Bad Idea- The Complete Collection

by Nicole French

  “I know,” she says after a moment. “So, um, why are you calling?”

  I sigh, drumming my fingers on my thigh. “Honestly...I’m not really sure. I guess I just wanted to hear your voice.”

  I shouldn’t say these things. If it was hard before, it’s going to kill me when I have to hang up. If she’s feeling what I’m feeling, she’s been having just as hard a time being apart. I hope that’s not the case. Or maybe I do.

  “Tell me about your life,” I say quickly, trying to make things light, but sounding more like a shitty game show host. Heartbreaking dickhead for five hundred, Alex. “I mean, how you been, NYU? How was your summer?”

  “I’ve been...good,” she says low, in a voice that sounds about the farthest from good I can think of.

  She goes quiet, and it’s only after another minute that I realize she’s crying again, long slow tears that are almost silent. Almost, but not quite.

  “Layla, what is it?” I ask, sitting straight up and grabbing the steering wheel.

  I’m an idiot. What the fuck are you going to do, Andretti? Drive to Seattle just to give her a hug? She doesn’t want to see you.

  “Baby, talk to me,” I demand, because that’s all I can do.

  Did I do this? Is she crying because of me? Fuck, I should have just left her alone.

  “I...my parents,” she hiccups. “My parents are getting divorced. They...they just told me a few minutes ago. My dad is going back to Brazil. He’s leaving in three days.”

  “Holy shit,” I breathe. “Oh fuck, sweetie. I’m so sorry. Layla, really, I am.”

  She sniffs back a few more tears. “I know you are,” she says in a thickened voice. “I know it’s not like he’s dying or anything. And I barely even live here anymore. They’re not...well, they’ve never really been happy.”

  My heart just about breaks listening to her try to diminish her own pain. Make it sound small. Like it doesn’t matter. I mean, sure, Layla grew up with a bit of a silver spoon. She was lucky enough to have an intact family, not the kind I grew up with, four kids from three shitty dads and a single mom. But I know what it’s like to have your father leave. Mine split when I was a baby, and I watched Maggie and Selena’s abandon them later on. It feels like shit no matter how old you are, no matter how much money you have. Abandonment is abandonment, plain and simple.

  Just like you did to her, you selfish asshole. Fuck. What am I doing here?

  “So your mom, though,” I say, trying to change the subject. “She’s going to stay in Seattle? At least you’ll still be able to go home, right?”

  Another shuddering breath. “No. She’s...she’s moving to be close to her family too. In Pasadena.” Another sniff. “I have to go with her this weekend before school starts.”

  See, the fucked-up thing is that I have no idea what that last sentence was or anything else Layla says as she tells me about her parents’ split. I barely hear how her dad got mad at her for calling herself Brazilian, or how her mom said maybe five words while she guzzled red wine—or was it white? Everything jumbles together after Layla says “Pasadena.”

  Pasadena is fifteen, maybe twenty minutes from where I’m parked right now. Pasadena means I don’t just have to dream about those big blue eyes anymore. Pasadena means I might actually get to see them.

  “Let me see you,” I blurt out without thinking, interrupting her discussion of the sale of her house. “Please. I know the phone thing was fucked up. But I won’t ghost you like that again, I promise. I promise, Layla.”

  She’s silent for what feels like an hour. I get it. If she’d done that to me, I’d be thinking twice about whether or not to let her back in. But already I’m glad I called. The truth is, Layla and I are supposed to be in each other’s lives. Maybe not as lovers, but at least as friends.

  “I’ll pick you up,” I rush on. “Show you around town. We can even go to one of those cheesy movies you love. Seriously. I’m your friend, Layla. No matter what, I’ll always be that.”

  I sound pathetic, I know. But now the only thing I can think about is seeing her again, touching her. Not in a sexual way, although the sex with her was always fuckin’ mind-blowing. Like out-of-this-world, forget-my-own-name, lose-myself-completely kind of sex. But right now, I just miss the feel of her. The way her head fit exactly into the crook of my shoulder. The way her fingers always curled around one of my wrists when I held her cheek. The way my fingertips molded exactly to the grooves up and down her spine.

