The Hard Count

by Ginger Scott

  “Thanks,” I mouth to Nico, who steps closer to the driveway from the grass.

  He winks at me, then laughs.

  “You better run in and put dry clothes on before Nana gets home,” he says, patting his niece on the butt as she sprints by. His eyes watch her until she makes her way into the house, and the smile on his face is something I haven’t seen him wear before, except maybe at the pep rally, when he talked about the meaning of family.

  I watch his face glow with love until he turns his eyes to me and catches me. For the first time ever, I don’t look away, though. I’m not afraid of being caught.

  “What?” he says, after a few seconds pass. He speaks through a crooked smile, and the earnestness with which he does just about everything hits me hard.

  “I like watching you with your family. You’re like that with Sasha, too,” I say.

  “Oh, you’ve seen me spin Sasha around on my back through the sprinkler?” he jokes.

  “No,” I say, laughing and looking down at his wet shoes, socks, and soaking cotton shorts. The material clings to his thighs, and he shakes them loose with his fingers. “I…” My tongue stumbles as my eye follow his hands up the length of his arms as he pulls off his soaking wet T-shirt, wringing it out by twisting it in front of him. It’s not the water falling away from the shirt; it’s not the water at all. It’s how his stomach chisels, his abs curve individually and how his chest grows broader until I realize I’m staring and not talking at all.

  “I just mean that you seem like family with Sasha. That’s all,” I say, only glancing up enough to see his face looking at me sideways, one eye squinting, and his lip tugged up in a smile. I turn away the moment our eyes meet, and I wait at least three seconds before looking up again. I know, because I count in my head. His eyes are still waiting for me, his head cocked in the same position. His lip raises higher this time, and a small, breathy laugh escapes.

  My shoulders fall as I exhale and turn my head to match his, leaning to the side and putting one hand on my hip.

  “What?”

  His lips press together tightly, and curl slowly on the sides, until both cheeks are dimpled with his suppressed laugh. I’m amusing him, and I don’t know why. I hold my hands out to my sides and raise my shoulders and eyebrows, and finally his lips break their hold and his laughter escapes.

  He never answers me, instead looking to the wet shirt in his hands, which he slings up and down a few times, then lies flat on the hood of my car.

  “Uhm…”

  I point at it as he passes me, walking up his driveway toward the house.

  “Your engine is hot. It will dry faster there,” he says.

  I glance back at it over my shoulder, the wet cotton dripping down the front of my hood over my headlights. When I turn back, I run into Nico’s chest, not realizing I was as close to his porch as I was and that he had turned to wait for me. His hand wraps around my upper arm and my face touches his bare shoulder, my eyes closing while my skin heats up in instant blush.

  “Oh, sorry…I wasn’t looking,” I stumble.

  His hand still on my arm, he squeezes, an almost hug.

  “It’s okay,” he says. “Come on in.”

  Nico holds the screen door open, and I step inside, walking past him. He gestures toward the kitchen, where Alyssa is already sitting in a wooden chair at the head of a giant butcher-block table. The little girl is wearing an oversized T-shirt—clearly her uncle’s—and a pair of unicorn leggings. He rustles her hair as he walks by, stopping to scoop the length of it up and twist it into a temporary ponytail on her back.

  “Nana told me not to let you get too wet outside. You’re going to get me in so much trouble,” he laughs, bending forward and touching her nose with his. She scrunches her face and moves her nose back and forth against his.

  “You’re the one that made me get this wet!” she says, her voice loud and confident. I smile because she’s so much like her uncle.

  “Well played, Miss Medina,” Nico says, squeezing her cheeks in his hands and kissing the top of her head. His eyes move to me while he does, and he winks just before he turns to move toward the counter.

  “We have corn tortillas, some of Nana’s carnitas left and…nope. We’re out of cheese. You okay with cheeseless soft tacos?” Nico asks, his eyes shifting between me and his niece. I look to her for a response, and she grins with an open mouth and an overexaggerated nod.

  Nico leans into the counter and begins opening up a small plastic bag of tortillas.

