are freaking nauseating.”

  I snort. After Ma got her green card, the first thing she did was start taking English classes. And wouldn’t you know it, she fell for her teacher, Scott. Scott is a nice dude, a retired community college instructor who teaches free ESL classes for immigrants at the library. Apparently Ma was his star student, and since then, they’ve been pretty much inseparable. Ma moved into his apartment in Queens last summer, and two weeks ago, the dude actually asked my permission for her hand in marriage.

  “Head of household,” he said, like that was supposed to make a difference.

  But the thing is, it does. It matters that for once, my mother found a man who cares enough about her to care what her family thinks of him. It matters that he treats her like gold, like a whole person, not someone to clean his shit and do whatever he says. And it matters, really fuckin’ matters, that she’s happier than I’ve ever seen her in my life.

  So of course I said yes and bought the guy a couple of beers. Now we’re just waiting for the announcement.

  “Seriously, though,” I say as I take the plates from Maggie and bring them over to the table. She takes my flowers and examines them critically. “You don’t think this is a bit much? It looks like a quinceañera in here. It’s just her master’s degree. Layla doesn’t like this kind of craziness.”

  “Boy, please. You are not the only person in this family proud of my sister. First person in our family to go to graduate school. And now she’s going to do good with it? Your fucking sad little flowers don’t cut it. Everyone wanted to do this for her, and she deserves it, so let us throw her a real party.”

  I look around, waiting for Mattie to charge back in, but he doesn’t. Of course not. I’m the only one who ever gets caught cussing.

  I can’t argue with my sister’s words, though—that she considers my wife a sister or that her accomplishments are something to be fuckin’ proud of. I can’t lie. I was practically busting at the seams when I watched my girl accept her diploma yesterday. I was maybe even prouder than when she graduated from NYU, because this degree was hers in a way that first one wasn’t. After Layla was accepted to Columbia, she worked her ass off and won four different scholarships to pay for school and living expenses so she could get her master’s in social work instead of going to law school like her dad wanted.

  Sergio never stopped bugging her about it. In fact, once he knew his daughter was pregnant, would you believe the asshole actually took a sabbatical and moved to New York for the birth? Three fuckin’ months I had to put up with that dickhead poking his controlling face around my apartment, checking on my kid, giving me dirty looks every time I had to pull a two or three-day shift, criticizing every damn thing I did, from the way I put on a diaper to the way I warmed up milk. If it wasn’t for how pissed he got every time I called him Mister Barros instead of Doctor, I don’t know how I would have survived.

  But I can’t say I wasn’t ever grateful, either. Like that time Mattie got croup, Sergio was the only one who knew how to loosen that shit in his throat to keep him from choking to death. Scared the fuck out of me, let me tell you. Or when Mattie got hand, foot, and mouth disease from his first daycare, Sergio was the one to calm us down over and assure us that Mattie wasn’t dying of measles.

  So, yeah. Maybe the guy’s not all bad.

  In another year, though, Sergio Barros won’t be the only doctor in the family. Gabe has two more years at NYU medical school, and then he’ll officially be Dr. Soltero, ready to start an internship in family medicine. And even though I know we’ll be throwing a hell of a party when he does graduate, Maggie’s right. Layla is the first to get some fancy initials after her name. After Soltero. It is something to celebrate.

  “Hey.” Maggie snaps me out of my thoughts with her fingers two inches in front of my face.

  “Yo!” I cry out, batting her hand away. “Why do you always h
ave to do that?”

  Maggie smirks. “Because you always ignore me when I’m talking.”

  I frown. “What is it?”

  “I said, don’t you have an appointment you need to get to?”

  I blink, then check my watch. Shit, yeah. If I’m going to have time with the graduate herself at home, I have to jam.

  I grab the keys to K.C.’s Yukon off the table and start for the door. Mattie won’t miss me—he’s probably knee-deep in Allie’s Barbie collection by now, poor kid.

  “K.C. know you’re taking his car?” Maggie asks as she heads back to the kitchen.

  I jingle the keys. “It’s all part of the plan. See you at seven.”

