“Hi Dad,” I say, slightly annoyed.
“Layla. What are you doing?”
My father’s voice booms over the tiny speakers of my phone, so loud I swear Nico can probably hear him over the din of the cafe. I try not to roll my eyes. It’s never just hello with him. It’s always making sure I’m doing the right thing.
“I’m good, Dad,” I say wearily. “Just at lunch.”
I stand up with my tray as I talk and carry my now-empty container of soup inside to throw it out. Nico follows, taking my tray from me to dispose of our trash while I stand at the long line of counter seating that runs along the deli window. I lean onto the counter and watch the people passing on their lunch break.
“Did you go to your doctor’s appointment this morning? Did he do another spleen exam?”
I nod, even though my father can’t see me. “Yes, Dad, I was appropriately poked and prodded, I promise.”
My dad had apparently thought that Jamie wasn’t wrong about the mono. Although the nurse practitioners at the student health center hadn’t seen any reason to give me a blood test, Dad told me I needed to have them check for strep throat and my spleen health. I’ve never said “spleen” so many times in my life.
“Layla, don’t be smart to me. I’m a doctor. You should be grateful you have one in the family.”
Now I do roll my eyes at Nico, who has come up behind me and rests his chin on my shoulder. He wraps his big arms around my waist and pulls me tightly against his solid frame while my dad continues to lecture. I suck in a breath at the feel of him and angle my neck willingly as he buries his face into it. It doesn’t matter to either of us that we’re standing in the middle of a crowded deli. In the afternoon. While I’m on the phone with my father.
Clearly I’m not the only one who’s hard up after just a few days.
“Layla, are you all right?” my dad asks as I squeak loudly when Nico nips at the edge of my ear. “What was that?”
“I’m fine, Dad, just out to lunch with…a friend. Ah!” I cry out when Nico’s fingers, which have been toying with the bottom of my blouse, give me a quick pinch at the waist.
“Layla?”
“Dad, sorry, I’m in the middle of a restaurant.” I try as hard as I can to keep an even tone while Nico continues his stealthy exploration of my midsection.
“Just a friend, huh?” he rumbles against my neck.
I try to elbow him in the gut, but he dodges it, yet somehow manages to hold me tighter as he nibbles my earlobe. Now I can definitely feel something hard pressing into my backside through the material of my pants. It’s getting hard to talk.
“Your mother wants to book your flight home for the summer,” my dad is saying. “So you need to call her and give her your finals schedule.”
“I need…oh…I’ll need time to clean out my dorm room too, um…”
I haven’t told my dad yet that I don’t want to come home this summer––that I have the idea of continuing at Fox and Lager, maybe picking up an extra job to pay my way. But this isn’t the time to have that conversation.
Nico’s hands rub small circles into the bare skin of my belly, teasing the skin just above my waistband. His tongue flickers softly at the delicate skin under my jaw, causing me to grip the countertop more firmly to keep my balance.
“Dad?” I say, interrupting my father’s diatribe about proper cleaning methods.
“Layla, I am talking to you. Are you listening?”
“Dad, I need to go,” I squeal as Nico sinks his teeth into the side of my neck. “I’m going to be late for work!”
“Layla, make sure you call your mother later, and—”
“Gotitdadloveyoubye!”
I spit the words out as fast as I can so I can twist quickly around to smack Nico in the shoulder. He catches my hand and pulls it up around his neck, crushing his lips to mine and sliding his tongue into my mouth before I can get any more words out. My indignation is gone as I sink into the kiss and twist my hands into the curls sticking out at the bottom of his cap.
“You need a haircut,” I mutter a little too forcefully against his lips.
“Just a friend?” he mumbles. His hands reach down to pinch my side again, causing me to jerk in his arms.
“Ah! Don’t!” I cry, giggling helplessly as he continues his onslaught of kisses and tickling. A few of the other patrons are blinking at us from their spots in line, but I don’t care. “I’m sorry! Uncle! Uncle! Ah, what do you wish I’d said?”
