Fever

by Carnal, MJ

  Nick chuckles when he sees my face and leans over the console again, this time to grab my face and kiss me. “You’re adorable,” he says against my lips.

  When he starts driving again, Nick sorts through his music using the steering wheel until he finds the Beatles’ Please Please Me CD.

  “Where are we going?” I ask, leaning my head back on the headrest and turning my head toward him.

  He looks at me and grins. “My parents’ house.”

  ***

  “What?” I shriek, wide eyed. “I can’t go to your parents’ house!” I look down at my wardrobe, completely horrified by this news. Nobody has ever taken me to meet their parents. Why would anybody want me to meet their parents? Oh my God, I think I’m breaking out in hives. This is so not funny.

  Nick laughs, aware of my discomfort, and squeezes my hand in his. “Relax. They’ll love you,” he says, shooting me a quick glance.

  My shoulders relax a little. “Shouldn’t you tell them you’re bringing company? Have you even spoken to them? What are their names? Are they nice? Is your mom super skinny? Is she going to look at me like I’m trash because I’m wearing ripped up jeans and flats and a loose T-shirt with a skull on it? Oh my God, I think I’m going to be sick, Nick. Just drop me off at the hotel and meet up with me later,” I say, my words spilling out of me all at once. Nick is quiet throughout my rant and I can’t even bring myself to look at him when I finish.

  “Whoa. You lost me at ‘is your mom skinny’,” he says, chuckling and letting go of my hand. He tugs on the end of one of my curls. “Look at me.”

  I do, and I try to remain calm despite the cluster of fucks running through my brain.

  He’s frowning as he searches my face. “I’ll call them now, but what the hell is up with the skinny question? Are you competing? And why would she think you’re trash just because of what you’re wearing? You look beautiful, Brooklyn. You always do. Don’t I tell you that every time I see you?” he asks, his voice soft and slightly concerned.

  I let out a breath, slumping into the seat behind me. “My mom’s a bitch,” I explain, hating that he cringes when I say those truthful words. “If I had to see her right now, all I would hear is how much fatter I’ve gotten since the last time she saw me and how I need to watch what I eat and that I need a new wardrobe and that ladies don’t wear flats. I dunno. Sorry,” I mutter, feeling like a moron, but Shea’s mom is similar to mine, as is Ryan’s, and those are the only mothers outside of my family I’ve ever dealt with. Mothers are scary as hell, especially when they know you’re interested in their son.

  Nick shakes his head, his face disgusted. “Your mom is obviously a nut job and may need her eyes checked.”

  I smile, but insist that he calls his family to give them a heads up, so he does. I watch him as he holds the phone to his ear, waiting for them to answer. When his face breaks out into a huge smile, lighting his eyes up, I can’t help but smile too. It must be nice to feel that sense of happiness when calling your parents. I’ve never felt that, but I don’t get all woe is me about it. I just always figured that’s how it was for most people. I think it is.

  Once in a while I come in contact with somebody that has a great relationship with their family. It always makes me feel happy and jealous at the same time when I hear them talk about their fabulous family lives. On one hand I feel like I can experience a different life through them, on another it makes me sad to realize that even though I have it all, I have nothing at all.

  “Hey, Mima,” Nick says into the phone, smiling his face off right before he goes off into an entire conversation in the most perfect Spanish ever. I think I lost count at the amount of times he’s made my jaw drop, but this was something I wasn’t expecting. I understand it, the conversation, even though my Spanish sucks. My mom is Cuban, but she never made it a point to speak to us in Spanish. Our nanny, on the other hand, was Mexican and only spoke to us in Spanish. When I was little I didn’t like it, but now I appreciate that she did because the only time my mother speaks Spanish is when she’s talking shit about Hendrix, my father or myself. Nick laughs, hanging up the phone and blows Mima a kiss. My mom used to call her mom Mima, so I wonder if they share the same name, my grandmother and whoever he’s speaking to.

  “What the fuck, Nick?” I say as soon as he hangs up, still looking at him completely stunned.

  He laughs loudly, his blue eyes twinkling. “What the fuck what, beautiful?”

  “How do you know Spanish?”

  He laughs harder. “Still predictable?”

