Bad Idea

by Nicole French

  I’m also getting impatient. Valentine’s Day is in a week, and I’ve made absolutely no inroads with my cute FedEx guy. If anything, my inability to speak is getting worse. He comes in, full of swagger that no delivery guy has any right to have. Winks at me, and my knees go weak. Chats it up with Karen or one of the other assistants, but overall hasn’t made any direct conversation with me other than a brief “Hey, NYU” or “How’s it going?”

  Not exactly the stuff of romance novels.

  “Well, hello there. You must be the new girl.”

  I turn from sending a fax to find another employee I haven’t yet met leaning over my desk. His lavender striped tie hangs over the rounded wood edge, perilously close to my open cup of coffee.

  The man smiles, the kind of cocky smile that tells me he’s used to being adored.

  “Now that’s a nice face to see when you walk in the door,” he says with a wink.

  I give him a stiff smile back. “Better watch your tie.”

  The man stands up to shake my hand as I introduce myself.

  “I’m Layla, sir.”

  “Oh, don’t sir me, Layla, please. We’re too friendly around here for that. You can call me Alex.”

  April told me about Alexander Farrell, Esquire, last week. He isn’t a part of the firm, just a tenant who rents out office space with two other lawyers. Clean-shaven and dressed in a tailored, pinstriped suit, Alex is probably somewhere in his mid-to-late forties, but still looks good for his age, I have to admit. He has a full head of boyishly floppy hair, salt-and-peppered brown, that is cut and styled to look casually mussed. He’s also clearly fit, with muscles that stretch against the fabric of his shirt.

  “Lovely to meet you, Layla.”

  He smiles again, revealing an impeccable set of white teeth that have to be capped. They look like my mom’s. His skin is also a little too tan for someone who works in an office for twelve hours a day, and his brown eyes twinkle as he leans on the desktop, as if gearing up for a good gab. My literature professor would call him a dandy.

  “So, what’s your story? Why are you here? Who is Layla? Tell me everything, now.”

  This time I can’t help but smile back. He’s kind of ridiculous, but this Alex guy has that kind of affable demeanor that draws people in. I bet it wins him a lot of clients.

  “Well,” I say slowly. “I’m a student at NYU. I moved here from Washington last year.”

  “Washington? No kidding. Where are your parents from? That skin and that hair––I’m guessing...Persian? Italian? Except the blue eyes...Irish?”

  When I shake my head, Alex purses his lips like he’s deep in thought.

  “I give up,” he says with a grin. “Come on, what are you? Tell old Alex.”

  There’s that question everyone always asks here. And what do I say? Half-Brazilian? It’s not a part of me I’ve ever been taught to know. White? English? Washingtonian?

  I just give another polite smile. “My mother is originally from California, and my dad is from Brazil.”

  “Brazil! That’s it!” Alex slaps the top of the desk in triumph. “I knew there was...something...about you. Something special.” But before I can even have time to feel awkward about the infatuation with my ethnicity, he’s on to the next question. “What about school? What are you studying there?”

  So much for avoiding the awkward.

  I clear my throat. “I’m planning to go to law school eventually, I guess.” My dad’s stern face pops into my head. Oh yeah, it’s definitely going to be law school. “I thought this would be a good place to start learning about it.”

  “Do you like it so far?”

  “This is only my first week, but everyone seems nice.”

  “Well, I sure hope so, my darling.” Alex stands up and straightens his tie and shirt cuffs. “They treat you bad, just tell ‘em to see old Alex. We’re lucky to have such a beautiful addition to the office, so they’d better be grateful.”

  He winks at me when the phone starts ringing and the elevator doors chime open. I’m not completely sure of what to make of his flirty comments. It didn’t feel like anything was wrong, and he’s such a nice guy, I don’t want to jump to any conclusions. But the phone provides a welcome escape from his prodding questions. Alex is clearly going to be someone I have to be careful with in the future.

