by Ginger Scott
I lean to my other side and pull out a cord, connecting his phone to the back. It takes me a few seconds to navigate to his photos, and I flip through them quickly, seeing pictures of him and Sasha, him with his family, his uncles, a few of the guys I recognize from that night at the football game, before Nico joined The Tradition. I stop when I see one of me, from the side, sitting at my desk in humanities, flipping through pages of a notebook, my hair down and draped over my shoulder.
“I like your hair down,” he says. I glance at him, knowing I’m blushing, and he leans to the side, his arm pressing into mine just enough to tell me it’s okay, his smile bashful and showing me he’s embarrassed, too.
“So…photos, yeah,” I say, turning my attention back to the screen, blinking and scrolling back to the beginning of his photo gallery, pausing on ones of Alyssa and him. “You want me to just…”
“Reagan.”
I know he’s looking at me. I can feel him, and I’m so unsure what to do. My foot is wiggling side-to-side along the floor, and my knee is moving in the chair, the nerves traveling rapidly up my leg. Nico’s hand touches me, his finger sprawling over my knee with just enough pressure that I stop. I suck in air, and my lips tingle. I feel him turn to face me, his hand sliding from its hold on my knee until it lets go, his fingers finding my face next, the same light pressure urging me to turn my head. My eyes trail behind the movement, clinging to the view on the computer screen, my hand gripping the computer mouse until I give in and shift to his gaze.
His eyes soften the moment we meet, the gold and brown blurring under the heaviness of his dark lashes. His lips aren’t smiling, but the straight line is more reverent than anything else, and as his thumb sweeps across my cheek, I gasp, letting go of the breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.
“I like your eyes, too,” he says, and I become instantly aware of how heavy my eyelids are.
“And your freckles,” he says, running his fingertips down my cheek, to my chin. My face flushes from that attention next.
“And your…lips,” he says, brushing his knuckles slowly across my mouth, his eyes low and staring at my upper lip. My breath hitches against his touch. His eyes come back to mine, wrinkling at the sides with his smile.
“And your temper,” he says, his mouth pulled up on one side, the dimple there. “And your voice. And the way you argue. How you work so hard. How you look over your shoulder when you’re late. How you distract yourself with doodles when you’re early. The way you look at me…”
My eyes flash wider, and I take a sharp breath through my nose.
“Just don’t ever stop looking at me,” he says, scooting closer, his knees touching my leg, his hand bringing my face to his. Nico’s nose brushes against mine, and my eyes fall shut, my lips parting, almost reaching for him.
“Look at me like you expect more. Look at me like it isn’t going to be easy.” Nico breathes the words against my lips, pausing when his bottom lip connects with my top, the faintness of the touch so much better than any other real kiss I’ve had. “Make me earn it,” he says, pausing again to take my top lip between both of his. “I’ll earn it. I’ll never stop trying to earn it…to earn you.”
“Nico,” I whimper, my lips trembling against his. He presses his forehead to mine and brings his hands to my cheeks, his fingertips sliding into my hair, the wet strands sticking to my neck and shoulders, wrapping around his wrists like golden shackles.
“You push me, Reagan. You…” he chuckles. “Damn, do you push me. You push my buttons sometimes, and then…you show up to my house all clumsy, with your camera and this crazy film thing. I wanted to kiss you then.”
His lips pass over mine again, softly, and I open my mouth to feel him just as much, my tongue touching his lightly at first, his lips quickly capturing mine with more force as his fingers slide further into my hair. Nico begins to stand, his lips still on mine, my head tilted up as he moves over me until I stand to meet him. He kicks my chair to the side, never letting our lips part.
“I wasn’t going to kiss you, I swear, it’s just,” he chuckles against my mouth, towering over me, the front of his hair falling forward and tickling my face. “I did, and now…I can’t stop.”
