Bad Idea- The Complete Collection

by Nicole French

  “You good, man?” Gabe claps me on the shoulder as I take my place in front of the altar, next to the priest. On his other side stands Shama, holding a small bouquet of tulips—Layla’s favorite flower. She gives me a smile, though I notice her glancing every so often to the piano at the side of the chapel, where K.C. is tapping out a soft melody.

  I smile to myself. “Yeah,” I say. “I’m more than good. Let’s do this.”

  Everyone feels the love at weddings. But not like me. Not like when my girl steps out of the atrium, flanked on either side by her parents. Sergio looks the picture of a patrician, older father, distinguished in what looks like a brand-new suit, and maybe a little sad as he walks his daughter down the aisle. Cheryl is dressed in blue, the same shade as her and Layla’s eyes, and her dark-blonde hair shines like a halo. She finds me and nods, and I return the gesture.

  But neither of them can hold a candle to my girl. She wears a lace dress that comes down past her knees and hugs her hips. With its delicate sleeves and modest skirt, it’s not a dress that puts everything on display, and yet, it frames her curves perfectly. Her hair is down and pulled back from her face, curling around her shoulders in a way that makes me want to pull on it and stroke it all at once. She carries a bouquet of pink tulips that match the color of her lips, and even from the far side of the atrium, her blue eyes find mine and fucking sing.

  The wedding is small and perfect. The priest gives a brief speech about the sanctity of marriage, reading out names off the card provided to him an hour before. Layla and I repeat after every vow he states, unblinking as we clutch each other’s hands, moving our lips around the sacred words that we both mean with everything we are.

  There’s no doubt. No fear. Just love. Just the knowledge that everything we’ve been through in the last two years—no, in all of our lives—has been leading us here, to this moment, and to the future ahead of us.

  “Do you take this woman?” the priest asks, but by that point, I can barely see him. All I see is her.

  “I do,” I whisper. “Always.”

  Layla’s face shines.

  The priest smiles, and asks for the rings—the simple gold ring I bought just last week, and another gold band that was gifted from Cheryl and Sergio this morning. Another peace offering of sorts.

  We slide the rings onto each other’s hands, both of us fighting tears the whole time. A cheer rises as he says those final words I’ve been waiting for: “You may kiss the bride.”

  So I do. And I swear to God, before all that is holy, I’ll never, ever stop.

  Two hours later, we’re back at Alba’s house. Just like at her holiday parties, all of the furniture has been cleared out, making space in the living room for all of the aunties and uncles, cousins and friends who’ve shown up last minute to dance and laugh and eat and wish us well. Everyone is full of pasteles and chicken, beer and wine, and whatever else we could rustle up around town. Cheryl bought out half the flower markets in New York. Alba’s apartment looks like a florist exploded in here. K.C. set up his turntables in the corner and has been spinning a mix of Latin music that includes both samba, bossa nova, merengue, and salsa—a perfect mix of the two of us.

  Even Sergio and Cheryl are having a good time. I’ve caught Cheryl’s laugh a few times when she lets her estranged husband spin her around the floor. Layla watches them closely. I get the feeling she’s never seen them let loose like this together. But I get it. The look on their faces tells me they’re remembering things that happened long before she was born. They’re remembering what it was like to fall in love.

  Layla and I sway in the middle of the crowded dance floor, mostly too caught up in each other to follow the beats. My jacket’s been long tossed aside, and she lies with her cheek on my shoulder, burrowed into me after we finally finished accepting all of the blessings from everyone here.

  Suddenly, she stops moving and pulls away. She looks down, her mouth dropped in shock.

  “What?” I ask. “What is it?” Shit. Shit. Something’s wrong, I know it. We just couldn’t have one fucking day to ourselves, could we?

  But then Layla bites her lip, and her eyes open with a look of wonder.

  “I felt it,” she whispers, pulling my hand to her still-flat belly.