  ~

  Nico

  Six o’clock is quickly becoming my favorite time of day. I know what she’s doing. Last week she was wearing shapeless office clothes, the kind she probably borrowed from a friend until she got a new paycheck. This week she’s been dolled up, hair down around her shoulders, something that should be illegal on her lips, and pants and skirts that basically force me to stand behind the stack of packages every day to keep from embarrassing myself.

  Because it just doesn’t care. My cock doesn’t care that this girl is obviously too young for me. It doesn’t care that she has the entire world there for the taking, and I’d only hold her back. All it cares about is the way her ass looks every time she bends over the desk to grab something, or the way her eyes gleam when she sees me.

  Fuckin’ traitor.

  We haven’t been able to talk, so all I can do is smile at her, like some kind of clown. She seems to like it, but I feel like an idiot. But what can I say? The girl makes me grin. On Wednesday, I managed to make her laugh out loud when she was on the phone, and I practically combusted. Now it’s a daily goal, even when Karen is looking in on us or decides she needs to come out to join the fun. All of a sudden, I’m putting on a comedy act for the entire fucking floor. Because seriously, I could listen to that laugh for the rest of my life.

  See? Dangerous.

  On Friday, the office is practically deserted when I arrive at almost six-thirty. I’m tired. It’s been a long week, and an even longer fuckin’ day. I had to help Flaco with some of his packages after staying up with Alejandra all night while my sister studied for an all-nighter. Maggie really has to get some better study habits.

  But it’s not just that. It’s Allie’s jackass dad who’s being a shithead again, which means that Maggie is crashing with me right now. It’s that Gabe spent all the food stamp money on cereal when Ma sent him shopping, so I had to chip in an extra hundred to their grocery bill on top of paying my own rent this week. It’s the truck getting a flat tire on Forty-Third today and having half the FDNY yell at me and Flaco for getting in their way. Nothing like being screamed at in the middle of Park Avenue by New York’s Bravest.

  Fuck.

  So I’m not feeling like such a comedian today. And I sure as fuck want to kick that asshat attorney in the face when I see him hanging over Layla’s desk. I know that dude. I’ve watched him hit on April and every other chick in this building countless times. The guy doesn’t wear a ring, but I happen to know he’s married. You know how? Because his wife has shit delivered to his office almost every day.

  “Remember what I told you,” says Dickhead when I roll into the lobby. “You tell them to see me.”

  See you about what, asshole?

  He stands up, actually points his fingers at Layla like guns, and makes clicking sounds at her. She gives him a little smile, and I want to punch him in his stupid fake teeth. The guy has to be at least forty, if not more. He’s old enough to be her dad, and he’s looking at her like she’s something to eat.

  Fuck. This is not what I want to be doing right now. All I want is to finish this delivery and run up my tab at Traveler. Pretend this day never happened. And I definitely don’t want to watch the girl who’s been in my head for the past week smiling at the biggest douchebag in Manhattan.

  “I’ll let you know how it goes,” Layla says to Captain Asshat before he turns and walks past me like I’m a piece of furniture. Yeah, fuck you too, buddy.

  Still, when Layla turns to me, her blue eyes glow like stars in the middle of this bland, boring office. She grins. It’s not the tight, polite smile she was just giving that clown. It’s huge and lights up her whole
face. And the fuck if I don’t grin right back.

  It’s then I realize that for the first time, we’re alone. No Karen. No assistants. No Fuckface von Douchebag, Esquire. Just us.

  “Hey there, NYU,” I say as I pull everything up to her desk.

  She takes a drink of something from a paper cup and spills a little when I speak. I have to look away when a drop of water hangs on her bottom lip. Whoa. Would it be weird if I just kissed her? Yeah, it would be weird. But all of a sudden, that’s all I can think about doing after this shitty, shitty day. I get the feeling that kissing Layla would make everything else disappear because I wouldn’t be able to think of anything else but her. Hell, that’s basically where I’m at just being in the same room as her.

  She gives me a little scowl as she wipes water off her chin, but I can tell she’s glad I’m here. She knows it, and I know it. The excitement is written all over both our faces.

