Bad Idea- The Complete Collection

by Nicole French

  I just shrug and shake my head. I’m equal parts curious and terrified by this turn of events.

  “This is Nico Soltero, sir. Layla’s—ah—friend.” Nico glances at me and raises his big shoulders. He clearly isn’t sure what he’s supposed to say here. “She’s just sleeping, sir. Yes. Yes, I was with her. No, sir, I didn’t do anything to her.”

  At that, I reach out, beckoning for the phone. Nico shakes his head and waves my hand away.

  “No, sir, I’m not a student. I, uh, I’m a friend of hers from work. We were at the park. A picnic, sir. No, sir, I wasn’t planning to assault your daughter in any way. I mean, unless she asked me to, sir. That was a joke, sir.”

  Nico turns back to me with wide eyes, but I can tell by the appearance of his dimples that he’s pretty tickled by the conversation. I struggle to sit up and try for the phone again, but he dodges my reach as he hops off the bed.

  “Nico,” I hiss. “Give it to me. Now!”

  “Oh, look, sir, she’s awake. She wants to talk to you. Yes, Mr. Barros, nice talking to you, too.”

  He hands me the phone with a shit-eating grin. I want to hurl it at him and kiss him at the same time. No one ever gives my dad a bad time. But I know I’m going to have to pay for it in just a second.

  “Hi, Dad,” I say reluctantly.

  “Layla, who was that?” My dad’s voice is sharp and insistent. He’s clearly not amused with the conversation.

  I sigh. “Just like he said, Dad. Nico is a friend from work.”

  “Why were you with him alone in a park? He said his name is Nico? What kind of name is that? It sounds Greek. You were with a strange Greek man at the park?”

  I roll my eyes. Only my dad can make a spring day in the park sound like a lecherous activity. Of course, it was pretty damn lecherous at one point, but he doesn’t need to know that.

  “It’s a nice day,” I say. “No strange Greek men involved. Nico and I both had some free time, so we met up for lunch. Is that a crime?”

  “What did he do that made you pass out? He says his name is Soltero? Where is he from?”

  My heart picks up a beat, and I glance at Quinn, who is now watching me sympathetically. She’s no stranger to my dad’s third-degree.

  “I just walked too far, Dad,” I mumble, ignoring the second question about Nico’s name. “The weather is super humid here, and we got caught in a rainstorm. It changed quickly, and we had to run across the park to get out of the rain. I over-exerted. That’s what the doctors say.”

  “Yes, I know. Dr. Andrews also said you have mononucleosis. This is a serious thing, Layla.”

  Great, so he’s been on the phone with the hospital too. Now I’m wishing I hadn’t given them permission to disclose my records to him, doctor or not. But that’s the condition of being on his health insurance.

  “Layla, your mother and I think you should come home.”

  It’s the sentence I’ve been waiting for all semester—the last three, to be exact—and frankly, I’m surprised it hasn’t come sooner. I sit up farther, bracing myself for an argument, and Nico, who is now beside me with a comfortable hand on my leg, frowns in confusion.

  “Dad,” I say. “It’s too late in the semester for that. Classes are done in less than two months. I’m fine, really.”

  “You are not fine!” he roars into my ear so loudly before continuing in a quick, almost unintelligible onslaught of Portuguese, full of idioms I can’t follow. I have to hold Quinn’s phone away until he calms down. Both Quinn and Nico watch with wide eyes, and I bite my lip. My dad only speaks Portuguese to his family or when he’s really, really angry. He doesn’t do well when he loses control of the situation.

  “Dad?” I say once he’s finally done.

  There’s a long pause on the other side of the line. Then, finally: “What, Layla?”

  I exhale. If he’s back to my name, I’m on the way into the clear. “I’ll be back in May. I promise.”

  I can’t look at Nico’s face when I say it. He just promised to stay, and here I am, promising my father I’ll leave New York, if only for the summer. But there is no way in hell I’ll be able to convince my folks to let me stay here for the summer, and the money my mom sent already went to paying off the rest of my bills. Without being able to work, I won’t be able to save up enough to stay.