  I roll my eyes and slap his shoulder. “Asshole.”

  He brings his arm around my shoulder and pulls me to his side, kissing the top of my head when I lean into him. “My family’s Cuban, I thought you knew that?”

  My mouth drops open. “How would I know that if you never told me?”

  He shrugs. “I don’t know, I thought maybe I did. I know your mom’s Cuban and your dad’s American. I thought we talked about it, the Cuban thing.”

  I shake my head. “No …” I say; my eyebrows knit together as I try to recall that conversation.

  “Oh,” he says suddenly. “It was your brother. Sorry, baby, I thought it was you.”

  Tingles fill my nerves at his endearment. I know it’s stupid, but I can’t help the way everything that comes out of his mouth makes me feel at this point.

  “Makes sense. Still, your Spanish is perfect,” I say.

  He shrugs. “Not perfect, but good enough that my grandmother doesn’t kick my ass over it.”

  That makes me smile. “So you were talking to your grandmother?” I ask.

  “Yeah, you’ll love her,” he says, smiling.

  “I’m sure I will,” I respond, my voice drifting off as I look back outside, feeling more excited to meet them than the original terror I had. I’m not worried about them not liking me anymore, I’m only worried about the way I’ll feel when I lose him and them, because I will. I always do. It’s like my mother says, I can’t keep the good ones around, which is probably why I always go for the bad ones. Until Nick.

  “How do you drive here? The waves of the streets would drive me crazy,” I say suddenly, unwilling to let myself get down on something that hasn’t even happened yet.

  “Used to it, I guess. Don’t you drive in the Hills?” he asks, referring to Beverly Hills.

  I nod. “Yeah, I guess you have a point. Still, this is worse. Our actual streets aren’t like this, only the hills.”

  “Well, we have over fifty hills. Most of our neighborhoods are named after them: Nob Hill, Potrero Hill, Russian Hill,” he states, counting them with his fingers.

  I laugh softly. “I’ll be sure to note that and save it in my box of Random Facts of San Francisco.”

  Nick brings my hand up to his mouth and nips the tips of my fingers. “You never know when they’ll come in handy,” he counters, raising an eyebrow.

  “I know. They may call me to do Who Wants to Be a Millionaire next week,” I say, shrugging.

  “Well, keep my number handy if they do, I’ll be your lifeline,” he says, smiling, though his eyes are serious.

  I stare at his profile for a moment and all I can think is that I’ve never wanted anything more. Then I snap out of it and tell myself I don’t need anybody to be my lifeline. But if I did, Nick would be my number one choice.

  “We’re here,” he announces as we make a turn onto Cliff Road, which I would laugh at if it weren’t for the fact that it terrifies me to know we’re on a cliff. One thing I noticed after being sober for the better part of seven years is that I’m a total chicken when I’m not high as a kite.

  Nick keeps driving, passing a couple of homes until he reaches the last one on the street; a stunning redwood home with windows and glass doors everywhere. It reminds me of the home my father is building in Calabasas right now. It has a modern feel to it, but the old cherry wood makes it feel cozy. The view of the San Francisco bay is stunning even from the front of the house. I can
only imagine the back view. Nick goes around the car quickly and opens my door, pulling me out and walking me to the front door. He pauses in front of the door and unlocks it.

  “Lucy, I’m home,” he bellows as we walk in, and I laugh even though I am completely mortified that this will be the introduction. I’m on edge mainly because I still don’t know what to expect, but then a very short and rather round older lady with completely white hair dressed in a flower nightgown and slippers walks over to us with open arms.

  “Nicky,” she says brightly with a heavy Hispanic accent.

  “Mima,” he greets, throwing his arms under hers and picking her up to hug as if she doesn’t weigh a ton. He whispers something in her ear that makes her laugh a throaty laugh as he sets her down.

  “You must be Brooklyn,” she says, walking over to me and wrapping her arms around me. I hug her back, instantly feeling a sense of calm wash over me. She smells like fried food and seasonings, which makes my stomach rumble.

  “Nice to meet you.” I let the words hang because I’m not sure whether or not to call her Mima too, since it’s a nickname.

  “Evelyn,” she says. “But you can call me Mima, Eve, whatever you feel comfortable with.”