  “Don’t be late!” Maggie shouts, but I’m already halfway out the door.

  * * *

  Layla

  I glance at the wall clock, but it still says the same time. Still five after two. Still twenty minutes past the time my freaking husband was supposed to be here to pick me up.

  I stand up from the couch and smooth out my skirt. After our appointment, Nico and I are meeting with my parents, who both came to town for my graduation last night, for a small celebration. I should probably go change my shirt, a thin cotton tank top that’s more comfortable than dressy, but Nico’s unreasonable enjoyment at irritating my dad seems to have rubbed off on me. He’ll take one look at my outfit, a simple red skirt and cotton tank top, and give me a lecture for lacking appropriateness.

  Well, whatever. Going for drinks at the Plaza isn’t really my idea of celebrating, especially these days, but it’s fine. It’s their comfort zone. Really, though, a master’s degree isn’t that big of a deal. Not compared to the fact that Gabe is going to be a freaking doctor in a few more years. It’s a two-year degree that I finished with the help of a lot of people. If anyone should be celebrated, it’s them.

  I glance around our small living room, checking for things out of place. This is the first time in a long time I’ve actually had some time to myself without the threat of papers to write or housework to catch up on. Since we moved here, I’ve been in school, balancing the hectic life of having a husband whose job takes him away for days at a time, living with a toddler who would just as soon knock things over as look at them, and trying to get through the intense two-year program that would allow me to do the kind of work I’ve dreamed of since that day I watched Carmen find her freedom.

  My job starts next week, but first things first. As soon as my final paper was submitted, Mom, Carmen, and I went through every piece of junk that Nico and I had accumulated over the past few years and tossed it, getting ready for the changes up ahead. And today I spent the morning cleaning my house.

  It’s weird to call it that—my house. I mean, I’m still not quite twenty-six. Most people my age spend their extra money on drinks or vacations. No one is spending them on a new furnace or toddler clothes.

  But honestly, I couldn’t be happier. We’re so lucky. Our little townhouse is nothing massive, maybe a quarter of the size of the house where I grew up outside of Seattle. But it’s a lot bigger than most apartments in New York, with three full bedrooms, an actual living room, even a washer and dryer. Is it weird that a washer and dryer excites me now? There is a lot more laundry to do with two boys in my house.

  I wouldn’t have thought I’d like living this far from Manhattan, but things change when you have a kid. We kept the apartment in Chinatown until Mateo was about a year old, but you get tired of walking up and down five flights of stairs really quickly when you’re carrying a baby, a stroller, and all the other crap that somehow magically materializes when you have a kid.

  Mateo brought other changes too. When he was born, something clicked in both of my parents. They might have finally gotten their act together and finalized their own divorce, but they also realized that this life I had been building in New York wasn’t going anywhere. So instead of alienating my new family and distancing themselves from what I had embraced, they gifted Nico and me with a down payment on this place in Riverdale, just in time for our first anniversary. Nico was speechless. Really, he literally couldn’t speak for almost an hour.

  I wander out the back door, to the tiny patio that makes up our “backyard,” if you could even call it that. Having a yard at all in New York City is a luxury. This space was my birthday present last year from Nico and Gabe. Together they landscaped the two hundred square feet of nothing into a mini-paradise, laying down a brick patio, exchanging the chain-link fence for a taller wood one, and building a fire pit in the middle. They planted a few trees that now block out most of the surrounding buildings, and a bunch of different flowers that make it smell sweet in the spring. It’s my happy place.

  I sit down on one of the lounge chairs and look up through the foliage, past strings of lights to the blue sky that’s dappled with clouds. Even from here, you can hear the chatter of the city, although it’s quieter in this part of the Bronx. We’re not far from the Metro line we both take into Manhattan almost daily, and the sounds of kids playing at the park a half a black away filter through the fence. But the noises blend together with the wind coming off the Hudson and laughing through the trees. It’s peaceful, not frenetic. Just what I need.

  I close my eyes and listen, turning my face to the sun.

  Please, I find myself praying to a God that, over the years, I’ve come to believe in more and more. Please protect it. Please don’t take it away.

