Lost Ones

by Nicole French

  She tosses me a t-shirt and throws another at Layla. It’s only then that I realize I’m pretty much covered in blood, and so I strip off my shirt and change into his. It’s too tight––he might be taller than me, but he’s thinner, and the cotton pulls across my chest. My nose wrinkles––it smells like him, like shitty cologne and cheap red wine and stale cigarettes. Fuck, I hate this guy so much.

  “Let’s go, man,” Gabe says. “Let’s go.”

  I stride to where Layla stands, and without asking, I sweep her up into my arms and tuck her into my shoulder.

  “I got you, baby,” I tell her as I walk out of the apartment. “I got you.”

  “Wait,” she murmurs, then calls back to Shama: “The book on the desk.”

  She doesn’t say anything else as I carry her down to the street, where Jamie is waiting with a cab. She doesn’t argue as I keep her securely on my lap, hold her tight against me, unwilling to let go even a little. She doesn’t budge, doesn’t move, just shakes silently in my arms. And because she doesn’t fight what’s got to be a suffocating hold, that’s how I know my girl is really broken. And it breaks me too.

  ~

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Nico

  Somehow, we make it back to my old apartment on 139th. It’s only five blocks away, but it feels like five miles––and at the same time, I could have stayed in the back of that cab for hours, holding her, stroking her back, kissing her hair until those goddamn shakes leave.

  But they don’t leave. If I hadn’t been holding her so close, I wouldn’t have known it, but because she’s burrowed into my chest, I can feel the faint vibrations persist after the cab stops outside the building, after I carry her out and hold her while Gabe unlocks the door, and all during the cramped elevator ride to the fourth floor.

  Once we’re inside, Gabe walks Shama and Jamie to the train to make sure they get home safe. I keep reminding myself that Flaco is still at the apartment, making sure that motherfucker doesn’t leave before I can deal with him properly. I don’t know. Just the thought of him makes my head feel like it’s about to explode all over again. I can smell his fucking blood on Layla––blood from that gaping cut on his arm. I hope she’s the one who gave it to him. I hope my baby fought like hell.

  When I walk in, Layla still cradled in my arms, my mom, Maggie, and Allie are sitting on the old floral couch in what used to be the storage area, but has since been converted into a decent-looking living room. Allie is playing peacefully, but they stand up immediately when we walk in. Layla’s still frozen in my arms. I should feel an ache from holding her like this for so long, but I don’t. My chest hurts––it physically fucking hurts––when I realize that this was what I’d been training for all year. Fuck the FDNY. This was the only rescue that ever fucking mattered.

  My mom’s sharp eyes dart over Layla while Maggie raises a hand to her mouth and draws Allie to her side.

  “Holy shit,” she murmurs. “What happened to her?”

  I ignore her and look to my mom, who’s looking Layla over with perfect understanding.

  “Gabriel’s room,” she says shortly, gesturing toward my old bedroom. “Take her in there.”

  “Mami, what’s wrong with Layla…”

  I hear the beginnings of some awkward questions from Allie, but don’t wait to hear the answers, just kick the door shut. The light is off, so the room stays dim, lit only by what filters through the window between buildings outside. The room is mostly the same, changed only by a few posters Gabe stuck to the wall.

  I sit down on the bed, Layla still securely in my arms. And finally, finally, I exhale.

  “Shhh,” I tell her, holding her against my chest as she shudders. But she doesn’t hold on. For the first time since I met her, her fingers don’t curl into my shirt, don’t cling to my body, like she’s trying to memorize its shape. Instead, she sits in my arms, wooden and still fucking shaking. I focus on breathing. In. Out. Try to be something solid, give her a little of my strength. At least what bit of it I still feel.

  “What do you need?” I ask her as I slowly rock her back and forth. That seems to work. The shaking dies, finally, though she’s just as still. “Tell me, baby. Just tell me what you need. I got you.”

  The words seem to pull her out of whatever strange, silent place she’s been trapped in. She starts in my arms, and then, in an awkward motion that makes my chest physically hurt, she slides off my lap.

