Bad Idea- The Complete Collection

by Nicole French

  Nico snorts. “You’d be surprised, NYU. Plenty of people live in even worse places just for cheap rent.” He sighs. “So it was that bad, huh?”

  Shit. I’m such a jerk. Here I am, with the clueless audacity to explain to Nico about his family’s own semi-poverty. And now he’s clearly thinking that somehow I’m put off by it all, when that’s the last thing I’m thinking.

  I sit up so I can lean over him. My hair falls over my shoulder, and he immediately starts to play with it, studiously avoiding my gaze.

  “Hey.”

  I wait until he looks up, his black eyes big and vulnerable.

  “It’s not the Ritz,” I say, “but it doesn’t have to be. It was warm and full of people who love each other. I don’t give a shit about the bathroom or any of that. It felt like a home.”

  Finally, the tension in his body releases. Both of his hands slide up my back and pull me down. His kiss is soft.

  “You feel like home to me,” he says very, very softly. “You always do.”

  I close my eyes as he kisses me again. My mouth opens to him reflexively, wanting to take him deeper. But as he rolls me onto my back, ready to start round two of what never seems to fade no matter how many times we do it, one thought keeps screaming through my head.

  “I could come with you,” I blurt out when his mouth moves to my neck.

  He stops, pushes up on his hands so he’s looking down at me with a frown. “What?”

  “To California,” I rush on. “I could move there. Finish the semester at NYU and leave. Apply to transfer in the spring. It’s not too late, I—”

  “Layla,” Nico says, and the resignation in his voice makes my chest ache.

  “Please.” My voice shakes around the word, and with it, another round of tears threatens. God, I just can’t stop them tonight.

  But he needs to know. I want to know about his family not because I think they’re strange, but because tonight I felt like they were people I could maybe be a part of one day. It’s a feeling I didn’t even know I wanted until I met this man. Here with him, in this safe cocoon of love and sex and warmth, one thing is certain: that when we’re together, things are better. I’d give up everything I had if it meant we could stay this way for good.

  But Nico doesn’t smile. He doesn’t laugh and kiss me again with relief, tell me he’s been dying for me to suggest it again, that he regrets ever leaving. He just stares at me, his mouth hanging open slightly.

  “The answer is no, isn’t it?” I ask, utterly crestfallen.

  Nico exhales, long and heavy. His head hangs. “Yeah, baby. The answer’s no.”

  I roll out from under him and curl into myself, willing the pain lancing through my chest to abate. It does not. Not even close.

  “Layla...”

  “Why? Why don’t you want me?”

  “Baby, come on. It’s not that. You know it’s not that. Layla, will you look at me, please?”

  I turn back over so we are both on our sides facing each other. I’m naked, but it’s my emotions that are making me feel this vulnerable. Like I’m about to break.

  “Why did you come to New York?” Nico asks as he takes one of my hands between us and strokes a finger over my knuckles.

  My throat is too choked to answer.

  “Do you know who you are?” he continues, gazing at our joined hands. “Like, one hundred percent? Who Layla is, what you want, what you need, in ways that you know aren’t going to change?”

  Yes, I want to say. I want you. I need you. But instead I gulp the words down. Because he and I both know the real answer.

  “No.”

  Nico’s black eyes drill through me, like he knows who and what I am in a way I still don’t. I could say I have everything figured out, but the truth is, the only thing I feel like I know is him. That I love him.

  “I’m not letting you give this up,” he says. “You came to New York to figure that out. You need to be here. I’m not letting you get lost in my life when I don’t even know what the fuck my life is supposed to be yet. I don’t even know where I’m going to be in the next few months.”

  I frown, confused. “What does that mean? Where would you be if not LA?”

  He blinks sharply, but then turns his gaze to our hands. “I’ll probably be there. But I...I just don’t know, Layla. I have shit to figure out about myself, about what I’m doing with my life. And you do too.”

  They’re good reasons, all of them. What he’s saying makes sense. But all I hear is the same truth I hear from my mother every time she pushes off my next trip to visit, or every time my dad doesn’t answer his phone. I don’t want you.