My hands reach up to cup his face before sliding down his chest, my fingers clutching his gray T-shirt, and Nico begins to take steps forward, walking me back until I feel my legs hit the supply cabinet on the far wall. His hands slide down my sides, reaching around my thighs and lifting me so I’m sitting on the counter as he steps between my knees, his mouth even harder on mine now.
He pauses for breath, his chest rising and falling fast while he sweeps his lips over mine, as if he’s afraid to leave them untouched.
“I wanted you to kiss me,” I say, my eyes closed until Nico’s fingers find my chin, tilting it up so I can open and look him in the eyes.
“Yeah?” he asks, the gold flecks so bright, his smile so perfect.
“I had a dream you did,” I admit, letting my head fall forward into his chest. His arms wrap around my head, and his lips kiss the top. “Oh my God, I’m so embarrassed.”
“Don’t be,” he whispers into my ear. “I dreamt about you, too.”
“You did?” I ask, my voice echoing against his body.
“No, not really. I was just trying to make you feel better,” he says, the rumble of his laughter vibrating where my face hits his chest.
“Oh my God,” I say, squeezing my eyes shut.
Nico steps back and lifts my chin again, his fingers sliding strands of wet hair from my face. I blink open to see him looking at me carefully, studying each hair and putting it back in its place until his eyes come to rest on mine. His mouth tugs up, the familiar curve in his cheek that I love there. I breathe deeply through my nose, and he leans forward to kiss the tip of it.
“I like the way you blush, too,” he says.
“I do that a lot,” I say.
“Yeah…but still…” He smiles. “I like it all the same.”
Nico leans forward again, and I let my head fall back completely, looking up at him, so warm against his chest, my mouth smiling against his as we fall into one more long and tender kiss. Minutes pass as his mouth works over mine, closing over every inch of my top lip first, then my bottom, tasting me in long strokes of his tongue, his hands never leaving from their home on either side of my face.
Home.
Nico is so much like home; like no home I have ever known.
When he steps away the final time, his hand runs down my arm until our fingertips link, and he gently tugs me to my feet and back toward the chair in front of the computer. He pauses to kiss me lightly one more time before I sit, when I finally do, he leaves his hand on my knee, his thumb drawing gentle circles that send shivers throughout my body and leave me constantly on edge and quite out of focus.
I flip through photos with him, dropping ones he likes into a folder on the desktop before moving back to the video and running through his favorite parts. Nico points to the screen sometimes, and his hand covers mine, stopping me when I click, teasing me. His comfort in touching my body makes my heart race every single time.
Every. Single. Time.
When I look at the clock, I realize that the sun has long since risen in the sky. More than that, it’s noon. We’ve managed to string together dozens of his favorite shots, and Nico has actually learned things…things that I taught him. I added effects and suggested spots to trim his video, to splice sections together, to let Alyssa’s words run in the background.
We watch the end result, and he pulls my hand into both of his, his fingers kneading mine, feeling each individually, almost as if he’s constantly testing to make sure I’m real. His touch both keeps me grounded and sends me floating, like a push and pull, the rhythm in sync with my heart’s. I force myself to pay attention to the screen, letting the sound of Alyssa’s laughter fill my ears, my chest, my heart—she fills everything.
“Where’s your brother, Nico?”
I let the question linger, and I’m patient for his answer. I’m almost ashamed of what I expect. Even more when he finally speaks.
“Afghanistan,” he says.
I let his fingers play over mine, and we sit quietly taking in his niece’s sweet face in front of us.
“He left, three years ago. He…” Nico swallows, and I squeeze his hand in mine, looking down at how our fingers fit, wishing there was a way I could feel his touch more. I want to—I want to make every touch feel like more, so I can hold onto it when I’m alone.
“Vincent got mixed up with the fifty-seven,” he says, and I nod slowly, not really sure what that means. “They’re like…a pretty bad gang. There used to be a few drug houses in West End, but the cops busted them, moved them out. It doesn’t mean that the gang goes away. It just means…it means they move, the same problems, slightly different address.”
“Your brother…he…sold drugs?” I ask.