  Right now I’d do anything to get her to agree. Get down on my knees. Run naked down the I-10. Wear bright pink ties to the club for a month. Anything.

  “Okay,” she says softly and immediately, shocking the hell out of me.

  I blink. “What?”

  She giggles again, and I practically float out of my seat. Fuck, this girl absolutely wrecks me. She always did.

  “Really?” I ask. I need to make sure this isn’t a joke.

  She giggles again. “Yeah. I’ll call you on Saturday.”

  I close my eyes, letting the sound of her sweet laughter seep in. Already, I’m feeling more energized to go into the club. Because now I have something to look forward to.

  And I can tell you what: Craig could offer me an entire week’s extra salary. I don’t care if I make half of my weekly tips; there is no fuckin’ way I’m working Saturday night.

  Chapter Three

  Nico

  The week flies by and at the same time moves incredibly fuckin’ slowly. But eventually it’s Friday, and I’m helping K.C. schlep his bins of records back to his Yukon after my shift and his extra set. Layla’s plane gets in tomorrow, and since Wednesday I’ve been doing nothing but count down the hours until I get to see her. Maybe it makes me a pussy, but I don’t fuckin’ care. In less than twenty-four hours, I get to see my girl.

  My girl. It’s a little crazy how fast I slide into thinking that way again, but I can’t help it. I have a feeling that no matter how long it’s been, whether we’re twenty or eighty, Layla’s always going to be my girl.

  “Yo, Earth to Nico. Where the fuck you at, man?”

  I look up from the box I’ve been balancing on the tailgate for the last few minutes. Daydreaming. Again.

  I shake my head. “Sorry. Layla gets in tomorrow. I can’t really focus.”

  K.C. whistles long and low. “That’s right, that’s right, NYU’s comin’ to town. You gonna tell old girl?”

  I frown and recoil. “Dude. Don’t call Jessie that. That’s all she needs, man, is for people to be thinking that we’re something we’re not.”

  “Aren’t you livin’ with her?” K.C. looks down his nose like he’s an old man. “What would you call it?”

  I scowl and shove the box of records farther into the car. “I’d call it ‘roommates.’”

  “Yeah, roommates with benefits. Pssh.” K.C. waves the thought away. “Bro, you ain’t foolin’ nobody. No. One. Roommates, my ass,” he chuckles to himself as he goes back into the club for more records.

  “Whatever,” I mutter as I follow.

  But he’s got a point. I haven’t told Jessie that my plans this weekend consist of staying at K.C.’s empty apartment with another girl. I don’t want her anywhere near Layla.

  I grab another bin of records and shake away the thought. It’s time for Jessie and me to have a real talk about where we stand, but that can wait another week. The only thing I want to think about right now is Layla.

  Layla

  The Town Car pulls up in front of my grandparents’ big white house at about two in the afternoon. Ostentatious with palatial white columns and a half-acre yard, it’s about the same size as our house in Redmond—or what used to be our house, before the moving company arrived yesterday to pack up everything we owned and ship it to a storage facility.

  Stepping out of the car, I rub my face while the driver goes around to the back for our suitcases. Mom has several trunks of clothing being shipped here next week, but everything important to me is in the
se three bags, which will be going to New York with me. When my parents broke their news, I figured I would leave this weekend, be there on Monday when they open the dorms for students. But that phone call changed everything.

  Nico. The timing of his call was one of the weirdest things I’ve ever experienced. Does that guy have Spidey sense or something? I’ve been fine—well, as fine as I could have been with a broken heart—all summer. And the second my parents drop this huge bomb, he calls.

  I know this isn’t going anywhere. One week, that’s the most we have together before I have to get back to school. We’ve called and texted back and forth every day since Wednesday. I might be wrong, but I’m pretty sure he’s excited to see me too. I don’t know what else he’s thinking, but I know that much.

  “Layla, are you coming?”

  I turn around to where Mom is halfway up the walkway. Our suitcases are stacked on the front stoop, while I’m standing here like an idiot on the sidewalk.