  “I think you should go,” I whisper, curling away from him. Oh, my chest hurts. My heart feels swollen, like it’s about to explode. My lungs feel like they’ve turned to stone. I can’t breathe. Why doesn’t he want me? Doesn’t he feel what I feel?

  “Layla,” Nico says, placing a hand on my shoulder and trying to turn me toward him. I don’t move. “Baby, please. I just want what’s best for you. I...I love you. You know that, don’t you?”

  That’s when the tears finally let go. Those words should feel good, but they cut so deeply, just like I knew they would. Does he love me? I know he means it, but I’m not convinced he understands it. Those words—those three simple words that I’m always yearning to hear from him—don’t make me feel better; they only make the pain worse. I may be young, but I know that’s not what love should do. It shouldn’t make you feel abandoned. Like you’re nothing.

  “Please,” he murmurs behind me. “Let me stay. Just for tonight. Please.”

  I sigh, keeping my face toward the wall so he won’t see the goddamn rivers sliding down my cheeks. “Okay.” It hurts, but I also know I can’t say no to him. I could never ask him to leave and truly mean it.

  “Will I...” he asks tentatively as he gently strokes my back. His fingers fit into the groove of my spine, sliding down and scooping back up. “Will I get to see you at Christmas in LA?”

  I can’t speak for a moment. This hurts so much. And the idea of sitting in that big stupid house, having vapid conversations with my grandparents, pretending everything is fine. Seeing Nico during the day only to know he’s going home to another woman at night.

  It’s too much to take.

  “No,” I say quietly, keeping my eyes trained on the wall in front of me.

  His heartbeat behind me quickens for a moment, then calms.

  “Okay,” he says. The single word is full of so much understanding. “Okay.”

  III

  The Tango

  Chapter Fifteen

  December 2003

  Layla

  I tap my pencil on the top of my desk. Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap. It’s a machine gun. It’s a woodpecker. It’s a...

  “Layla!”

  I turn around. “What?”

  Quinn tosses her book on the bed and crosses her arms. “What do you think?”

  Our bedroom door opens, and Shama pops her head inside, quickly followed by Jamie.

  “Everything all right in here?” Shama asks.

  I frown at Quinn. “It’s fine.”

  “Oh, that’s rich.” Quinn stands up and makes a big show at brushing off her yoga pants. She recently started wearing them everywhere after someone at the gym told her she had a nice ass. If I have to hear about her squat routine one more time, I swear to God, I’m going to scream.

  Instead I glare at her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means it’s the same damn answer you’ve been giving us for weeks, Sylvia Plath. Everything’s ‘fine.’ Your soup is ‘fine.’ Your classes are ‘fine.’ You haven’t even wanted to go out since Thanksgiving. I know you’re still pining over Special Delivery—”

  “Oh my God, don’t call him that, Quinn.”

  “It’s getting ridiculous!” she explodes, falling back onto her mattress. “He’s gone. He doesn’t live here anymore, and he didn’t want you to be with him. I know it’s s
ad, Lay, and I know you were into him, but you have got to move on, babe!”

  I stare at the ground, trying unsuccessfully to let her words roll off me. Does she think I haven’t told myself this a thousand times? We’ve had this conversation. And to be honest, it hurts a little to have her minimize a relationship when she knows that “into him” doesn’t even begin to cover how I felt about Nico. How I still feel. How painful it still is.

  “I want my friend back,” she continues. “I want fun, snarky Layla who liked to joke in bars and was up for late-night study sessions. Do you know what time you went to sleep last night? Nine thirty. My great-grandmother doesn’t go to bed that early.”

  Shama and Jamie edge their way into the room and sit down on my bed. Quinn and I haven’t been getting along as well as we used to, and our roommates have taken to trying to distract us when we bicker. It was never unusual for Quinn and me to butt heads from time to time, but it’s been getting worse. She wants me to be something I’m not—her sidekick, someone to go out and be her “wingman.” Play stupid games in bars and judge the men who try to buy us drinks. But I’m just not in the mood these days. I’ll snap out of it at some point, I’m sure, but for now, I’m just not interested in listening to her wax melodic about her future as an orthopedic surgeon or evaluate men’s footwear.