He stops, leaning down to settle his forehead on mine. “Are you ashamed to tell your dad about me, sweetie?”
Immediately, I lean back. “Oh my God, Nico, no! Not at all!”
It’s the last thing I want him to think. He doesn’t have to say it, but I know he thinks about the difference in our backgrounds. It’s in the way he looks around my dorm, at the computer on my desk and the loads of groceries my roommates buy each week. He knows I don’t come from exactly the same kind of money they do, but my family clearly has a lot more than his does. I wouldn’t be here if they didn’t.
“I’d love to tell my dad about you, but what should I say? We haven’t even talked about what we are. Do I tell him I’m with the guy I’m sleeping with?” I ask softly, reaching up to hold his face between my hands. “Trust me. My dad needs to be eased into things. I’d prefer if you stayed alive.”
Nico just stares at me for a long moment, his big eyes clouded with sadness. My heart sinks. Shit. But the questions still remain... Is he my boyfriend? Am I his girlfriend? He’s staying in New York for me, says he needs me. But we haven’t used formalized language to each other. Nothing’s “official.”
I’m two more seconds from yelling “I love you!” at the top of my lungs just to wipe that puppy dog look off his face when Nico steps out of my grasp and then takes one of my hands in his.
“Just tell them you’re with Nico,” he announces with a grin. Then he pulls me out the door, effectively ending our standoff.
~
The afternoon goes slowly, thankfully, so I have a lot of time to work on my homework. No matter what, I have to keep up with my studying. That’s what I’m here for, after all, and there is no way I’ll convince my dad to let me stay in New York for the summer if my grades aren’t top-shelf.
By the time six o’clock rolls around, the office is practically dead. Karen is in the back working on the firm’s tax documents with their accountant, but most of the attorneys have cleared out for the night, along with their assistants. Except for one.
I’m in the middle of taking notes on The Tempest when a loud voice with way too much swagger interrupts me.
“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Emily Dickinson.”
When I look up, I can’t help but smile when I find Alex leaning over the top of the desk, right at my shoulder.
“I take that to be a reference to the fact I’ve had to stay at home a bit recently?” I ask sweetly.
“That and the fact that you’re an English major. I could call you Emily Brontë if you like her better. I think she died of tuberculosis. Whatcha readin’ there, kid?”
He speaks in that sort of faux-folksy cadence, the way rich people do when they want to sound familiar to not-so-rich people. I’ve heard Alex do this with his clients, usually the young female ones, who are often starving artists or models he’s trying to “discover.” It only vaguely registers that he has me grouped in with them. It’s odd.
When I don’t answer right away, he crooks his head to read the title at the top of the page.
“Ah, The Bard!” Alex stands back up and grins. “The Tempest is one of my favorites. ‘We are the stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep.’ I actually played Ferdinand in college.”
He waggles his eyebrows at me in a way that makes me laugh. He’s so cheesy, but he’s the kind of guy who could probably charm the pants off a snake. It explains why he’s so successful.
“Oh?”
I set the book dow
n. Alex is kind of foppish, so I could imagine him, twenty or more years ago, as the romantic lead in a Shakespearean comedy. He leans back on the desk, taking my comment as an invitation to chat. Behind him, the elevator bell rings, and I don’t have to look around him to know that the sound of squeaky wheels on the tiled floor means the arrival of the real romantic lead in my life. Jeez, I guess Alex isn’t the only one who’s cheesy.
Alex ducks back, but turns immediately back to me when he sees that it’s only the FedEx man. Unlike the other people at the firm, he doesn’t greet Nico. He doesn’t even acknowledge his presence. I, on the other hand, have to fight not to follow the man around the room. And I’d like nothing more than for Alex to disappear.
“Hi, Nico,” I say as neutrally as I can, so as not to make Alex suspect anything untoward.
Nico nods at me with a brief, bright smile that quickly shutters as he looks at Alex, who has continued talking as if no one is there.
“Yeah, I did a stint with the Princeton Shakespeare Company,” he says as he doodles on a pink Post-It pad. “And I designed the logo for the show. See?”