  “Look what you made me do,” she says in a tone that’s more teasing than mad. “A menace, that’s what you are.”

  “Aw, I’m sorry, sweetie. You need some help?”

  I don’t even wait for her to say yes. I just want to be near her, that’s all. Nothing inappropriate. Nothing “improper.” Today, I just need to be next to this girl who lights up whenever she sees me.

  So I drop the dolly and walk around the desk so I’m squatting next to her. I grab another napkin off the desktop, and she stares, mouth slightly open, as I dab at the water drops on her collarbone.

  And what a total sham. Nothing improper? This is the definition of improper. But I can’t stop dabbing, can’t stop pressing the napkin over her dewy skin, wishing to God that it was my fingers or my mouth instead.

  The donut-shaped desk encircles us, forces us close together, and now that I’m near enough to smell her, I realize this was a really bad idea. She smells like coconuts and flowers, some exotic mix that goes straight to my head and other parts lower down.

  I’m not much for fancy shit. I shower at night after I’ve been out all day, and I slap on whatever deodorant I bought on sale last time I was at the Duane Reade. All of a sudden, I’m very, very conscious of the way Layla’s nipples have hardened through her thin black sweater, conscious of the way my pants are suddenly very tight. She inhales sharply, and I consider the fact that I have been heaving boxes around this city for the last eight hours.

  Fuck. She must think I absolutely reek.

  Quickly, I stand up and shuffle to the other side of the desk to start unloading and scanning packages. This day. This goddamn day. If I just ruined my chances with this girl, I’m going to kick my own ass.

  And that’s when I realize I actually want a chance with NYU. Layla. I want to go on a date with her. I want to take her out to dinner and hold her hand while we walk around the city. I want to know what kinds of sounds she makes when I kiss her, or maybe even when I do other things to her too. And I kind of want those things more than anything else I can think of.

  Fuck. The timing could not be worse. No. I can’t do this right now.

  “How old are you, NYU?” I blurt out before I can stop myself. It’s harsh, and a little sudden, but we might as well put it out there.

  “Twenty-one,” she answers automatically, a little too quickly.

  I just cock my eyebrow. I’ve been a doorman for too long not to know when people are lying about their age. “What’s your real age?”

  She sags a little in her chair, and her cheeks turn red. Fuck. It makes me want to lick them. “Nineteen.”

  Shit. I knew that’s what she would say, but for some reason, hearing it out loud makes the reality of our seven-year age gap hit home. Maybe even eight depending on her birthday. I’ll be twenty-seven in a few months. What am I going to do, bring a teenager home to meet my mother?

  For real: the thought of bringing anyone home to meet my mom scares the shit out of me.

  “What about you?” Layla asks. It’s the most she’s ever said to me out loud. She sits up a little straighter.

  I sigh. “Twenty-six.”

  I hate the way my age hits her too. The way she frowns for a second when she hears it, the way she knows it’s not good. She was probably hoping I’d say twenty-two, twenty-three. Too bad, baby. Even if I wanted to move forward with this thing, it’s clear now that I’d never be anything more to her than a good time––another dude to slum with before she goes back to her rich parents, wherever they live. Washington, did she say?

  “So, Nico,” Layla says, pulling me out of my hurricane of doubt. She’s straightened back up again, rebounded from the revelations. “Got big plans this weekend?”

  Can she see the fear I’m feeling right now? She’s hopeful, all big blue eyes as she leans over the desk. I exhale. No, I really can’t do this with her. So even though I’m dying to make her laugh again, I just shrug and set one of the packages down with a thump.

  “Not really,” I say. “Working at AJ’s, you know. Take it easy on Sunday, maybe go see some art or something.”

  “You like art? Really?”

  I look up, no longer needing to pretend I’m annoyed with her. These rich girls––all the fucking same. They only see the uniform, the scuffed shoes, the brown skin. They see me and think the only thing I’m good for is watching sports and drinking beer. Don’t get me wrong, I like sports and I like beer. But can’t I have other interests too?