  I yank on the end of my ponytail. “Whatever.” Original, I know. But I’m not really interested in coming up with pithy comebacks either.

  Quinn’s eyes practically roll up to the ceiling. “You’ve been moping around this apartment for the last four months like friggin’ Charlie Brown. Did you even pass your classes this semester, Lay?”

  “I did just fine in my classes, thanks.”

  And it’s true. I did. I couldn’t sleepwalk through those like I have everything else the last three weeks. Learning about Latin American politics hasn’t been easy, considering everything about it reminds me of the two men in my life who tore it apart in quick succession, one, two, three. But in its own way, it was kind of cathartic. At least it makes me feel something.

  “Lay, you have been a little...” Shama starts uneasily.

  “A little what?”

  “Glum?” Jamie suggests while toying with the bedspread.

  “I was going to say suicidal,” Quinn remarks.

  I turn back to her. “That’s not even funny.”

  “Please. You’re about five minutes from slitting your wrists.”

  “Quinn!”

  Quinn looks sheepishly at Shama, whose older brother actually did attempt suicide a few years ago. He wasn’t successful, but it’s not even close to a funny joke, especially in this circumstance.

  “Sorry, Shams,” she says.

  “Super heartfelt,” I mumble as I turn back to my desk to finish writing the letter for my dad for Christmas. I can feel, rather than see, my roommates glancing at each other.

  “Right,” Quinn spits. “Because you’re one to give practice lessons on empathy. Do you even know what’s been going on in Shama’s life recently? Did you know that Jason cheated on her?”

  “Hey!” Shama pipes up again. “We do not know that Jason’s been cheating! I just told you that he’s been a little weird lately.”

  “Whatever.” Quinn waves away her complaints. “He’s a dick, and you’re finally seeing it. He blew you off again the other night. The writing’s on the wall, babe.”

  “God, do you always have to be so fucking insensitive?” I shove my papers to the side and get up, grabbing my coat off the back of my chair and shoving my arms into it violently. “You’re always like this, you know? Always thinking the worst about anyone the rest of us date. You just have to call Nico ‘Special Delivery,’ insult him just because he’s trying to figure out his life. And just because Jason had a bad night, you think he must be cheating on Shama. How about Jamie’s boyfriend? Is Dev secretly gay or something?”

  “I’m just looking out for you,” Quinn counters.

  “No, you’re nagging us.” I tie my scarf around my throat so tightly it almost chokes. “If I wanted the third fucking degree, I’d fly to Brazil to have my father give me one the right way.”

  “That’s hilarious. If you were like this all summer, I’m not surprised your dad barely wants to speak to you these days. Isn’t that why you’re staying here over Christmas?”

  “Quinn,” Jamie chides quietly. “You didn’t have to go there.”

  I stand still, though my body shakes with anger. Only a week ago, I finally heard from my dad—a terse, scratchy call that informed me he wouldn’t be traveling to the States for Christmas. My mom seemed happy enough when I told her I’d be staying here. She had wanted to go to a retreat with friends in Arizona anyway. Even though I hadn’t wanted to spend Christmas at my grandparents’ cold house in Pasadena, the fact that neither of my parents wanted to spend the holidays with me at all hurts. And Quinn knows it.

  But she doesn’t apologize, just folds her arms stubbornly. Without another word, I walk out, ignoring the weak pleas from Jamie and Shama to stay.

  “There she goes,” calls Quinn.

  The front door slams behind me before I can even think about answering.

  I walk around Union Square for a while, aimlessly window-shopping on Broadway while I try to stay warm. My gloves and hat are still at the dorm, sitting on my desk, on top of papers full of comments like “Intelligent, but needs passion” or “Adequate; you can do more.” I wasn’t lying. My grades are fine. I’ll probably finish the semester with an A- average, just a slight dip from the near-4.0 I carried over the last two years. The change would have been enough to earn my father’s ire a year ago—he would have been calling me at 4:00 a.m. every morning after midterms to make sure I was studying extra. But considering how interested he’s been in my life these days, I doubt he’ll notice anything at all.