  I smile gratefully at her. Her eyes are the same aqua ocean blue as Nick’s. Unlike Nick’s mischievous look, hers are welcoming and warm.

  “Nicky!” another woman’s voice sings out from another room in the house.

  “Ven,” Mima says in Spanish, so we follow behind her. “Your mom is in the kitchen. Isaac and Damien went kayaking. They should be back soon.”

  The kitchen is a vast open floor plan, much like the rest of the house. It looks clean and simple; everything is a blend of cherry wood and off white. The light that bathes the house comes from the floor to ceiling windows that surround it.

  “Hey, Mami,” Nick says, wrapping his arms around the woman that’s probably my height and has the same chocolate brown hair as me. Hers is completely curly, unlike mine that only curls on the ends. She has an hourglass figure that I can appreciate since it’s a lot like my own, and I almost have to laugh at the similarities, even though I haven’t seen her face yet. It makes me wonder for a second if the rumors that men marry their moms have any truth to them. Not that Nick wants to marry me, but still. God help me if he turns out to be anything like my father, because I will not be choosing him, that’s for sure.

  “Hey, baby,” she coos, turning in his hold to wrap her arms around his middle. My stomach sinks at the sight. Everything is so happy in this house that it’s borderline sickening. “Let me look at you,” she says to him, extending her hands out. Now I can see her face, she has fair skin and hazel eyes. She looks like a modern day Snow White with her delicate features. “Will you be home for a while?” she asks, still not acknowledging my presence, but I don’t care, I’m too busy watching their dynamic.

  “I dunno, Ma,” Nick says, turning around and extending his hand out to me. “This is Brooklyn, I called earlier to tell you I was bringing her over.”

  His mother’s eyebrows shoot up, eyes widening as she gasps and sees me. “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry! I’m being so rude, I didn’t know you brought company,” she says, walking over to me. She does a sweep of me with her eyes, it’s fast enough that it’s not rude, so unlike my mother, before she gives me a kiss on the cheek.

  “I’m Mirielle,” she says, introducing herself. “Brooklyn, that’s such a nice name. Different. And my God, your eyes are amazing,” she says, looking in them.

  I can’t keep the smile off my face. “Nice to meet you, Mirielle. That’s a pretty name too,” I say, my stomach in knots even though everything is going well so far. Still, this is Nick’s mom, whom he obviously has a great relationship with, and I’m in her house wearing the most casual clothes ever while she’s dressed in a 50s style polka dot dress and heels.

  Mirielle smiles at me; taking my face in again before she turns back to the stove. “Well, you better set an extra plate,” she tells Nick.

  “Yes ma’am,” Nick says at the same time that Mima says, “Already done.”

  Nick takes my hand in his and walks me to the back of the house, telling his mom and grandmother that we’re going to wait for his brothers out back. He told me once that he had two brothers, but we never discussed them.

  “So this is when you introduce me to your brothers and I have to choose which one I like more?” I ask, recalling our conversation about them.

  Nick stops walking right when we reach the doors that are open to the backyard. His head snaps toward me and he raises an eyebrow. “Over my dead body,” he growls, pulling me close to him. “You’re not sharable. Don’t get any funny ideas. I’m not worried about Isaac, but I’ll have to keep my eyes on Damien.” His jaw clenches as he says this, as if he’s really not looking forward to my interaction with his brother. I laugh it off, shaking my head. How could he possibly think he has anything to worry about?

  Nick walks out, bringing me down the step with him and moves aside so I can take in the stunning view.

  “Wow, this is better than your place,” I whisper.

  He chuckles, wrapping his arms around me from behind and tucking his face into my neck. “Way better,” he agrees, taking a deep breath and nuzzling into me.

  I close my eyes, wanting to capture the moment and save it for any day that I’m feeling down on myself, so that I can remember that one time I was at Nick’s parents’ house and he held me like I was the only thing that mattered. The wind is in synch with the sun above, making it the perfect day to be out on a boat or have a picnic. And the view from here is so gorgeous that it makes me wonder how often they eat outside and enjoy it. I can see Alcatraz and the bottom of the Golden Gate Bridge from here. It gives me a completely different view than from the top of Nick’s condo.