  “I can manage, okay?” I continue. “No more walks in the rainstorms, I promise. I’ll be careful.”

  My dad grumbles something unintelligible before answering. “May,” he barks and hangs up.

  I hold the phone away, somewhat dazed, before Quinn takes it. She and Nico both watch with obvious concern as I slide back against my pillows. Suddenly, I’m exhausted again.

  “He’s…worried,” I say as I curl into Nico’s chest when he pulls me close again.

  “He cares,” Quinn says. She takes a seat in the small chair next to the bed. “We all do.”

  “Yeah,” Nico murmurs as he lightly strokes my hair. “We do.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Layla

  I wake up the next morning in a pile of blankets, my skin clammy under the weight of a rumpled twist of sheets and an extra comforter. It’s been a restless night, one made worse by the return of nausea whenever the pills wore off. Mono, said the doctor. Fuck.

  Nico and Quinn brought me home together after the hospital, arguing in the cab most of the way. Quinn was more in line with my father, convinced that Nico was at least partially responsible for my condition, while Nico insisted the entire time that he had no idea I wasn’t feeling well.

  Stuck between them, I was too tired to defend Nico, and I collapsed into my bed almost immediately when we got back to Lafayette. I woke several times during the night, usually to shove a blanket off my sweaty body, and then again to pull it back on when I was chilled to the bone. Some of my memories were tinted with the proximity of a warm, comforting body and a kind hand on my forehead. The sounds of a baritone hum and the occasional “Shh.”

  It’s not until I finally climb out of bed sometime past nine in the morning that, when I nearly step smack onto a pile of curled-up man, I realize how many of the fevered dreams were real. Nico is asleep in a nest of extra blankets and cushions pulled off the couch. His jacket, cap, and shoes are folded neatly on my desk chair, but otherwise he still wears the jeans and wrinkled shirt from the day before. He’s snoring slightly and some spit has dried on the pillowcase under his mouth. He’s adorable.

  Careful not to disturb him, I tiptoe out to the kitchen, closing the bedroom door gently behind me. Quinn is sitting at the bar, calmly paging through a textbook while she sips a cup of coffee. A glance at the couch tells me she spent the night there. Again. My stomach plummets with guilt.

  “Hey there, sickie!” she greets me with a smile. “How’re you feeling, babe?”

  I take a seat, wrapping my bathrobe tightly around my waist. “Okay. Better than last night.” I look at the couch again. “I’m so sorry you’re sleeping out here again.”

  “Bah, it’s fine,” she says. “Seriously, if I was the one with mono, you’d be kicked to the curb.” She looks past me toward the closed door of our bedroom. “I take it Special Delivery is still asleep?”

  I nod. “Yeah. I can’t believe he stayed.”

  Even in my achy condition, my heart swells a little at the thought. I stare at the big oak door separating his sleeping form from the common room.

  “He’s sweet, Lay.”

  Quinn’s voice is softer, more forgiving than usual. It’s the first time she’s really acknowledged anything good about Nico. For most of the time he and I have been seeing each other, she’s been a consistent Devil’s Advocate, and it’s caused some tension between us over the past several weeks.

  “He is,” I agree. “Very.”

  I sigh again and run a hand through my bedraggled hair. I no doubt look horrendous after spending a day at the hospital and a night twisting around.

  “I’m going to take a shower.” I g
et up, holding the edge of the bar to keep myself steady. I’m still so weak; already I’m feeling tired all over again.

  Quinn nods and turns back to her textbook.

  “I’m glad he’s here,” she says. “He’ll take care of you.”

  It’s not until I’m in the shower that Quinn’s last words really sink in, and I start to think about what this situation means for me and Nico. That there is no way I’m going to be able to convince my parents to let me stay in New York this summer. In six more weeks, I’m going to have to go back to Washington for the summer, leaving when Nico and I have barely had time to start. It’s not that long to solidify a new relationship, and now I might have to spend half that time staying away from him if I don’t want to get him sick too.