  “I figured you would be okay with that. You don’t like cheese. But I was more asking for our guest,” he says, shifting his focus to me.

  “Oh, no…it’s…it’s okay, really. I’m not that hungry,” I say, not wanting to intrude on something that was probably supposed to be just for the two of them.

  “Stop it. I hear your stomach growling. And my mom’s carnitas is the shit,” he says, spinning on his feet and opening a cupboard behind him, pulling out three plates and quickly fashioning a soft taco on each.

  He slides a plate in front of me, then turns back to the counter to grab his and Alyssa’s, urging me to sit in the chair at the table. I smile and slink into the seat, tugging my plate closer while I whisper, “Thanks.”

  He and Alyssa both pull their food into the palms of their hands, taking large bites and smiling at each other with full mouths. I pick a small piece of the meat from mine and taste it, and the flavor is so powerfully delicious that my mouth waters at the first touch. I follow their lead, folding the tortilla tightly and biting into the end.

  “It’s really good,” I say.

  Nico nods. The three of us eat in silence, but he watches me through every bite, his mouth hovering in this sort of almost smile that keeps me off guard and makes me aware of every grind of my teeth, swallow of food, and shift of my fingers in holding my food. I try not to meet his gaze, but it’s almost magnetic in the way it calls to me, and every time my eyes meet his, I grow warmer.

  “What?” I ask finally, putting the last piece of tortilla down on my plate just long enough to pick up the small paper napkin he sat down with it to wipe aimlessly on my chin in fear that I’m wearing food.

  Nico lunges forward, grabbing my discarded bite and popping it in his mouth, and all I can do is look at him, stunned.

  “That’s what,” he says, chewing through a closed-mouth grin as he stands, picking up all of our plates and walking away from me backward.

  “Hey! I wasn’t done with that,” I protest, standing and following him toward the sink while his niece pushes in her chair and runs to the front room, flipping on a television.

  “Only a little bit of TV, then you need to do something else, okay?” Nico says loudly, leaning forward so she can see him around the corner. She nods, then settles into the softness of the sofa.

  “You limit her TV?”

  Nico’s brow pinches, and I realize my question might have sounded judgmental.

  “Sorry, I just meant…it’s nice. Or, it’s not something I’m used to…I don’t know. I’m just going to shut up now,” I stammer, my hands busying themselves with the grooves of the tiled countertop, my fingers tracing the squares one at a time.

  “All this time, and that’s what shuts you up? Gah! I could have won so many debates in class just by flummoxing you with the novel approach of limiting the amount of TV kids watch,” Nico teases. I look up at him with pursed lips, my eyes narrowed and my mouth twisted.

  “Kidding,” he chuckles.

  “Sorta,” he adds after a few seconds.

  I pick up a dish towel near me and throw it at his head. He catches it swiftly and throws it back, and we both freeze with our eyes on one another. I want to look away, but I force myself not to. The pep talk happening inside my head is comical, but it works, and I end up seeing his gaze through. He doesn’t break either, but his cheek dimples, and his lashes sweep in slow blinks—his expression that of a guy who’s become strangely comfortable looking at me.

/>   “I try not to let her be a couch potato is all. We have a lot of kids in the neighborhood, and when it’s light out, I like to try to encourage them to go out and play. The boys all want to play video games, but that’s okay because Alyssa doesn’t want to play with them anyways. She’s into dolls and hopscotch and…you know…girl stuff, I guess,” he says, leaning forward and pulling the towel across the counter, rubbing it in large circles and eventually draping it over the edge of the sink.

  “My dad didn’t really like us watching TV either,” I say. My words must intrigue him, because he pulls himself up to sit on the counter across from me, and his head shifts to the side.

  “Did he give you guys limits?” Nico asks.

  “Not…really. But if he got irritated with us, or just, like…thought we had watched enough for the day, he would walk by and unplug it,” I say. Nico laughs instantly at the image I conjure, and as I think back on the scenes from our childhood, I begin to laugh, too. “Yeah, I guess subtle was never really part of Chad Prescott’s tool kit.”