  I blink. “Sorry,” I say and follow my mother into the house.

  It’s empty except for a small woman with black hair and dark skin who pops into the hallway carrying a dust cloth.

  “Hello,” Mom greets her slowly, speaking in very loud, slow words. “You must be the new housekeeper. I’m Cheryl, Jerry and Cece’s daughter. This is my daughter, Layla.”

  “Martina,” the woman says cautiously, although she offers a kind smile.

  Martina leaves the cloth on the entry table and accepts my handshake, although Mom doesn’t offer one. The woman looks at me curiously and a little bit knowingly. I wonder if she’s heard about my dad.

  “Hello,” she says in thickly accented English.

  “Nice to meet you. Where are you from?” I ask. Mom looks at me sharply, but doesn’t say anything.

  This time Martina’s smile is more genuine. “Panama City,” she says. “Habla español?”

  “No, she does not,” Mom cuts in. “Her father is Brazilian, not Hispanic.”

  I frown at her, the way she says “Hispanic” like it’s a dirty word. Like it’s something bad.

  “Actually,” I tell Martina, “estoy..ap-apren...diendo. Es correcto?” When Martina nods at my poor phrasing, I smile. “I’m learning,” I say again in English. “Maybe you can help me practice.”

  Martina smiles brightly, but when she catches my mother’s sharp look, she picks up her cloth and murmurs, “sí, sí” before darting into another room.

  “What do you mean, you’re learning Spanish?”

  I turn around to my mother with a hand on my hip. “I have to take a foreign language before I graduate. Spanish is way more practical than French. I started at the community college this summer, remember?”

  My mother quirks an eyebrow and taps a long finger on her lips. “I don’t remember that.”

  “That’s because you were swimming in your wine glass,” I mutter, too low for her to hear.

  “What’s that?”

  I look up. “Nothing. It was just something I did on the side.”

  “Does your father know?”

  I shrug. “He knew I was getting ahead with my degree. But Dad’s not here anymore, is he?”

  It’s the first time either of us has talked about the fact that this morning, my father took one plane while we took another. Permanently. Mom hasn’t mentioned it once, and it’s gotten to the point where I wonder if she’s actually aware this is happening. Or, I consider, maybe she’s happy. She wasn’t any more affectionate toward my dad than he was to her. My father has a tendency to micromanage every aspect of my life, and it drives me absolutely crazy. I wonder the extent to which he did that to Mom too.

  “Well,” Mom says. “It’s your life. I suppose you’ll be able to help us communicate better with the help, at any rate.”

  I roll my eyes. “Only if you stop saying things like ‘the help.’”

  “Layla, please. You’re in Pasadena now. Everyone says ‘the help.’”

  I wander into the foyer of the big house. I’ve been here a few times in my life, but we were pretty isolated in Washington. My mom’s family didn’t get along very well with my dad. They barely came to visit, and he didn’t usually come the few times we visited them. I’m as much a stranger in this house as I would be in any other.

  “Where are Grandma and Grandpa?” I wonder.

  Behind me, Mom’s nails tap the glass entry table. She checks her watch. “Well, right now is Mother’s weekly hair appointment, and Daddy’s probably at the golf course. They’ll be home in time for cocktails, I’m sure. They never miss that.”

  “Well, I’ll probably miss them, then,” I say as I grab one of my bags and start toward the stairs. “Do you know which room I’m in?”

  My mother’s hand closes around my wrist. “What do you mean, you’ll miss them?”

  I look down at her hand, then back up at her face. Not for the first time today, tension crackles between us.

  “I’m going out with a friend,” I inform her. “I’ll probably be back kind of late. Do you know if there are any spare keys?”

  Mom just stares at me, then releases my wrist. “Layla, this is a strange city. We just got here. I really think it would be best if you stayed here tonight and we relaxed with Grandma and Grandpa. I’m sure they’re excited to see you––”

  “Thrilled, clearly,” I say sarcastically. “That’s why they’re here waiting for us, right? The grand welcoming committee? Oh, wait, except they’re not.”