He flips the pad around to show me a small, unremarkable insignia. I “ooh” and “ah” politely, but have to stifle a grin when Nico rolls his eyes and mouths the sounds to me from behind Alex’s shoulder. Ever oblivious, Alex turns the pad back around to admire his drawing.
“You would have made a great Miranda to my Ferdinand,” he says with a leer. “Young. Impressionable. Gorgeous. A perfect fit.”
A loud thump of a package landing on the floor briefly interrupts Alex’s flirting, but he pays it no mind.
“So, what’s your secret?” Alex says as he frankly looks me up and down. “Juice cleanse? One of my clients did some lemonade diet and lost fifteen pounds in two weeks. Best thing she’s done yet for her career.”
Another package slams on top of the first.
I glance uncomfortably at my thinner form, then back up at the older man. “Um, no secret. Just being sick.”
Alex pushes off the desk and snaps me with a finger gun, completely oblivious to the harsh glares of the dark-eyed courier behind him. “Well, you look hot, kid. Keep it up, and I might be helping you sign a modeling contract.” Alex flashes me a grin and cocks his head. “Maybe we should have a lunch meeting to talk about your future, huh? What do you say, next Tuesday around noon?”
“I need you to sign this, Layla.”
The clipboard is thrust almost violently between Alex and me, and it’s all I can do not to gasp at the thin-lipped, barely contained anger practically pulsing out of Nico’s handsome face. Turns out a jealous Nico is a hot Nico.
“Thanks,” I say with what I hope is a reassuring smile as I take the papers to sign. Surely he knows he has nothing to worry about. To Alex, I also smile, but for a different reason. “I can’t, unfortunately. I come here straight from classes.”
“Another time, then.” Alex walks backward toward his office. “Later, cutie,” he says before he disappears down the hall.
When I give Nico back his clipboard, I’m confronted by five feet, eleven inches of very unamused FedEx courier. I tip my head to the side and swallow back a laugh.
“Is he like that every day with you?” he asks between clenched teeth as he takes back the clipboard and sets it on top of his other packages.
I glance in the direction of Alex’s office, then back to my jealous deliveryman. “No. Just every now and then when he feels his midlife crisis setting in.”
The joke relaxes some of the tension in Nico’s jaw, but only just. I stand up and lean over the desk so I can touch his shoulder.
“Hey,” I say softly.
He looks down at my hand and then up at me. There is more in his expression than just jealousy. Fear, maybe. And some of the sadness I glimpsed after the conversation with my dad.
Before I can say anything more, he grasps my face between his big palms and lays a deep, fierce kiss that takes all the oxygen out of my lungs. Just as quickly, he breaks the kiss, still nose to nose.
“Next time you tell that motherfucker you got a man,” he says.
He gently bites my lips one more time before releasing me. I stumble backward into my chair, thankful it’s there since I’ve temporarily lost my ability to stand up.
Nico flashes me a quick grin before the elevator doors open behind him like magic. One of the interns comes in and races around the desk for the new packages, oblivious to the sexual tension in the room. Nico waits until he leaves, then steps backward into the elevator.
“I’m coming down tonight after work,” he says. “I need some quality time with my girlfriend.”
His still-dark expression doesn’t leave any room for argument. Wordlessly, I nod, but I thrill at the sound of the word “girlfriend.” He didn’t exactly give me a choice in the matter. But as the doors close over his broad smile, I also know I couldn’t care less.
~
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Layla
Two weeks later, I’ve just finished my last round of midterms, and Nico has set aside Saturday afternoon before his shift at AJ’s for us to celebrate. We haven’t been able to see each other much with the exception of a few stolen kisses at the office and an innocent lunch date here and there (once which turned into a very not-innocent rendezvous in the back of his delivery truck).
On Friday, I decide to make the most of my class-free morning and pick out something new to wear. I’m almost finished paying off my credit card bills, but I want to use a little something of this week’s paycheck to find something that fits. I still haven’t gained back the weight I lost after getting the flu. It’s weird, but I’ve just chalked it up to the stress of midterms and subsisting on bagels and cheap coffee. Really, you wouldn’t want to eat most of the time if that’s all you could afford either.