  My heart suddenly feels like it’s been smashed with a hammer. Tears spring to my eyes, and a sob chokes in my throat. I know I’m being melodramatic, but as I stand under the running water, thinking about my misfortunes—the bills that keep piling up as I skip more days off work, the fact that just after Nico promised he would stay, I have to leave for the entire summer, and now that I’m sick, our time together will be shortened even more—I can’t see the bright spot in any of it. Except Nico.

  I love him. That’s really all it boils down to. The words come easily in my mind. I love him with every fiber of my being, and every new thing I discover about him makes me fall harder. I love him like crazy, and when it really comes down to it, no one says no to that.

  Except this goddamn body.

  I slap an angry hand on my thigh, hard enough to leave a red mark that fades beneath the water. A rush of nausea rises. I dart out of the shower just in time to make it to the toilet, heaving up what little I’ve been able to eat in the last twenty-four hours in a mess of choked sobs as water runs off my body and onto the warped boards of the bathroom floor.

  Once I finish my shower, I hobble back to my room, catching a concerned glance from Quinn as I pass. Nico is still passed out on the floor—considering how worried he was, he was probably up more than I was. I manage to put on one of the t-shirts he’s left behind on some other, much happier day and creep back into my bed without waking him. All of the drama running through my brain is suddenly replaced by complete and total fatigue as I drift off to sleep, to a place where none of this can harm either of us.

  Nico

  After spending an hour or so in the morning making sure Layla’s going to be okay, I finally have to leave in time to meet my mom and brother for noon Mass. I didn’t want to leave. It went against every instinct I had letting her stay by herself. But she has three other girls to check on her, and Quinn actually promised to send me updates if there were any changes. Rest and water. That’s all the doctor said she needs. Having me hover isn’t going to help.

  Gabe meets me outside the church, holding one of his button-up shirts for me to shrug on before we run into the church.

  “I don’t know why you bother,” he says as he watches me struggle to roll up the sleeves. “She’s still gonna be mad you’re wearing jeans.”

  Gabe’s taller than me, but skinnier, and sleeves that button around his chicken arms won’t even come close around mine. Forget about the collar.

  “Whatever,” I say as I finish with the sleeves. I smooth down the shirt and glance at my worn Converse. “I’m here, aren’t I? I’d rather be sleeping.”

  “With your girl?” Gabe says. “I don’t blame you. She’s fine as hell, Nico. You lucky I didn’t see her first.”

  I snort. From anyone else, the idea of some other guy looking at Layla like that would be enough for some serious words, but from my goofy-ass brother, it’s just funny.

  “Last time I wore a t-shirt, she wouldn’t stop with it for like a week,” I say before shaking my face a little, like I’m preparing for a fight. “Let’s go in before Ma interrupts the priest to come get us.”

  We shuffle toward our customary pew in the middle of the old church as quietly as possible while a lector is intoning one of the liturgies in Spanish. Shit. I knew I was late, but not that late.

  My mother guilts as many of her kids as she can into coming to church on Sundays, and this week she managed to snag all of us. She’s on the end of the worn wood pew, followed by the short, round silhouettes of my sisters, and my niece Allie. I nod at everyone as Gabe and I slide into the pew behind them. Allie twists around with her tiny-toothed grin. I grin back, and she giggles.

  “Tío!” she half-squeals, half-whispers.

  “Hey, linda!” I whisper with a wink. “Turn around, mamita, okay? Otherwise you’re gonna get the chancleta from Abuela.”

  Allie’s eyes pop open in fear. All kids in this neighborhood grow up worried about getting the chancleta, the house slipper that doubles as a weapon when kids misbehave. She turns back around, but I’ve caught the attention of her mother instead. Great. The priest announces the Gospel, and the entire church stands with echoes of hundreds of feet on the stone floors.

  “Where you been? Allie and I came to the apartment last night, but you never came home.” Maggie stares pointedly at me over her shoulder, even as her hands are clasped in front of her like she’s caught up in the prayer. I know better. My sister is the least penitent person on the planet.