  I listen, but there’s no answer. There never is, but I know He’s there. He must be.

  “I thought you might be out here.”

  Nico’s deep voice seeps into me, and even though I’m annoyed he’s late, I’m immediately calmer. That’s just what his presence does. It’s why, though he’ll never know, I’m that much more anxious when he goes to work. Nico’s job isn’t the safest in the world. As interesting as his stories about climbing into burning buildings or broken sewers are, there’s a part of me that doesn’t want to hear them. Is it terrible that I kind of wish my husband were the type of firefighter who rescued cats in trees?

  But I’d never stop him from talking about his job, one of the loves of his life, because I love every damn bit of himself that Nico Soltero has ever been willing to share with me. Even the scary parts.

  I turn and smile. “It’s so nice, and the weather is beautiful. We have to enjoy it while we can, right?”

  Nico leans against the doorframe, making no move to come get me, though I kind of wish he would. He looks as freaking delectable as ever in his uniform—the navy pants that hug his slim hips and round backside just right, the short-sleeved button-down shirt that really doesn’t leave enough room for his biceps, the curved-bill Yankees hat that he’ll never, ever toss out. He smiles and crosses his arms, making the tattoo sleeve that now extends down his forearm ripple. He let Milo try out a few more patterns, blending several dates into the curving lines. The day he was released from Tryon. The day he graduated high school. Our first date. The day he was accepted into the FDNY academy. The day his mother was granted permanent residency. Two days later, when we got married. Mateo’s birthday.

  There are others too, etched so small in black you can only see them when you’re close enough to kiss them, as I often do. His arm has become a map of his life, and I’m honored to be a part of it.

  By the time my gaze drifts back up to meet his, Nico’s no longer smiling. Suddenly the air, despite the balmy spring weather, crackles.

  Even more than six years after we first met, it’s still like that between us. There’s an energy, something between us that connects on a cellular level. Something in Nico’s body, in his blood, his veins, calls directly to mine. Sure, sometimes it gets swallowed up by everyday life. It’s hard to want to jump each other’s bones when a baby is crying and you’ve got a term paper due in two days, or when you’ve been working for seventy-two hours straight and the water heater’s broken. But even so, there are still times when he will just look at me—across the dinner table, over a mountai
n of laundry, when I walk in the front door—and I swear, it’s like the wind was knocked out of me. Every single, solitary part of me reorients toward him. And for just a moment, it feels like there’s nothing else.

  “You’re late,” I whisper, although I’m done caring about that. It’s occurring to me, just as I’m sure it’s occurring to him, that we have the house to ourselves, which almost never happens.

  Nico smiles again, this time slow and deliberate, gradually baring his bright white teeth in that sly way that hints of something much more wicked. “No, I’m not. I borrowed K.C.’s car. No train today, so we have plenty of time.”

  His deep-brown eyes, almost black, slide over my body, tracing over the shirt that clings to my breasts and waist and the skirt that stops mid-thigh. It’s not a particularly revealing outfit. Comfortable and light, appropriate for the warm May weather. As if on command, though, goose bumps rise all over my skin, down my bare legs. Nico’s eyes gleam, and finally, he pushes off the doorway and joins me on the lounge.

  “How you doin’, Mrs. Soltero?” he asks as he squats down for a kiss. “You’re looking pretty fine over here in the sunshine.”

  “You are so corny. Nice rhyme.”

  He doesn’t answer, just reveals one of his dimples before he slips a big hand around the nape of my neck and plants a long, slow kiss on my lips. His tongue teases them open, and I oblige, eager to taste him thoroughly. We don’t often get moments like these when we can take our time.

  “Mmm.” His voice rumbles low in his throat as he pushes me back into the chair. His other hand drifts down my shoulder to palm one breast. “What the…” He breaks away and looks down. “Baby, you’re not wearing a bra.”

  I raise a brow and bite my lip. “I was home alone. Didn’t really see the point.”

  “Yeah, but…” He licks his lower lip. “Baby, look at you. What if you had to answer the door like that?”

  I follow his gaze. Okay, to look at me, you’d probably think I was freezing. But to be fair, that’s his fault, not mine.