Nico shrugs and shifts his weight, his focus more intent on my hand in his.
“Not totally, but he was…he was around for a lot of things when they went down. He was the low man on the totem pole, I guess you could say?”
I nod.
“Then…Alyssa came along,” he says, and I glance up to see his crooked smile, his eyes moving to the screen then to me. “Her mom bailed when she was days old. She was pretty hooked on some bad shit.”
I breathe in deeply, not wanting to show how unnerved his words are making me.
“That guy…that day at your house,” I say, and Nico grimaces, looking down again.
“He comes around sometimes. He’s smalltime, selling at playgrounds and shit like that,” Nico says, laughing through a serious face. “He’s actually the narc who got the houses in our hood busted. He needed to save his own ass. He’s been dealing in West End since I was a kid, though. Fucking asshole used to chase me home from school.”
“Oh my God!” I say, unable to hide the wince that paints my face.
Nico raises a shoulder.
“It’s not really that bad,” he says, looking up at me through his flickering eyelids. “It’s a flawed system, sort of. Like…like the Axis and the Allies, World War Two. Only, instead of countries, it’s groups of punk-ass losers looking to make a quick buck. These guys hook up with the ones on the next street so they have someone to watch their backs, then the ones they bully make friends to watch their backs, and then you mix drugs in, and money and territory, and then all of a sudden you have a war.”
“War, huh?” I ask.
“Feels like it sometimes,” he says, shaking his head and smirking.
I reach up and touch the lock of hair falling into his eyes, giggling when he goes cross-eyed watching me. “Only you would make such a nerdy analogy for gangland warfare,” I say.
“I’m pretty sure we decided that you, Miss Prescott,” he says, touching my nose, “are by far the bigger nerd.”
I narrow my gaze on him and pout, which makes him laugh.
“So why is your brother in the Middle East?” I ask.
“Marines,” Nico says, confirming what I thought. “He got his act together, and talked to a recruiter. Probably lied a little about drugs and shit to get through the process, and his past didn’t really do him many favors. But he wanted to do something big with his life, step up and be the dad she deserves.”
I watch him look at Alyssa’s image again as he leans forward and clicks to save the file we made.
“He sounds like a pretty great brother,” I say.
Nico’s mouth forms a tight smile.
“I’ve always thought my brother was the greatest man in the world, even when he probably didn’t deserve me thinking so,” he says.
“We do that for our brothers,” I say, thinking of my own, how lost he is and how my heart aches for the time when he was just my bratty twin who I secretly adored.
“Yeah, we do,” Nico says, slipping his hand loose from mine, and scooting closer to the computer to email the final video file to himself. “That’s why I missed school Friday. He gets video calls every now and then, and one came Friday. We have to go to the community center to log into their computers, and sometimes the Internet is too damn slow. We got to talk to him Friday, though. He looked so much older.”
“How old is he?” I ask.
“Twenty-five,” he says, chewing at the inside of his mouth while his lips slide into a proud grin. “He said he missed Alyssa, seeing her face. He looked so goddamned sad, and I just thought—”
Nico reaches up with his arm, sliding it along his right eye, wiping away the tear I see forming.
“I think he’ll love the video,” I say. “If you want, I can send it to him. We both can. Maybe you can come over one night, after practice.”
Nico looks up at me from the side, his mouth quirking up in a faint smile.
“Yeah?” he says.
“Yeah,” I repeat.
I lean in, my lips twitching with the need to feel his again, but just before I reach him, the door slides open, and we both twist in our seats to see my father standing in the doorway along with Jimmy O’Donahue. I let go of Nico’s hand quickly, and stumble to a stand so I’m facing him.
“Dad, hey,” I say, my body beat-red with guilt, my palms sweating and my heart thumping wildly while my dad’s eyes shift from Nico to me.
“I saw your car. I’m getting pizza,” he says, nothing about his tone warm or fuzzy or happy in the least. “Nico,” he says, his name coming out clipped, smothered in a hint of a threat, perhaps.