  I just nod my head toward the talking priest, as if to tell her to pay attention. She just screws her round face into an even deeper scowl. Honestly, I’m not sure I’ve seen my sister smile in about five years.

  “You been downtown again? With that young girl?” She says it with a snarl, like spending time with Layla is the equivalent of doing coke or running around with a bunch of hoods.

  “Gabe said that’s all he’s been doing,” says Selena, my other sister, in a loud whisper behind our mother’s back. “Nico’s too good for the Kitchen these days. Spends all his time downtown now.” She whistles lightly and chants “chavos, chavos” under her breath.

  I roll my eyes. Selena gives me a sly smile before she re-clasps her hands in her lap and bows her head like she’s listening really hard. The action makes her giant earrings jangle a little.

  “You’re just jealous you ain’t got a man,” I retort, but a little too loudly, since my mom’s head pops up.

  Selena’s mouth pops open like she wants to shout back at me. It was a cheap shot—she only just broke up with her boyfriend and moved back home.

  The priest ends the Gospel reading, and all at once, the entire church says “Gloria a ti, Señor Jesus.”

  “Mira!” hisses my mother as we all sit back down. We obediently look up, but instead of saying anything, she fixes us with The Look, the one I’ve seen all my life, especially in church. It’s a look that, if we were little, would tell us we better shut up. It’s a look that tells us she’s got something for us when we get home, something we’re not going to like. It doesn’t matter that we’re grown adults. The Look never changes, and it always hits your bones.

  All four of us quiet immediately.

  I glance at Gabe, who’s suddenly looking everywhere but at me, like the little snitch he is. He’s the only one who knew about Layla, and the little shit’s been blabbing to the two biggest busybodies in Manhattan. Now I don’t just have to spend the rest of my day fixing shit, but I have to listen to my sisters nag at me while I do it. Fuckin’ great.

  By three-thirty, the novelty of interrogating my love life has worn off, and Selena and Maggie have finally left our mom’s apartment. She’s having me check the electrical work on the stove, which has been acting funny. The landlord needs to replace it, but Ma’s too scared to ask for anything like that. It doesn’t matter that Robbie’s name is on the lease now and that we have legal rights to decent living conditions. She’s lived for too long in this place doing whatever this fucking slumlord wanted because she was terrified he’d evict her, or worse. Half of this building lives in fear of ICE (U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement). So I still to do what I can to help.

  “Okay,” I say in Spanish as I shove the stove back aga
inst the wall. “That should hold the wires together for now until I can find someone to replace the whole system. But you need to be careful until then––just run one thing at a time in the kitchen. Otherwise it’s gonna blow a circuit, and then you won’t be able to watch your telenovelas.”

  Her mouth twists into a smirk at the little joke. She doesn’t even like telenovelas, even though they are the only things she watches anymore. I speak in Spanish, not because she can’t understand English, but because my mother still doesn’t speak it back. I used to wonder how my mother could live in this country for thirty years but never learn English, but as I got older, the answers became clearer. Even though she came from Puerto Rico and lived there since she was a little girl, my mom wasn’t a citizen because she was born in Cuba. She’s lived her entire life in shadows, terrified of deportation. And for a long time, we hid with her. Now we’re more like her shields.

  Back in the day, our building sounded more like San Juan than the mainland, but that’s changed a lot as the neighborhood started to gentrify. Still, most of the people here are still like Ma. People who came here scared, many of them maybe legal, maybe not. People who never quite shook off that fear and the hardness that comes from it. I know that at some point we’re going to have to figure out a different situation for her. One day this place will be sold out from under her to some high-rise developer, just like all the other buildings in Midtown, and she’ll have nowhere to go. I only pray I’ll know what to do when it happens.

  But things are a little better now. For one, she doesn’t have to worry about raising kids anymore now that we’re all grown. There’s no more asking K.C.’s mom to sign parental consent forms as our guardian, or latching onto less-than-nice dudes to make ends meet when she was in between odd jobs. The first thing I did when I started at FedEx was to transfer her lease under my name and start paying the rent. But she still won’t open the door to people she doesn’t know. Which means when things break, it’s still up to me to fix them.