There’s a pause. And for a minute, I think he’s going to say no.
But after another beat, his deep voice rumbles, speaking to a place deep inside me, like a match that’s lit to start a fire.
“Sure, baby,” he says. “Anything you want.”
I grin. “That’s not necessary. Just tell us what to bring.”
~
CHAPTER NINE
Nico
At six o’clock the next day, I find myself escorting not one, but two girls up to Alba’s apartment. Ever since she moved into the classy west-side high-rise courtesy of the dough K.C. started raking in a few years back, K.C.’s mom loves to host just about anything––parties, dinners, backgammon nights, whatever. It’s from her that K.C. gets his party skills. He’s just as social as she is.
She also knows exactly what Layla did to help my family, and once she heard that Ma wanted to get everyone together to welcome her back, she insisted on hosting there instead of at our railroad apartment uptown.
“So, your friend,” Shama says as we enter the lobby. The doorman gives me a quick nod––he sees me enough here that I don’t get any suspicious looks. “He, um, does all right, huh?”
Shama looks around, her eyes growing big. I smirk. After she saw my place up by City College, I bet this is the last place she expected me or mine to be.
Layla elbows Shama in the side, and she immediately grimaces. “Sorry. I sound like a total bitch, don’t I?”
I shrug, staring at the elevator buttons. “Hey, no worries.”
When we get to Alba’s floor, the sounds of my family laughing filters all the way down the hall. When we enter the apartment, Layla and Shama take in the decent-sized living room, the picture windows, and the simple furniture. It’s a nice apartment, but it’s nothing crazy. Alba has a knack for making it feel homey.
Layla looks around curiously. “It looks different when there isn’t a giant party in here.”
I nod. “Alba always moves all the furniture into the back room when she does her holiday stuff.”
As soon as everyone sees us, they’re up from the table to greet Layla. I watch happily as my sisters, my brother, and even my mom all take turns giving her bear hugs and kisses to the cheek. Layla’s blue eyes shine and her cheeks flush as she returns every one of them. Having met her mom, I get how different this is from what she grew up with. Cheryl is nice, but stiff, and even with her daughter she keeps her distance. Mine, on the other hand, has absolutely no concept of space.
“Dang,” Shama murmurs beside me. “Your family really loves her, huh?”
I grin. I didn’t realize how much this meant to me until right now. “Yeah. They really do.”
“What’s up, mano? Who’s your friend?”
K.C. pops up after he’s done giving Layla kisses like everyone else does, even though they’ve only met a few times. It’s just what you do. She’s already being dragging into the living room to play dolls with Allie and chat with my sisters. I open my mouth to introduce Shama, but she takes care of that for me.
“His friend is right here. And her name is Shama.”
K.C. darts a suspicious look at me, but I just shove my hands in my pockets and pretend the pigeon on the balcony is the most interesting thing I’ve ever seen. I purse my lips, sucking back a laugh, but behind K.C., Gabe doesn’t bother hiding his.
“She told you!” he crows, through several bouts of laughter. “Damn.” He extends a hand to Shama around K.C.’s glowering form. “How you doin’, Shama?”
“Hey, good to see you.” Shama accepts Gabe’s awkward kiss to her cheek. His hand lingers a little too long on her waist. When Shama’s eyes bug at me a little bit, I choke on another laugh, though she continues to look suspicious.
“I’m KC.”
My friend recovers his shock and gives his trademark smile. It’s funny, with his thin frame and ghost-like skin, K.C. isn’t what you would call a stereotypically handsome man, but somehow he makes up for it with swagger.
When Shama takes his hand with a snort, he kisses her cheek, dodging a little with her first. “You’ll want to remember that name, pretty.”
“Man, shut up.” I elbow him in the ribs. “She’s not here to get picked up.”
“I can handle myself, thanks,” Shama says. “If you’ll excuse me…I’m sorry, what’s your name again? Kaylen?”
Gabe breaks into another round of hyena-like laughter, and I can’t help but join him as K.C. steps back, glowering. Shama skips neatly around him to join the girls on the couches.
“Don’t feel too bad, man,” I say as I rub K.C.’s shoulder. “It’s broad daylight. We know the real K.C. magic happens at night.”
“Damn right,” he mutters. “Whatever. I’m ready to eat. We’ve been waiting for you forever.”