  Mom bites her perfectly painted lip and frowns. “That’s really uncalled for. But aside from that, you’re my daughter, and I’m saying you need to stay. You can’t just go out whenever you want.”

  I cross my arms, prepared to stare my mother down. I’ve been looking forward to this all week—the one bright spot in the tornado that just hit my family.

  “And I’m saying I’m twenty years old and can make those decisions for myself.” I tip my head, daring her to contradict me.

  Mom starts, and as I catch a glance at myself in the giant mirror over the doorway, I’m struck by what she must see. My dad does the same thing when he gives an order. Stands the same. Looks the same.

  Immediately, I drop my arms. “I’m going out,” I repeat. “You don’t like it, I can leave too.”

  The “too” echoes around this cavernous house like I shouted it into a quarry. Mom’s blue eyes squint, and for a second, I feel bad. It’s not fair for me to make those kinds of threats when her husband left her. But she doesn’t get to tell me what to do any more than he does. Not anymore.

  “All right, then,” she says at last. “I’ll get you a key before you leave.”

  A few hours later, I’m sitting on the front stoop while my mom is inside taking a bubble bath. Nico is supposed to be here in ten minutes, but I didn’t feel like being in that mausoleum anymore. Despite the fact that they are well into their seventies and could potentially break a hip or something, my grandparents lived in a house that’s full of sharp corners and glass fixtures. After I changed into a pair of shorts and a tank top that befit the hot weather, I was tiptoeing everywhere, terrified I’d accidentally knock over a vase or maybe a tasteful figurine. My grandmother has a thing for Chinese statues.

  Outside, the sunshine feels nice, but a little heavy. It’s not like the sun in Seattle, which always seems to be tempered by the trees. The sun in LA has nothing to mitigate it—no clouds, nothing. But right now the warmth of the sidewalk is a nice balance with the cold house behind me.

  It makes me wonder what New York is like right now. I thought about taking some of my earnings and going back this summer for a visit, but no one would have been there. My friends were all home or working full-time internships. I’d have stayed in a hotel, felt like a stranger in a city that’s closer to home than anywhere right now.

  Instead, I put my energy into getting ready for the school year, working and starting a major that I only regret when it makes me think of Nico. The combination of a few Latin American studies elec
tives I took my freshman year start a nice foundation for a Latin American studies major, something I decided to pursue in May. It’s not something I’ve told anyone. But after I had said goodbye to this man, felt that gaping hole in my life without him, I realized Nico had still left me with something else: a desire to know more about the side of myself that my father had never been willing to show me. It’s not my fault that my dad hated his foreignness so much he refused to teach his only daughter about her cultural roots. I realized I could learn about them, at least some of them, on my own.

  I never told my dad that I had decided on this major instead of a more typical prelaw major like economics or English. I never told him I was taking Spanish at the community college instead of French with the check he gave me. I never told him that I’d switched my fall schedule, and I marveled at my luck that for once, he wasn’t micromanaging my classes.

  And now that he’s gone, I know why he didn’t pry. He was already out the door.

  I kick at a rock on the front drive. Right now, the idea of taking intermediate Portuguese and Afro-Brazilian musicology sounds terrible. My dad and his “country” can fuck off. Maybe I can find some classes on Caribbean culture instead. I try not to think about why I might want to do that. Why another man’s ethnic background might sound better than my own. A man who also left me.

  A man who’s pulling up right now.

  Nico’s black Jeep rumbles up the hill with a roar. Every muscle in my body tenses, and just when the Jeep backfires, it’s like a spring is released inside me. I’m scrambling off the step, suddenly freed from this smoky haze I’ve been living in for the past few days, hell, for the past three months. Like it always did when he was around, my body moves without thinking.

  So before Nico’s even pulled to a stop, I’m sprinting down the lawn, reaching him just as he steps out of the car. I barely register the open, eager look on his face before I tackle him against the door, barely hear the boisterous “Hey!” from his deep voice as I grab him. But he reacts quickly. I’m swept off the ground as his big arms encircle my waist, and my arms wrap a death grip around his neck.