  Still, Quinn’s right about one thing, as much as I hate to admit it. I’ve been going through the motions for most of the semester, and definitely for the last three weeks. She’s right about my mood. She’s right that I’ve been in a funk. And if I’m being honest, she’s probably right about Jason and Shama too. I just really, really don’t want her to be. And most of all, I just want her to leave me alone.

  I want everyone to leave me the hell alone.

  But they don’t. Not in real life, and not in my mind either. Nico, of course, is everywhere I go, his memory embedded into the concrete slabs and lampposts of the city. I don’t need Quinn to tell me that I’m still pining for him. I miss him like crazy. I tried to let go, but we still text back and forth here and there, even send each other a few pictures. There’s one photo that someone took of him on the beach. I actually had it printed out, and I keep it in my desk drawer for when I just can’t take it anymore and have to see his face. The edges are already worn and creased.

  Eventually I find myself walking steadily west, zigzagging past the closed stores on Seventh, stopping for tea in Chelsea, and eventually ending up in the same neighborhood where I was only three weeks before. Standing awkwardly on the corner of Ninth Avenue and Forty-Ninth Street, I look up and down the brick walkups, up toward the high-rise buildings that crowd the horizon. At almost five o’clock, the sky is starting to dim, but not enough to see the halo cast by the city against the darkness. I haven’t seen stars in months. You can’t when you’re inside New York’s odd corona.

  I try to imagine what this neighborhood was like when Nico was growing up. A glance down Forty-Ninth tells me that the closer you get to the river, the darker and quieter the streets get. Down at the end of the block, a few buildings have boarded-up windows and some tags sprayed over the brick sides. Past Tenth, it’s practically black. Not a place that, even now, I’d probably want to walk alone.

  Nico grew up in New York during the eighties. I’ve seen pictures. My father used to travel here sometimes; once we even came on vacation as a family in the nineties. I was only thirteen, but I remember even then the way my dad skirted around certain blocks
like the plague. How he wouldn’t take the subway for fear of being mugged. And yeah, he might have been overprotective. I’ve certainly never felt unsafe here. But looking down Ninth Avenue, I can easily imagine how that shadow might have taken over a lot of the city at certain points in time. How maybe it’s not really ever vanquished, just being held at bay.

  Maybe that’s all Nico will ever be for me too. A shadow I just have to keep at bay.

  My heart aches. Most days I don’t regret anything that happened between us. But there are times, like right now, when I wish to God I could just get rid of all of it so I could stop feeling this way.

  “Layla?”

  I turn around at the familiar voice. “Giancarlo?”

  The tall, lanky form of the Argentinian lopes down Forty-Ninth. It’s been well over a month since I saw him last—a few weeks before Nico arrived Thanksgiving, when I was too excited to think of being with anyone else but him. And for the last three, not being able to keep my mind off him.

  “Hello,” Giancarlo says almost formally, unafraid to let his accent out. He uses it like a point of pride.

  I notice then that he’s dressed up in a tie, a collared shirt, and slacks underneath his long black coat. He wears the same square-toed loafers so popular with the European crowds here. I see them at the clubs a lot. His thick black hair is combed back from his face, and his smile, if a bit brusque, screams confidence.

  “It has been a while,” he pronounces, even as he slides a familiar hand around my back and kisses both of my cheeks. “You are good?”

  “I...yeah. I’m good,” I agree, still slightly stunned to see him. “What are you doing in this part of town?”

  Giancarlo frowns, his deep-set eyes growing a little dark. “Why? Is there a reason you wouldn’t want me to see you here?”

  Suddenly flushed, I shake my head and shove my hands deeper into my pockets. “Um, no. No, I don’t think so,” I say, only just realizing the second “no” makes me sound guilty.