  “Doesn’t sound like it,” Nico chuckles, his laughter filling the space between us for a few seconds until it subsides, and once again we’re left with our eyes meeting, and my brain searching for words and courage to let him look at me like this for just a little while longer.

  “I…uh…I was wondering if I could interview you?” I finally interject, breaking the silence and killing the smile that was on Nico’s face for so long. His brow wrinkles. “For my film? That’s…that’s why I came.”

  It’s completely not why I came, but it’s the excuse I gave myself. It’s the lie I concocted while I sat in the school parking lot. It’s the ruse for getting to spend more time with him, for getting to ask him questions and learn more of his story.

  Nico pushes free from the counter, and I move to the archway between the kitchen and living room, hoping he’ll follow. His hand cupped behind his neck, he stretches to look out the open screen door before his eyes come back to me.

  “Yeah, I guess so,” he says. “Where do you want to do it? Maybe…front porch?”

  “That’s great,” I smile, hating that we’re moving back outside, closer to my car—closer to me leaving. I do need to get my things, though. “I’ll get my stuff, and set up. Do you…want to get different clothes on?”

  My eyes have been working hard not to ogle, and now that he’s standing again, that task is proving to be more impossible. As if he can read my mind, Nico reaches up so his fingertips touch the top of the archway, stretching enough to flex the line of muscles that fall down his sides, into his shorts and…oh God.

  “Yeah, I’ll meet you out there,” he says as I turn away and move toward the screen door.

  I mumble out a “sounds good,” and pass between his niece and her view of the television on my way out the door, marching quickly to my car and unlocking it to pull open the passenger door. I grab my shirt and tie it around my waist, then slide the large camera bag over my shoulder so I can carry the tripod in my hands.

  It takes me only a few minutes to set up a good shot on Nico’s porch. By the time I have the shot framed on the plastic chair—I’ve positioned just in front of a vine growing up a section of lattice—Nico steps through the door wearing a pair of faded jeans and a black T-shirt with a gray X painted over the center, only slightly to the left.

  Nico sinks into the seat, but straightens his posture quickly. I adjust the height of my camera, and look at his face through the lens, giving myself the gift of a few extra seconds to study his features. His teeth are almost perfectly straight, and I wonder if he’s ever had braces? His jaw is strong, and his eyes have the ability to reflect whatever color is around them—right now his brown mixing with the green grass in front of us and the bright blue of the sky. It’s so much easier to see him through the lens.

  It’s so much easier to let myself.

  I don’t take advantage too much, though, not wanting him to grow impatient, and when I have him framed just right, I press the record button and sit back on my heels.

  “I have an extra chair, if you need it,” he says.

  I hold up my hand in protest.

  “I’m good. I’ll just sit on the ground. I like sitting this way, really,” I say, falling back to sit comfortably and pulling my legs in tight.

  I reach up to tilt the viewer on my camera so I can see, but stop on Nico’s face. He smirks. Dimple deep and eyes shadowed by his dark lashes, he’s the devastating kind of handsome.

  “I like your shirt,” I gesture, not wanting to linger on the fact that, once again, he was looking at me. “Does it mean something?”

  Nico glances down, then holds his hand over the gray X, his palm resting flat, covering it whole.

  “X marks the spot,” he says with a slight chuckle. My lip tugs up, smiling on one side of my mouth. “My brother gave it to me. I was too little to wear it at the time, but now that I’ve grown into it…”

  His eyes twinkle when he looks back up at me. I’ve often thought the twinkle was something made up, a thing that only happened in cartoons and fairytales, but I was wrong, because Nico’s eyes dance, and they twinkle. I bet they do a lot of things.

  “You and your brother…” I start, pausing to think through my words, not wanting to hit on something that’s a sore spot. Or at least not without entering into it delicately. “Are you…close with your brother?”

  Nico’s smile stays in place for a few seconds, but slips into less of one as he leans back and folds his hands behind his neck.