  “I could like art,” I say casually as I scan another package. “Why does that surprise you? You think the FedEx means Philistine?”

  Her rosebud mouth drops open, and I can’t quite hide my smirk. That’s right, baby. I can use big words too.

  “No,” she insists, a little too emphatically. “I––no. No, no, no, that’s not what I meant. I’m so sorry, it’s just that my roommates and I were talking, and––oh my God, that made me sound like such an asshole, didn’t it? Shit!”

  Before I can help it, I’m chuckling. She’s flustered and red-faced, and grabbing at her hair, and it’s so fucking cute I can’t help but laugh while she babbles on––something about how she wondered to her roommates if I was an artist or some shit like that.

  I lean over the desk and touch her shoulder. “Hey.”

  There it is again––that lightning buzz. She stops talking immediately and blinks her big blue eyes at me.

  “It’s okay,” I say as I stand back up. “You’re not an asshole.”

  She swallows and starts chewing on her lower lip. “What kind of art do you like?”

  She’s biting her lip. Biting her fucking lip. I mean, I know I do the same thing when I’m nervous, but I’m pretty sure if I looked like that when I did it, I wouldn’t be able to walk down the street without being molested. I turn around and start unloading the boxes just so I don’t haul her over the desk and start biting that lip for her.

  Walk away, man. Just walk away.

  “Pretty much all art,” I say, lifting another box off the dolly and setting it onto the stack. “I draw a little in my spare time, but mostly I just like to see it. There’s a new exhibit at the Met opening up this weekend, so I might go to that. Y’know, if they’ll let in some uncouth spic like me to mix with the college girls like you.”

  She flushes again, and I’d feel bad if it wasn’t so damn cute.

  “I really didn’t mean it like that,” she says as she looks down at her hands. “I’m not...”

  She’s ashamed. I was just giving her shit––anyone who looks at her can see that rich or not, she’s not just some uptight white girl, but now I’m starting to see that Layla’s not really sure about that herself. And here I am throwing around racial slurs in a way I know will make her uncomfortable just because I’m in a shitty mood. I’m the asshole.

  “Hey, it’s cool, sweetie,” I say. “I’m just giving you a hard time. I can see you’re good people.”

  Her smile is instantaneous. It makes my chest swell up about five times its size, not to mention makes all the other shit from today seem to disappear. Fuck.
How am I supposed to say no to that?

  Suddenly, the answer is simple: don’t.

  Don’t say no to the pretty girl.

  Don’t say no to what every part of my body is telling me to do.

  Don’t say no at all.

  “Listen,” I say as I hand her the clipboard to sign for the packages. I shift between the balls of my feet. Fuck, I’m nervous. Why am I so nervous? “Music should be good this weekend, if you and your friends want to stop by AJ’s. I’ll put you on the list.”

  She cocks her head to the side with a sly grin––a grin I’m starting to recognize. It’s the look she gets when she’s trying to get me to flirt with her. She thinks she’s being coy, but what she doesn’t know is that her plain attraction is getting harder and harder to ignore. So I’m not going to anymore.

  “Even if I’m only nineteen?” she jokes.

  “Wait a second.” I shake my head in fake-confusion. “You said you’re twenty-one. I can’t let any minors into the club.”

  I’m rewarded with a giggle. A fuckin’ giggle. And I fuckin’ love it. “Right, right. Yeah, I’m twenty-one.”

  “That’s what I thought,” I say with a grin and watch happily as she bites her lip again. Yeah, she likes my smile. Well, that’s good, since I can’t stop doing it around her.

  “Great,” she says, and then focuses really hard on rearranging a set of pens in their small plastic cup. “I don’t know what we have going on this weekend, but I’ll see if my roommates are interested. Maybe we’ll see you there.”

  She’s playing casual, but I bet she’ll be there. Fuck, I hope she’ll be there. Time to go while I’m ahead.