  I know it’s too early to feel kicks. Maggie didn’t feel anything with Allie until she looked like she had a mini basketball sticking out of her. But Layla clearly feels something, and who am I to tell her it’s anything other than indigestion?

  “Like a butterfly,” she tells me, keeping my hand pressed under hers. “Can you feel it?”

  I shake my head and grin. “No. But I will.” I can’t wait.

  The clear, recognizable notes of a bass line and piano sound through Alba’s speakers, and like that the party really starts up. Just try to tell a room full of Puerto Ricans not to sing at the top of their lungs when this dude comes on. I dare you.

  Layla tips her head, listening. “Is this Marc Anthony?”

  I chuckle. “You’ve been hanging around Maggie too much. I’m impressed.”

  She taps her foot, unable to keep her hips from twisting and turning with the beat that’s already started. I stare. It doesn’t matter how many times I see her do that; the way Layla moves her body is fuckin’ mesmerizing.

  “You like it,” she says. “Don’t even pretend.”

  I laugh. “Now you really sound like Maggie.”

  But she’s right. My hips are already moving, feet shuffling back and forth in the familiar rhythm. I can’t help it. Salsa is infectious, and it’s in my blood. And now that there is a part of me inside Layla, it’s in hers too.

  I grin and take both of her hands. “Come on, then,” I tell her. “Let’s show them some new moves.”

  I start twisting her around in the combinations we’ve practiced over the last few months, even trying a few new ones that I didn’t know I had in me. Layla’s laughter filters around the crowd, her happiness beaming through her entire body, just like I know it is through mine. All around us, our family and friends watch with smiles and laughter that joins ours. I know it won’t always be like this. I know our life will still be hard sometimes. That we’ll fight. Make mistakes. Struggle for money, jobs, places to live, maybe even more when there’s a baby.

  But no matter what’s coming, we’ll always have this. We’ll always have us. And that knowledge will keep me going for the rest of my life.

  “Hey,” Layla says as I pull her back in. I kiss her, because I can’t not, and she returns it and smiles. But it’s a normal smile, because I’m always kissing her.

  “What’s that?” I reply when I let her go again.

  “What does ‘valió la pena’ mean anyway?” she asks, quoting the song lyrics.

  I cock my head. “It means, ‘it was worth it.’”

  A slow, knowing smile spreads across Layla’s face. “That sounds about right,” she says. “It was definitely worth it.”

  She stumbles a little as I take her around a particularly difficult turn. She falls into my arms, and when she looks up, she’s breathless.

  “It’s okay,” I assure her as I pull her upright. “I won’t let you fall. I got you, baby.”

  “I know,” she says as she pulls me close. “I got you, too.”

  Layla grins, that smile that lights me up, that sets me on the right path every time. The smile that guides me home. My true north.

  Epilogue

  Nico

  “What do you think, papi? Red or pink?”

  Mattie shakes his head, making his black curls flop over his forehead.

  “Violeta,” he pronounces. “Mommy likes the purple best.”

  My son’s Spanish is probably better than mine, courtesy of the fancy-ass preschool he’s attending. Thank you, Grandma, although if my mother-in-law ever hears me use that word, Layla says I’ll get a drink in my face. Of course, that only makes me want to say it more.

  I look back at the rows of flowers, searching for the dusky sha
de of eggplant he means. It’s the color I usually buy my wife, the one I’ve been bringing her since we first met. I would see it at sidewalk stands just like this one, and the purple, the same color as the flags hung from the downtown buildings owned by her school, would remind me of that sweet, beautiful girl I met in the middle of my delivery route. The one I should have stayed away from. The one I could never forget. The nickname is a joke now, since she graduated almost four years ago, but Layla will always be my NYU.

  I turn back to Mattie, who’s giving the flower selection the same critical eye. Mateo Christopher Barros Soltero, otherwise known as Mattie (because that name is way too grown up for a person who still can’t tie his own shoes), is picky. Too picky for someone who barely comes past my knee.