  “I-I need…” Her voice is hoarse, like she’s out of breath. She scoots away. “I think I just need to lie down. If that’s all right with you.”

  I hate that she even asks. I hate the way her voice sounds so small, so afraid. How tentative it is––so different from the bright-eyed, optimistic girl I know.

  She doesn’t meet my eyes, just stares vacantly at the sheets gripped between her hands. She’s still in her clothes from earlier today––shorts and a white I Love New York t-shirt. The t-shirt was clean, but dried blood is smeared on her arms and her legs. There are even bits of it on her face, speckled over reddened skin. Where he hit her.

  Reluctantly, I stand up. It goes against every instinct I have to leave her alone right now. If I hadn’t done that in the first place, she wouldn’t be here, bruised and broken, inside and out. She would still be herself. She’d still be Layla.

  Suddenly finding it harder to breathe than ever, I back toward the door. She lies down on the bed and barely seems to notice that I’m leaving. And in a way…I’m glad. I’m not sure I can take this anymore either. Seeing her hurt. Seeing the person whose touch echoes throughout my whole fuckin’ soul after she’s been hit like this. I thought it was bad watching my mother go through the same thing when I was a kid. I had no fuckin’ clue. There’s a crazy electric current vibrating through every nerve in my body, but at the same time, it’s blanketed by a horrible ache, a sadness that presses at the bleak dam of control I still have.

  I need to get out of this room. I need to do…something.

  “I’ll be out here if you need me,” I say, then slip out and close the door.

  My mother, sister, and Allie are sitting on the couch again. Ma takes one look at me and shoos Maggie and Allie away; they scurry to Ma’s room.

  “Ay, nene. Come here.” She pats the seat beside her.

  Now I’m the one starting to shake. Lightly at first, but it’s a vibration that I can’t stop. Inside, I’m spinning. Something has to give. Obeying more with my body than my mind, I follow my mother’s orders, collapse on the faded flowers next to her, and let her drape a small arm over my shoulders. She rubs my neck, like she did when I was a little kid, and in the end, it’s that small tenderness that does me in. I crumple forward, bury my head in my hands, and fall completely and totally apart.

  ~

  Layla

  It takes me a full five minutes to realize I’m in this room alone. This familiar, yet unfamiliar white room, with its futon I’ve slept on so many time before, the battered old wardrobe in the corner, the small desk that’s now piled with papers and textbooks instead of random drawings and bills. The walls are littered with posters of girls––I was right before; Gabe is the one with a thing for Jennifer Lopez.

  For a split second, I’m taken back to a medical tent, the one my father helped set up in Brazil. It was the whole excuse for going––the medical school had invited him to come for the summer and teach a clinic. I had worked there with him for a few days, helping some of the med students dispense STD prevention kits––condoms and the like.

  At the end of the third day, the clinic was suddenly flooded with bodies. Four or five people had been shot during a drive-by on the other side of the slum. It was several miles from where we were, but we were the closest medical facility, and the people needed help. Together with his students, my father removed bullets from three children and two men.

  They did it all behind the curtains––I never saw more than a brief glimpse here and there of prostrated bodies. Instead, I sat on the other side w
ith the children’s families, with people who had actually seen the shooting happen. A few were crying but one of the children’s mothers sat in a chair, her arms wrapped around her middle, and stared at the dirt floor of the clinic for the entire time it took my dad to take care of her son. Her face was blank, even though I’m sure that inside, she had about a million emotions pouring through her. But there was nothing.

  Shock. That’s what this is. It’s shock.

  My stomach roils. I tell myself it isn’t that bad. No one was killed. I’m not seriously hurt. A little bruised, probably, and my ankle, though sore, will probably heal within a few weeks. The blood on me is Giancarlo’s, not mine. It was just a messed-up day. I’m going to be fine.

  But I don’t feel fine. I feel like I’ve just been dragged through a war zone. No one has ever touched me like that before in my life, and in two days, I let the same man do it twice. My skin feels like it’s shut off in response to everything that’s happened. Even sitting in the cab, Nico’s arms locked around me while I shook, I felt nothing. Not even his touch could bring me back to normal.