~
Layla
Dinner is good. And when I say good, I mean amazing. Alba, K.C.’s mom, really likes to pull out all the stops, and she and Carmen filled the table with about ten different kinds of Puerto Rican food, including a mashed plantain dish called mofongo, which I discover is Nico’s favorite after he ate close to half of it. Carmen’s wink and nod tells me she’ll pass on the recipe at some point. I don’t know, though. I’m not much of a cook, and I’d be kind of upset it he didn’t devour my version the same way he does his mom’s.
But the best part of the evening, other than being surrounded by this family that, for all of their difficult history, is incredibly close, is seeing Nico in his element, including with his best friend.
For most of the time I’ve known Nico, K.C. has lived in LA, pursuing his growing career in music. I knew he had done well for himself––just the fact that he can afford this place for his mother, not to mention the beautiful brownstone he has in Hoboken, tells me that. He’s not a billionaire or anything, but his job pays well, and considering the way he shares his fortune with the people around him, I like K.C. already. Generosity is something he and Nico have in common. Honestly, it’s something both of their families share, through and through.
It’s so different from my family, people who have everything but who, for most of my life, maintained their wealth with iron fists.
After dinner, which is loud, boisterous, and consists mostly of Allie doing imitations of Elmo, K.C. flirting with Shama while his mother smacks his wrist, and Selena and Maggie bickering, everyone helps clean up, and then the boys collapse on the couch to watch the last of the Yankees game while the girls sit back at the table to enjoy coffee and gossip. Alba and Carmen speak in rapid Spanish that I can’t understand very well, but Selena and Maggie have stopped translating, piping up every now and then in English or Spanglish here and there.
“Hey, you okay?”
I look up from washing dishes in the kitchen. At some point, I drifted away from the table when Selena and Maggie started debating whether or not Selena could really be confused for a young J.Lo. Maggie’s position on the matter was firmly in the negative, and it was not being received very well.
Shama hands me a plate. I glance behind her to where Alba and Carmen are chattering as they stow the leftovers, then back to Shama. I turn back to the sink and shrug.
“I’m fine,” I tell her. “This is great.”
I should feel happier than I do. I’m in Alba’s beautiful apartment with its skyline view of midtown Manhattan. I’m surrounded by people who care about me, people who took me in last spring when I needed it the most. Nico’s family and I still don’t know each other very well, but we all have a connection. I’m a part of that now, both because of what they did for me, and what I did for them too.
But I don’t miss their concerned glances every so often. I don’t miss the way Maggie, Nico’s sister, floated her gaze over my neck and cheeks, where, three months ago, she applied makeup thick enough to hide the nasty bruises from Giancarlo. I don’t miss Gabe’s featherlight touch on my shoulders, or the way Selena scooted away from me at the table now and then, reacting to my every movement like I was
about to break.
But then again…aren’t I? Sometimes I still feel it. It’s why I’m in here instead of the living room with the rest of the younger people. Through the kitchen door, we can hear them all playing some kind of game
“You should go back in there,” I tell Shama. “I’m almost done here.”
She shakes her head in faux horror. “It…was getting a little awkward. K.C. and Gabe kept taking each other’s seats next to me. K.C. wouldn’t stop calling me pretty, and Gabe kept trying to slide his arm around my shoulders while he yawned, Grease-style. Then they brought out Twister, so I was done.”
Another round of laughter and a few unintelligible Spanish phrases bounce through the room. I smirk. “Awww, who’s the prettiest girl at the party, Shams?”
I’m rewarded with a giant eye roll.
“Shut up,” she says. “Gabe is about fourteen, and K.C., well…” She looks behind her to see if Alba’s within earshot. She and Carmen have gone out to the living room. Shama turns back to me. “Let’s just say that I’ve been there, done that, you know?”
I set a casserole pan in the dish rack and start on a handful of forks. “Gabe’s only a year younger than us, Shams. And come on, K.C. is nothing like Jason.”
“They’re both DJs. It’s a solid start.”
“That’s like comparing a Big Mac and a steak. K.C. gets to travel the world to do what he does. He bought his mom this apartment, and his place in Hoboken is super nice too. Jason plays shitty college bars.”
Shama chuckles, but her face doesn’t quite light up the way it used to. She pulls a hand through her long black hair and gives me a grim smile. “Can you really tell me he’s not the womanizing type? I feel like I have to walk out of a room backward if I don’t want him to wolf-whistle me.”
