Bad Idea

by Nicole French

  I slide my arms up his shoulders and clasp them around his neck.

  “Kiss me,” I ask. “Please.”

  So he does, with the same long, languorous licks that just tore me apart only minutes before, the pace of his hips matching every delicious movement he makes with his tongue. This isn’t sex––it’s making love, the culmination of the entire, bittersweet afternoon. I can’t imagine a better way to say goodbye to him, even though at the same time, it’s going to make it that much harder when I actually have to do it. It’s for the best that we waited until now to do it like this. If sex had been like this for the entire three months, there’s no way I could have said goodbye. There’s no way I could have ever let him go.

  “Layla,” he says after he sucks on my bottom lip hard enough to bite a little. He’s starting to lose that careful control. “Baby––I––I’ll––”

  I cup his face between my hands and kiss him again, shuttering the words that are failing. He thrusts again, then again, but his forehead wrinkles. He’s stuck on something––something that’s keeping him from letting go.

  “I––” he starts again, but stumbles once more.

  I trace my thumbs over his sharp cheekbones, trying to memorize every dip and valley in this beautiful face.

  “What is it?” I ask. “What do you need?”

  “I––” He jerks again as he thrusts even deeper. “God, Layla. I just...” His eyes scrunch closed, then pop open, black and fathomless. “I need to hear you...say it...”

  My mouth drops open. “Say what?”

  He pushes even farther, making my body writhe like a wave against the movement.

  “Say,” Nico says, beads of sweat gathering over his forehead with the effort of his control. “Say that you’ll never forget me,” he whispers as his eyes shut tightly. “That you’ll never forget us.”

  The memories of the past few months hit me like an avalanche. The lightning connection of our first touch. The kiss in the snow. Every afternoon. Every lazy morning. Every look, every touch, every tear, every kiss. Every single moment is imprinted into the threads of my being. If my life is a tapestry, this man has forever altered its weave.

  “I promise,” I whisper. “I’ll never forget us. Never.”

  And it’s then, with a pained howl that cuts through the air, that Nico finally lets go. We both let go, together.

  ~

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Nico

  We lie there for what seems like an hour, wrapped up together on the couch, not wanting to let each other go. We sleep a little, tangled and uncomfortable, but neither of us wants to get up or admit that the shadows falling across the wall are growing longer and longer. Because then it will be time to say goodbye. And I’m still not sure I’m going to be able to do it.

  My watch alarm beeps at six-thirty, telling me it’s time to go back to my apartment and get ready for my last shift at AJ’s. I’d take any excuse to call in sick, but I can’t lie. Between the Jeep and the three-month’s rent I just paid for Gabe and Maggie, I pretty much wiped out my savings. The extra few hundred dollars will help pay my way across the country. Away from my girl.

  Layla sits up, her mussed hair a waterfall over her shoulders. She wipes her fingers under her eyes, and I take in the simple form of her naked body: her small, perfect breasts, the curves of her hips and waist, the graceful lines of her legs––before she grabs her dress and puts it on.

  “I guess...” she trails off, suddenly intent on finding the rest of her clothes.

  “Yeah.” I sit up and grab my jeans and shirt off the floor. We’re both silent, overly focused on adjusting and readjusting fabric. Anything to delay the inevitable.

  Eventually, there’s nothing left to do. I clap on my cap, and Layla buckles her sandals.

  “I guess I should––”

  “I’ll walk you down,” she says, and my heart sinks with relief. No goodbyes yet. I still have a few more minutes.

  We ride down to the lobby together in silence, ignoring the bored security guard as Layla signs me out. Then she walks me out to where the Jeep is parked out front, clean and gleaming in the sun.

  I unlock the door and toss my hat inside. I want to see her clearly when I have to do this. I turn around, feeling like my chest is about to split open.

  “Well, sweetie,” I say. “This is it.”

  Layla looks up, her blue eyes matching the color of the sky shining through the buildings behind her. I can admit it––it’s hard to beat New York in the spring. It’s hard to leave the city when it’s like this. When there’s someone like her in it.