  A cry, low and broken, like a dying animal, careens through the door. I sit up, pulled toward it as it happens again. Slowly, I push myself up and limp to the door. I open it and hop across the hall, where I find Nico crumpled into himself on the couch, his broad shoulders shaking violently while he groans into his mother’s shoulder.

  Carmen sees me and waves me over. Like a magnet, I limp across the room and fall onto the couch next to Nico. I slide my hands across his quivering back. My fingers seem to work outside of my still-numbed body, but Nico’s big frame falls into me, and we topple into the couch cushions while I absorb the waves of emotion pouring from him.

  “Oh, God,” he whimpers into my shoulder before launching into an unintelligible mess of Spanish and English, muttered into my clothes. “It’s my fault,” he keens. “Oh, God, it’s…shit…I––baby––if…”

  “Shhh.”

  I stroke his back, do everything I can just to hold him, like he did for me in his car and in the bedroom.He inhales deeply like he’s trying to take all of me in. His hands tug at the bottom of my shirt like it’s a security blanket, and he rocks slowly back and forth. His control is spent. This beautiful man, who carries the world on those broad shoulders for so many people, who runs to the rescue of his mother, his sisters, his brother, and now me. I broke him.

  “I can’t,” he groans. “I can’t…I can’t…”

  “You can’t what?” I ask. I’m starting to get scared now. My voice chokes. “N-Nico, you can’t what? What is it?”

  With what looks like a massive amount effort, he manages to sit up. And it’s then, when we are finally face-to-face, that I see what this moment has cost. His eyes are red and puffy, glossed over while the skin around them is dark with fatigue. There are frown lines crossing his brow, and his face looks haggard with the exception of the thick wet lines crisscrossing his cheeks, running down his nose.

  Nico is crying. Not tiny, small tears. Great, heaving sobs that ripple through his entire body. His face is tracked with tears, a few hanging off the razor-edge of his jaw. He swallows, and the muscles in his throat quiver.

  “It was my fault,” he whispers, but makes no move to wipe his tears away. “If I…if I had told you about my plans. You wanted to be together. But I always said no…and now…God, Layla. Look at you!”

  Unable to finish the sentence, he falls forward, his big shoulders shaking us both violently.

  “I’m sorry,” he keens. “I’m so fuckin’ sorry.”

  “What?” I ask suddenly, like I’m waking up out of a nasty, terrible dream. “You’re sorry? Oh, Nico…”

  Because it’s then, as his voice cracks over the last “sorry,” that the numbness that’s trapped me since I first saw him bust into that bedroom shatters. We grasp at each other, hands tearing at the edges of shirts and jeans, hair and skin. It’s not violent––never violent––just a desire to be close. A desire that comes from the deep because I can’t be okay when he’s not. His pain is my pain. And apparently, mine is his.

  “It’s not your fault,” I murmur into his neck.

  I inhale his scent––his earthy, un-nameable scent of soap, sweat, and man. A scent I’ll crave for the rest of my life. And then, somehow, I manage to sit him up. I frame his face with my palms, then press my forehead to his––that small, sweet gesture he always uses to bring us closer together. He does this when his emotion are too much for him. When words aren’t quite enough.

  “It’s not your fault,” I whisper, shaking again myself. Fine, then. We’ll shake together.

  Nico blinks, his eyes still wet with tears––I can barely see them because of the moisture clouding my own sight. But his love is unmistakable. And I wonder for what definitely won’t be the last time, how I ever could have mistaken something so ugly for the way this man is looking at me right now.

  “You came for me.” I trace his cheek in awe. “You came.”

  Nico closes his eyes for a moment, as if the memory is too much to bear. Then he nuzzles his nose with mine and presses a gentle kiss on my mouth. I shudder at the feeling, eager and scared at the same time. But his lips, his warm, soft lips, are home to me. I hate that I ever looked elsewhere.

  “I love you,” he tells me. “I would always come for you.”

  He kisses me again. And again. His lips track his love all over my face––cheeks, jaw, nose, eyes. He kisses my tears away, even though I doubt they’ll stop completely anytime soon. He drops kisses until both of us are out of breath, until finally my hands slide around his neck and I start meeting them with my own.