  Nick’s arms leave me and he walks over to the dock, waving his hands at the red kayak that’s nearing.

  “Yo!” one of the guys yells. “Nicky’s here.”

  I don’t know why it makes me smile so wide when I hear everybody call him that, but it makes me picture him as a child, and for some reason it fills my heart with joy. We definitely had entirely different childhoods growing up.

  “Hurry up, losers,” Nick calls out. Both guys give him their middle fingers at the same time, making me laugh. They couldn’t have coordinated it better if they tried.

  “At least we didn’t get stranded out there and call someone to come get us on the boat,” one of them calls out, making the other laugh hysterically.

  “That was one time, you asshole! I was drunk!” Nick calls out in defense and I laugh along at the thought.

  Nick looks back at me, narrowing his eyes as his lips quirk up. “Oh, you think that’s funny?” he asks, stalking toward me and lifting me over his shoulders, making me shriek loudly.

  “Put me down!” I say, laughing as I hold onto his back. “You’re going to drop me!”

  Nick laughs, his chuckle reverberating through me as he slides me down the front of his body slowly. He holds on to my waist when we’re at eye level and looks at me seriously. “I would never, ever drop you, Brooklyn.”

  I’m completely aware of the fact that we’re in his parents’ backyard, and for all I know, everyone is watching us. As it is, his brothers can see us clearly as they pull up to the dock beside us. Nick is either oblivious or doesn’t give a crap because he presses his lips against mine, giving me a quick but thorough kiss and leaving me breathless as my feet land on the ground.

  “Nick, we’re at your mom’s house,” I whisper, feeling my face flush at the sound of clapping and hooting from his brothers.

  “If you don’t want me to kiss you, stop being so damn sexy all the time,” he responds with a shrug.

  I smile because what else can I do?

  Two tall guys, one a little shorter than the other, walk toward us. The slightly shorter one is thin and reminds me of my brother in a way. His straight hair is dark and falls to his shoulde
rs. He has a goofy kind of skip in his step that makes me feel immediately comfortable with him. His skin is golden and his eyes are the bluest of blues, much like Nick’s. They practically pop out of his face when he sees me up close. I wonder if he knows me as Chris Harmon’s daughter, the drug addict, or if he’s surprised I’m not what I’m assuming is Nick’s normal type, like Stephanie.

  The other guy, the taller one, is blond and built more like Nick. His skin is fair like their mother’s and his eyes are brown. He is completely checking me out, despite the fact that Nick is standing beside me holding my hand, and I assume he must be Damien. He looks like he could be the perfect Prince Charming, the way his smile spreads over his face, showcasing the dimples on each of his cheeks.

  “What’s up, D?” Nick says, giving him a hug first. “Damien, Brooklyn, Brooklyn, Damien.”

  We shake hands and Damien leans in to kiss my cheek, making me smile. “Nice to meet you, Damien.”

  “Likewise,” he says, turning to Nick. “Friend?”

  “Don’t even fucking think about it,” Nick warns.

  Damien laughs, throwing his head back. “Well, damn,” he says, walking into the house.

  The other guy, whom I’m guessing is Isaac, is standing in front of us just looking at me, which is a little unnerving, if I’m going to be honest. He’s just staring. He looks at Nick with a face that I can’t understand, and Nick shakes his head in response. I know they’re having a sibling conversation, the kind I can only have with Hendrix or Nina. The ones you can have with people that really know you without having to hear any words coming from your mouth.

  “I’m Isaac,” he says, standing closer to me.

  The funny thing about Isaac is that he’s not traditionally good looking, but he’s sort of my type. I almost have to laugh at Nick warning me off about Damien but not Isaac. As if it’s assumed that everyone will be more interested in the muscular, mischievous guy. Little does Nick know that he’s not my usual type; he’s the complete opposite of any guy I’ve ever been with. He’s the guy I stay away from the most, not because I don’t think they’re good looking, but because I either don’t think they’d ever be interested in me or they just turn out to be complete douchebags. I have a theory about guys that spend a ridiculous amount of time working on their muscles, and it doesn’t work in their favor. Nick has proved it wrong, though, but it could be because there’s a lot more to him than being fit.