  “Papi, they don’t have purple,” I say, holding out the two bunches again. “Come on, man. We need to meet up with Abuela so I have time to pick up Mommy. We got an appointment, and we can’t be late.”

  Mattie scowls at the flowers and shakes his head again. “No.”

  I sigh. That was a Spanish no right there, the kind he learned from Ma and Maggie and Allie and Selena—all of the women in my family who manage to shove “what the fuck are you thinking?” and “are you fuckin’ kidding?” and “try again, you idiot” into two tiny letters. This kid has two very strong personality traits: he’s stubborn like his aunties, and he fuckin’ adores his mother, maybe even more than me. Only the best for her, and he doesn’t settle. Even at three.

  I put the flowers back. “Okay, okay, fine. You choose. But for real, Mattie, you got two minutes.”

  Mattie strides up the sidewalk and back to reexamine the selection, his chest sticking out. He’s short for his age, but a little soldier, no matter if his shoelaces are always untied or he always has a little bit of chocolate smudged on his cheek.

  When he comes back, he’s carrying a spray of bright blue flowers that pretty much match his eyes, the ones he inherited from his mother. Everything else on the outside is all me, from the thick black hair to the shoulders that promise to be a little too wide for his frame one day. But his eyes? His heart? That’s all Layla.

  “These,” he says. “Because they match her school now.” He frowns. “Wait, is it still her school since she finished yesterday? The funny hat means she was done, right?”

  I smile. It’s stuff like this that amazes me about this kid. Three years old, and he remembers that the school colors for Columbia are blue and white. I doubt I could have remembered my own name at that age.

  “Close enough, man. It’s still her school.” I take the flowers and hold them up to the vendor. “Yo, man. How much are these?”

  “For the hydrangeas? Ten dollars.”

  I fish a crumpled bill from my wallet and hand it to the guy before turning to Mattie. “All right, kid. Let’s go. We got a train to catch.”

  We spend the forty-five-minute subway and then PATH ride across the Hudson into Hoboken chatting about pretty much whatever goes through Mattie’s head. Superheroes and why does that guy have a funny ear and how his friend Henry has a superhero cape and he’d like one too and, and, and…

  “Daddy?”

  “Que pa’o, papi?”

  I look down at my little man. That’s really what Mattie is. Living in the city makes kids grow up faster than they should. I would know. And as much as Layla and I try to keep his innocence intact as best we can, the truth is, you see shit in this city, whether you grow up on Park Avenue or in the projects. I wish Mattie didn’t know what it sounds like to have his mom catcalled or see someone with so little they have to sleep on the street. But that’s New York. Highs and lows. Skyscrapers and tent cities. You can’t tell a three-year-old to keep his eyes closed; just teach him how to understand it all as best you can.

  But I’ll give him this: you can’t tell a three-year-old to be quiet either. And when Mattie sees someone doing wrong, especially if it’s to his mom, he calls that shit out. I almost fainted when he yelled “GIVE THAT LADY BACK HER WALLET!” across a subway car two months ago, but you know what? The asshole did, and then he was tossed out of the car on the next stop. And then the entire, jam-packed subway car started clapping. For my kid.

  Yeah, you could call me a proud dad.

  Mattie looks up at me, twisting his lips around in thought. “Why don’t you call Mommy Columbia instead of NYU, since that’s her school now?”

  I mimic his expression. We both do that when we’re thinking—make weird shapes with our mouths. Layla laughs at it all the time, which, to be honest, only makes me do it more. I love that sound.

  At first I’m not sure how to answer. I mean, I can’t really tell Mattie that I call his mom NYU because it makes her turn the color of a ripe peach, the exact color of her skin after I smack her on the ass. I can’t tell him that it reminds us both of when we first met, when I’d shove her up against the brick wall of her dorm and kiss her until she’d run out of breath. Or that just a name will sometimes make her do the same thing to me, even after four years of marriage.

  “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 Matt
ie 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.