“Coach,” Nico says, standing next to me. I scoot to the right, giving us distance, and I feel Nico glance to me.
I swing my arm against my side, my mind spinning, unsure what to do, what to say—what to confess to. My eyes are wide, and the Western standoff we’ve all found ourselves in only grows more uncomfortable when Jimmy O’Donahue clears his throat, drawing my dad’s attention to him, his face looking to the ground, to his feet, away from me and Nico.
“Got it,” Nico says through a soft and unhappy chuckle.
My lips quiver, and I want to apologize immediately, but I don’t. Nico holds up his phone and leans in.
“Thanks for the video lesson, Reagan. That sure was…swell of you,” he says, speaking slowly and pointed.
“You’re welcome,” I say, glancing to meet his gaze for a breath, his eyes hazed with disappointment. I widen mine with a plea—I just need time. He nods slowly.
“Yeah, I sure am,” he says, bending down to grab his backpack, slinging it over his shoulder and moving toward his coaches—my father—and reaching out to shake their hands.
My dad holds the door open, his eyes on nothing in particular, but most definitely not on me. I gather my things and log off the computer, only looking him in the eyes a second at a time while I pass through the door.
“I’d love pizza,” I say, knowing in my gut that sitting in a booth with my dad and the guy trying to steal his job is the last place on earth I want to be. I want to be with Nico, but I fucked that up, too.
“We should pick up Noah,” I say, if only to take the heat and attention off me.
“Good idea. I’ll call him,” my dad says, quick to agree.
We both need the ally.
15
“Fairy tales…”
Mr. Huffman writes the word on the board, the chalk breaking with the force with which he scribbles the final letters. He tosses the half still in his fingers onto the metal lip below the board, clapping his hands together and turning to face our class.
The irony of today’s class discussion is not lost on me. I doubt it’s lost on Nico, either. We read a selection of the original Grimm tales in preparation for today, and Mr. Huffman challenged us to consider how they evolved into the now-famous versions with happier endings. The Grimm tales, as they were intended, are bleak and without promise. They are reflections of the time—stories of hunger, desperation…war.
Nico and I may very well be a Grimm
fairy tale.
After another night without sleep, and a Sunday of exchanging snide comments with my brother while we both moped around the house, I finally sucked it up and sent Nico a text.
I’m sorry.
I typed paragraphs upon paragraphs, more words in a text form than I think I have typed to Izzy ever, and then I deleted them. I spent an hour crafting the perfect thing to say—building the perfect excuse. I spent an hour typing out lies.
My dad is strict.
I’m afraid he won’t want me dating one of his players.
I was worried he saw me kissing you, and I got embarrassed.
Some of those things were slightly true, but mostly…not.
I deleted them all, and when it came down to it, I was just sorry. Sorry that I was afraid of showing my dad how much I like a boy from West End—a boy whose neighborhood my parents don’t want me to go to; a boy whose last name is different from ours. And then I felt ashamed, because when I showed up at Nico’s house, unannounced, his mom welcomed me inside. She kissed my cheek and hugged me. She didn’t see a girl who was different from her son, and if she did, she didn’t care enough to show it.
I came to school early, hoping Nico would be sitting in his favorite spot in the library, but he wasn’t. I looked for him at lunch, but he was nowhere to be found. I’d seen him pass by through the halls, dozens of moving bodies between us and his thoughts and eyes always somewhere else. I knew he was here. I knew I’d see him. But now that I’m sitting here in this seat, staring at the boy a few rows over and a few chairs ahead, his hands gripping his desk at the top while his long legs fold underneath, I fear I’ve fallen back in time—to a place where Nico Medina hates me.
“You all did your reading, I assume?”
Mr. Huffman’s question brings our eyes to the front. He tilts his head, feeling us out, then nods.
“Good,” he says, moving to his desk at the front, folding his arms over his chest and leaning his weight back. “So what did you think? How do Grimm’s tales compare?”
“They don’t,” Nico says, taking the lead right out of the gate.