  But then Nico pulls away.

  “Don’t,” I mewl, trying to tug him back. “Don’t stop. Please.”

  He makes me forget. A few more kisses, and maybe I can leave this horrible day behind. A few more, and maybe this entire year will eventually melt away. He’s here. I’m here. No one is going anywhere. Finally, finally things can maybe go back to the way they were always supposed to be…

  But Nico, holding me still by the shoulders, presses me gently back so he can look me in the eye.

  “Baby,” he says softly. “You’ve got his blood all over you. And so do I.”

  I look down. Oh, God, he’s right. I’m covered with the rusty red stains––my shirt, shorts. It’s smeared over my arms, and probably on my face. I shudder. I’m a mess. I’ve been a mess. And by following what’s become my modus operandi, I was fully prepared to pretend it didn’t exist.

  Nico, on the other hand, has a hand that’s got two split knuckles and looks like it might even need stitches.

  I don’t even need Quinn’s voice to tell me that. This time I can see it for myself.

  “Shower?” Nico asks hopefully.

  I gulp. I’m no longer shaking, and neither is he, but both of us feel…fragile. Like if we stop touching, we might actually break.

  The numbness returns a little. Maybe I still need it. I’m just too breakable without it.

  “Shower,” I agree with more strength than I’m feeling. I stand up. “I’ll be right back.”

  ~

  Nico

  Fifteen minutes later, my mom and Maggie have reemerged from Ma’s room and are sitting with me on the couch while Allie watches Sesame Street. Layla, having showered before me, emerges from Gabe’s room looking bashful. She’s wrapped in my brother’s t-shirt and a pair of his sweatpants. The look of another man’s clothes causes jealousy to rip through me again, even if my heart has calmed down some. Still, she looks better than before––not so small, not so scared. But still uncertain. And still beat-up.

  There’s a ring of fingertip bruises flowering all around her neck––from the way he choked her last night. The blood is gone, but a few scratches remain on her face, along with a big red welt under her right eye.

  She tugs on her wet hair nervously and looks between me and my mom. I stand up immediately and move to her.

  “H
ey,” I say as I take her hand, enjoying the feel of her fingers entwined with mine. “Feeling better?”

  She nods. “Um, yeah. I am. Thanks.”

  Behind me, Maggie clicks her tongue, then shoves her way between us. “Excuse me,” she says irritably as she bustles down to the bathroom. Layla and I both watch, confused, as she disappears, then quickly returns carrying a small jar of something.

  “Come here,” she says, but doesn’t wait for Layla to respond before she takes her arm and pulls her, limping, to sit on the couch between her and Ma.

  “Mmmm, he got you good, huh?” Maggie says as she looks Layla over. She gestures to Ma. “Mira, Mami.”

  Keeping perfectly still, Layla watches me, her eyes wide while my mother and sister look closely at the bruises on her neck and face. I shrug. I have no idea what my sister is doing, but I know Maggie. She’s a little hard, but she doesn’t give anyone the time of day unless she cares.

  Without waiting, Maggie unscrews the lid and uses some kind of sponge to swipe a bunch of skin-colored cream out of the jar and starts dabbing it on Layla’s surprised face.

  “Jim––” She stops, glancing at Allie, but my niece is zoned out on the television. Then, back to Layla: “Her dad nailed me there a couple times. I had a black eye that lasted a week, and this stuff covered it up perfect for work.”

  “Oh my God,” Layla says. “I’m so…sorry.”

  “Keep still.” Maggie holds Layla’s chin as she works. “And don’t be sorry. I finally got rid of his abusive ass last year. It’s hard to know better, sometimes, when you grow up with it.”

  Layla glances at me again, but doesn’t say anything so she can keep her face still. But her eyes, so big and expressive, ask the question just the same––is it true? I give a quick nod, and immediately, her eyes gloss over. She blinks quickly and turns her gaze away. I’m glad. We don’t need more waterworks. I still feel like a sponge, drained.

  “But Allie––that’s my daughter––she had seen him do it,” Maggie continues. “And I just thought, I can’t let my daughter see me like that, you know? She deserves better.”