  “I just want to say...” I start saying some lame piece-of-shit goodbye, because what else can you say when you have to do something like this?

  But Layla stops me by jumping forward and wrapping her arms around my neck. It takes me a second to register that like a faucet, she started sobbing––not just crying the little streams of tears that have been threatening all day, but big, body-shaking sobs. She lets out all the emotion I know she’s been trying to keep back all day. Maybe for the last three weeks, if she’s anything like me.

  I hold her close, trying to absorb the pain I feel emanating from her in waves, a pain that echoes through my bones. It’s weird, but I don’t know if I’ve ever seen a girl cry like this before. Little kids, sure––Allie cries like crazy when she’s mad. But Maggie and Selena learned quick that tears won’t get you much. Soltero kids don’t cry, because otherwise, they get their ears swatted.

  But Layla didn’t grow up like that, and in its own way, it’s a beautiful thing to see. She lets me gather her into my shoulder while she falls apart. It’s amazing. I’ve never known anyone so pure, so open to feel what she feels. Layla has no remorse for her feelings––she lets them pass through her, like everyone should do, but that so many, including myself, don’t. It’s contagious, and before I know it, there are actually a few tears sneaking out of my eyes while I absorb the sobs that wrack through her small body.

  “Shhhh,” I croon, rocking us back and forth on the sidewalk. We catch a few curious looks as people walk by, wondering what I’ve done to upset this girl. I shoot them glares and press a kiss into Layla’s head. She can cry as long as she wants. No one has ever cried for me like this before, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to tell her it’s wrong. She deserves better than me––and one day, she’ll find it. But for now, I can be here for her, even though I’m the asshole breaking her heart.

  Eventually, her sobs subside. Layla pushes away from my chest, hiccupping a little and pushing stray tears from under her eyes. Her makeup disappeared a long time ago, and her big blue eyes are still watery, but she’s still the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. No. The most beautiful woman.

  Come on. Say it, you pussy. Tell her you love her. At least give her that.

  Layla takes a few long, deep breaths.

  “I guess,” she says. “I guess it’s time.”

  I nod, still holding her hand. I don’t want to let go, but I have to. I have to go to work, and she’s got a plane to catch.

  “I...” I shift from foot to foot, kicking a tiny rock onto the street. Then I look up. “I’ll never forget you, Layla. Ever. You should know...that I...I lo––”

  “I know,” she interrupts me before the words can leave my mouth. She gives me a small, sad smile. She doesn’t want to hear it. I try to ignore the way the words sit in my chest like rocks. So it’s like that.

  I nod. “Okay.” I open my mouth, then close it, then open it again to say the only thing I can think of. “I guess I’ll go, then.”

  I lean over and press one last kiss on her forehead. Layla closes her eyes, and I inhale that coconut-flowered scent I can’t ever get enough of.

  “Be good, baby,” I murmur. I sound like a fucking preschool teacher, but I don’t care. I mean it, especially since I can’t say the words I really want to say. I just want the best for her. I want her to have everything good this shitty life has to offe
r.

  She steps away and swipes beneath her eyes again. “Okay,” she says. “You better go.”

  Layla steps back a bit and folds her arms around her waist in a hug.

  Fighting the urge to fold her back into my arms, I nod. “Okay.”

  I get into my car, and with a quick press of my hand to the window, I turn on the ignition and pull away.

  It takes me about a half of a block before I’m already regretting it. It takes less than another before I’m banging on the steering wheel and shouting at myself inside my head. You should have asked her to come! You should have told her you love her! You should have asked her to come, asked her to wait, asked her to stay in the city until you can come back.

  Fuck it. This isn’t how I should end things. Not with Layla.

  I’m three blocks from her dorm and already pulling my cell phone out of my pocket when a loud bang on my window makes me jump. When I look, there’s Layla, standing in the middle of Canal Street traffic, her hand pressed against the glass, more tears streaming down her face while she struggles to catch her breath.