“Damn, Layla!” Vinny yelps as we walk up Third Avenue.
We’re going to one of the places that sells crop tops and tight pants on five-dollar racks. That’s all I can afford right now, and Vinny’s looking to spruce up his own look before going out with a new girl from his accounting class this weekend. I’ve told him I’ll help him look less like a scrawny nineteen-year-old and more like a proper player. Whatever that means.
“What?” I ask.
“Dude, you have, like, no ass anymore. What happened?”
“Um, you know what happened,” I say. “That’s what two weeks of barely eating will do for you.”
“I know, but jeez. That was over a month ago, and you look even skinnier. I never thought I’d see the day where you lost ‘dat ass’.”
Vinny knows he’s the only guy I’d ever let talk about my ass like that without an elbow to the ribs, but I wince anyway as I glance at my reflection in a shop window. He’s right—my butt and legs look more like an actual model’s these days: scrawny and too-long. Maybe I should take Alex up on his offer.
“You should love it,” I joke. “I look just like the girls you date.”
Vinny looks at me critically, like he’s checking me out for the first time. “Maaaaybe,” he says. “Maybe I’d make a play if I thought you’d stay this way.”
“You’re disgusting.”
He grins. “I can’t help I like girls who look like models!”
“You like girls who look like they’re twelve,” I retort.
Vinny shrugs, as if to admit his guilt freely. Then he slings a skinny arm over my shoulder and squeezes. “It doesn’t matter anyway,” he says. “You wouldn’t be you without your booty. Doesn’t your man miss it?”
I sigh. Nico has commented a few more times about needing to fatten me up. It’s always a joke, but I know he misses my curves. I’ve had to borrow a pair of Jamie’s jeans since most of mine slide off my hips at the moment. Even though we’re now the same size, they still don’t look right since Jamie is about three inches taller than I am.
“Besides,” Vinny adds, “I’m pretty sure your boyfriend would kick my ass if I made a play for h
is girl anyway.”
I grin. I’m still getting used to thinking of myself as “Nico’s girl.” And Vinny’s not totally wrong. I stick my tongue out at my reflection and urge Vinny to keep moving. “Well, that’s why we’re going shopping, right? So I don’t look like such a paperclip in my clothes. Come on, let’s help me get my ass back.”
~
In the store, I almost immediately find the kind of dress I’m looking for. It’s a bright blue, floral tea dress covered with polka dots that will hopefully flatter what’s left of my hourglass shape down to my knees, covering up the expanse of pasty white skin that only comes from being inside too much. Tea skirts aren’t usually my thing—that’s usually more my mother’s look—but in this case the swishy bell-shaped skirt might give me the illusion of a shapelier figure.
Unfortunately, things don’t go as planned. In the dressing room, I’m faced again with the shock of just how much weight I’ve actually lost.
“Shit,” I mutter after I put on the dress. The look…is not good. The bodice hangs like an empty sack from my torso, and the skirt falls limply over my nonexistent hips. I look like a deflated party balloon.
A brief knock signals the salesgirl, whose name I think is Mandy. I open it. The look on her face tells me she knows exactly why I’m not happy.
“Oh, honey,” she says. “That is not the dress for you.”
“You don’t say,” I reply dryly. I pick up the fabric that pooches out around my hips. “Got any suggestions? I’ve…lost some weight recently, so I’m not sure of my size anymore.”
“Well, that sure ain’t it,” she says as she checks the tag scratching at my back. “Size six? Ha. I’d say you’re at least a two, lucky girl. You’ll make a killing at the sample sales.”
“Yeah, I’m thrilled,” I say, and she laughs and shakes her head.
“All right, then, what are we looking for?”
“Something that makes me look like I’m not a stick figure,” I say, making her laugh again. “Something that will make my boyfriend think I’m sex on heels. He…likes a woman with some curves. Which I used to have, but can’t quite seem to gain back.”
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