  “Vincent…is…” He stops, his eyes lost to the sky behind me as his head shakes slightly and his lips pull in tight. When his gaze lands on me again, I sit up higher, lifting myself to a large garden stone so it doesn’t look like Nico’s staring down during the whole video.

  “Vincent has made a lot of mistakes,” Nico says, finally, and as much as he’s content to leave things there, my curiosity kicks swiftly.

  “What kind of mistakes?” I ask, my brow pulling in. I wrap my arms around my knees and force myself to listen quietly, my ears also testing to make sure the TV is still on behind the now-closed front door of his home.

  Nico looks up again, his teeth holding on to the tip of his tongue, his eyes just over my shoulder. His mouth opens with a breath, but his chest falls soon after, and he sucks in his top lip, looking back to me. His eyes close and he shakes his head just enough to signal that this line—it’s off limits.

  “Okay,” I say, the breeze picking up and blowing strands of my hair over my face. I left it down again today. I haven’t put it up again since Nico said he liked it this way.

  I glance at the screen for my camera, our eyes meeting this way—in black and white. Nico blinks slowly, eventually shifting his weight and looping one arm over the side of the chair, sitting with one of his legs pulled in. I notice he’s still only wearing socks, and the sweetness of it makes me smile. He’s at home here.

  With me.

  “How about we talk about football?” I ask.

  “That sounds good,” he grins.

  “Who taught you how to play? I can tell…you…what you do, rather. It isn’t just street ball,” I say. “Where did you hone your skills?”

  Nico leans forward, rubbing his hands together with a smile.

  “My uncles,” he says, through a chuckle. “My dad…he was never really around. I don’t even remember him, really. But my mom’s brothers more than made up for it. They had a ball in my hands from the time I was a tiny kid. We had a team in West End, like…Pop Warner or whatever. We held carwashes for uniforms and all of that. I played until I was ten or eleven, and then my Uncle Joe had a heart attack. I kind of lost interest after that. So did Uncle Danny. I played for fun…ya know…with Sasha and the boys? But…I was done with the real thing.”

  “Until now…” I say, my smile pulling up on one side.

  Nico’s expression mirrors mine, and he settles back into his chair again.

  “Well, there’s this girl�
��” he starts, and my heart doubles its rhythm. “She can be kind of…persuasive.”

  “Ha!” My laugh comes out automatically. “I wish I could persuade you. Nico Medina, arguing with you has been the bane of my high school existence.”

  His smirk lingers, and his eyes close in on me.

  “You love arguing with me…and you know it,” he says, his tongue pushing out the side of his mouth, just below his lower lip. I bite the inside of my cheek and stare him down, eventually shaking my head with a sigh.

  “So your Uncle…Danny?” I glance back up to confirm I have his name right. Nico lets me loose from his stare and nods, looking down at his hands again, pressing his fingertips against one another and flexing. “Did he come to your game?”

  Nico’s smile grows fast.

  “He’s coming Friday. He lives up near Metahill, up north. My mom’s going to pick him up and bring him,” he says, his cheeks colored with a hint of pink. I think he might be nervous about having his uncle watch him.

  “He’s going to be so impressed,” I say, and Nico shrugs my compliment off, twisting uncomfortably in his seat. I’m starting to learn that as comfortable and confident as he is with his academic talent, he’s exactly the opposite with athletics. Maybe it’s just because he’s out of practice. I know it’s not because he’s lacking on the field. As smart as he is in the classroom, he’s twice as smart out there.

  Nico leans forward, and all my camera is capturing is the top of his head. I can tell he’s starting to feel less comfortable in the hot seat, so I stand and turn the camera off.

  “I’d like to meet him,” I say, unsnapping the camera from the tripod and folding up my equipment. Nico glances up at me with one eyebrow raised and a half smile that I’m starting to fall for…a lot.

  “I’d like you to meet him, too,” he says.

  Our eyes lock again in that space we’ve grown used to. I wonder if it makes Nico feel the same? I wonder if he’s wishing I’d look away, or if he’s hoping I don’t. I swallow from the intensity, and he blinks a few times, his focus falling to the camera and equipment in my hands.