  The cars are moving ahead of me, but I don’t care. In less than a minute, I’ve double-parked the car and jumped out into the street, ignoring the honking horns and New Yorkers cursing me from the cabs and trucks trying to get down the thoroughfare. All I see is Layla.

  “What is it?” I say as I kiss her lips over and over again.

  She hiccups back a sob, returns the kisses, returns them all.

  “I just...” she hiccups again. “I needed to say...”

  “What baby?” I ask. “Tell me.”

  “I love you.”

  The words are so quick, I’m almost not sure she said them. But when I pull back to look at her face, I can see them shining through her big, sad eyes. My heart expands and breaks all at once. This is why people say not to fall in love. Because it makes you feel like flying and jumping off a cliff at the same time.

  But it’s still love. And I don’t regret a thing.

  I press my forehead into hers. “I love you too.” My eyes are closed. God, this hurts. “Layla, I––”

  “Get the fuck out of the road!”

  The shouts of angry New Yorkers interrupt our moment, and Layla steps away. I fight the urge to pull her back. I already miss her so fucking badly.

  “I’ll see you,” she says with a limp wave. “Drive safely.”

  I smile, but as the honking behind us picks up, all I can do is nod and get back into the Jeep.

  “Be good!” I shout again as I start the engine.

  Layla nods, but she’s already jogging back down the street, wiping her eyes and hugging herself around her waist. Instead of jumping out of the car and chasing her down like I should, I just watch in the rearview mirror while she disappears around the corner. And then, like the fuckin’ coward I am, I step on the gas and drive on, ignoring the earthquake going on in my chest.

  Because the truth is, love was never going to be enough. We had a good run, but she’s better off. A real future between us was never going to happen. She might be the best thing that ever happened to me, but I was always a bad idea.

  ~

  EPILOGUE

  May 2004: One Year Later

  Nico

  The shadows of the palm trees are long and thin, stretching down Sunset Boulevard like spider legs. The engine of the Jeep kicks. I’m still regretting buying this hunk of junk. Sure, it looks great when I go to the beach––it’s one of the few cars in LA that still gets points for charm. But the thing guzzles gas and breaks down every other month. For real, I never thought I’d miss the subway until I had to pay for car repairs.

  But now I’m done with it. I’m dropping this thing off with some starving artist in West Hollywood before I go to K.C.’s going away party. He says it’s for us both, but there aren’t that many people who will want to say goodbye to some random security guy. I didn’t think it was possible, but people in LA are even more shallow than New Yorkers. If you don’t know anyone important, you’re no one. I controlled the names on the list, but after they got through the door of whatever club we were at, I might as well have been a shadow.

  But now it’s over. This crazy fuckin’ year is over, and I could not be more ready. In two days, K.C. and I will start the long-ass drive back to New York in his Yukon, which never breaks down and has air conditioning. He’s taken a job at a radio station in the city, one that won’t require him to play clubs up and down the Eastern seaboard (unless he wants to) and will pay a lot more money. I’m proud of my friend, who’s really hitting the good life these days. But more than that, I’m actually excited about my own life for the first time.

  I’ve finally got a reason to go back that doesn’t involve obligations––no back-rents to pay, no bathrooms to caulk, no boyfriends to beat up. I didn’t think I’d miss the city this much, but I really have. I think the real reason I left was because it always felt like New York didn’t want me, instead of the other way around. I kept giving that city everything I had, and it kept shitting all over me. My family’s shit. My friends’ shit. But now New York is finally giving me a break. I’m looking at a future I want there, a job I want, and I’m going to go back and be somebody.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket. It’s probably K.C., wondering where the fuck I am. He wants to make an entrance together, the two of us. It’s nice the way he always wants to include me, but it’s unnecessary. I’ve never needed to be the center of attention like he does.

  “Yo, man, I told you, I’m just dropping off the car, and then I’m on my way.” I practically yell so he can hear me over the roar of traffic. Sunset Boulevard at the tail end of rush hour is a bitch. And you know what no one ever tells you about convertibles? They’re fuckin’ loud. And you get a lot of bugs flying into your mouth.

  “N-Nico?”

  It’s a voice that’s uncertain and small. A voice that’s shaking and barely audible over the combination of wind, car horns, and rolling tires. It’s a voice that blows through my head like a grenade. And not just because I haven’t heard it since she told me two months ago, in no uncertain terms, to fuck the hell off. Her voice creaks and shakes over my name. She stammers, which is not something she ever does unless she’s really scared or really nervous. The girl I know is usually calm and well-spoken. She’s never, ever sounded like this.

  “Layla?” I call out. “Is that you?”

  “I-I want you to k-kill him,” she stutters words that are cracked and raw. “I want you to come with your-your boys, your friends. Flaco. K.C. Who––I don’t know––who-whoever you would bring to help you. And I-I want you to beat the sh-shit out of him, j-just like you would have, w-way back w-when...you know...w-when you were y-younger...”

  All the hair on the back of my neck, the tops of my arms stands up, even under the warm California sun. It’s eighty-five degrees in the shade today, and I’m sweating in my tank top, but I’ve got goosebumps all over. Layla has asked me for a lot of things over the course of this crazy fuckin’ year, but she’s never asked for anything like this. The whole time I’ve known her, she’s barely even mentioned the past that always seemed to follow me around like a black cloud. Unlike everyone else who’s ever known about the kind of person I used to be, she never treated me like a thug. Even when she was pissed as hell at me, when her friends told her I was no good, when everyone, including me, told her I was just a bad idea, I was always a person to Layla. I was only ever Nico.

  Cutting off a white Mercedes and earning a loud “Fuck you!” from its driver, I pull the car over to the side of the road and shut off the engine.

  “Where are you?” I demand.

  “I’m-I’m at a payphone,” she stutters. “T-two blocks from h-his place. H-he...I c-can’t...”

  She trails off as a siren sounds behind her. I can hear the noise of whatever busy street she’s on. Her boyfriend lives somewhere close to my old place––I know that from our last incredibly painful conversation––but otherwise I c
an’t picture her. Two blocks from his place could mean anywhere. It could mean some nasty alley closer to the River, or it could be just a block from CUNY. I check my watch. It’s ten at night in New York right now. Even though the city lights never allow the sky to completely dim there, there are plenty of streets that are dark enough on their own.

  All I know is that something happened. Layla’s scared, angry, and alone somewhere up in West Harlem, and I’m stuck here in the land of eternal sunshine. I close my eyes. I can’t go there. If I start imagining some of the places I know Layla shouldn’t be, combined with the fact that I’m three-thousand miles away from her, I’ll go motherfuckin’ crazy, right here in Beverly Hills.

  “Layla, what the fuck is going on?” I snatch off my sunglasses and throw them on the seat next to me. “What did that motherfucker do to you?!”

  But all I get is a patchy response, since I’m far enough into the Hills that my reception cuts off. Fuck! I can only hear every other frantic word she’s saying.

  “He...to...me...I don’t...help...he’s coming...need...go!”

  Then the line goes dead.

  “Coño!” I roar, startling an elder lady out walking her dog. I try to call back the payphone number, but there’s no answer. When I try Layla’s cell phone, an operator tells me it’s no longer in service. I let out a torrent of Spanish that would have caused my mother to rinse my mouth out with soap, no matter if I’m twenty-seven years old or not, and hammer my fists on the steering wheel for a solid ten seconds. The old lady stares at me with her mouth open, and when I look up, practically runs away from the car.

  I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to think. The girl I’ve been in love with since the second I saw her just called me, freaking out after her shithead boyfriend did something to her. Layla’s not a drama queen. And she wouldn’t hurt a fly. She wouldn’t have made that request if something seriously fucked up hadn’t happened.