I open my mouth to argue on K.C.’s behalf, even though I don’t really know him that well. He’s a person I know more from Nico––the surrogate brother he grew up with, one who features heavily in his stories. The guy I know has given Nico places to stay, helped him find jobs when he needed them, basically just given him the best support he’s had in his life. For that reason alone, I like him.
But then I’m taken back to the first night Nico and I were together. Nico was housesitting and took me to K.C.’s apartment. During a tour of the place, we ended up in the master bedroom, with its cheesy, all-white decor except for a giant splattered painting of a man biting a woman’s nipple. It was the opposite of subtle. For a room that screamed sex like that, there wasn’t a drop of intimacy in it. As badly as I wanted to be intimate with Nico at the time, I had absolutely no desire to do it in that room or anywhere near the white canopy bed. I wasn’t about to become another notch on that particular bedpost.
“Fair enough,” I say, even though the memory of what happened later that night does cause a tingle between my thighs. Nico’s hungry lips. His hands, urgent and slightly rough. His slap on my thigh, the flip of my body. From the living room, I hear Nico’s deep voice joking with his brother and his friend. The tingle heightens.
I scrub a little harder than necessary at a couple of knives. Other than our moment in the club, it really has been a long time, and even longer since I had the kind of sex that used to make me ache for someone like this. The thought makes me swallow, hard, just before another cloud of dread settles over me.
Will I ever be able to get there again?
“Anyway, I have to get going,” Shama says.
I look up. “What? Why? I’m pretty sure Alba still has flan or something like that.”
Shama gives me a tight smile. “I, um, said I’d meet up with some people.”
I frown at first at her oblique references. Then it hits me. “You’re meeting up with Quinn and Jamie.”
Shama sighs. “Well…”
I turn back to the dishes. “It’s fine. Tell Jamie I said hi.”
“Lay…”
I stop washing and do my best to smile. “It’s okay, really. Have fun. I’ll see you later. Or, depending on how good your night is, tomorrow.” I plaster on the widest grin I can manage until finally, Shama starts laughing.
“You’re a terrible liar,” she says. “And you look like a zombie when you smile like that. But I love you anyway. Have fun tonight. And give your man some. He’s starting to look like he’s going to shrivel up from blue balls.”
I nod, but turn back to the sink, ignoring the clench in my stomach at her words. She doesn’t need to know just how much it hurts that I can’t give someone I love what he wants. What he probably needs.
~
Nico
“She seems sad,” Maggie remarks after Shama says her goodbyes.
K.C. tries to escort her to the elevators, but I have to laugh when Shama practically shoves him back into the apartment. I haven’t seen my boy work that hard for a girl’s attention in a very long time.
“Who, Shama?” I ask. “Why?”
“No, you fool. Your girl. The one playing Cinderella in the kitchen.”
I follow her gaze to where Layla’s doggedly scrubbing a pan. She’s cleaned almost the entire damn kitchen. Since she started, Ma and Alba have disappeared into the bedroom to look at some hand-me-downs, and we just switched the Yankees game back on after Allie cleaned the floor with her uncles and aunts at Twister. Seriously, who knew a five-year-old could be that flexible?
I twist my lips guiltily. “I think she just wanted a second alone, Mags. We can be a little much, don’t you think?” I nod to where Gabe and K.C. are busy punching each other in the shoulders, like they’re actual brothers instead of surrogate ones. Selena is lying facedown on the floor while Allie braids her hair. No one has even started putting away the mess of games that are out.
Maggie doesn’t say anything. She knows what I mean.
“She’s not quite herself yet,” I admit quietly, folding my hands together.
“I can see that,” Maggie replies. “She was really different at Thanksgiving last year. Sad then too, but in a different way.”
K.C. and Gabe shout something at the screen, but I’m not even watching anymore. It was right here in this room, filled at the time with family and friends celebrating the holiday, that Layla let me teach her salsa in front of all of those people. Then she cried in my arms on the balcony. Then let me hold her for hours. Back then she was mourning the loss of her family, but not the loss of her innocence. She wasn’t completely broken. Not yet.
I have to close my eyes while anger punches its way up and then recedes. I hate that she’s like this––one minute sunshine, the next a rain cloud. I hate that there’s nothing I can do to help. I want to make her happy, connect with the one person on this planet I’m supposed to be with. She needs time, more time to heal, but it’s so fucking hard when she has to hold me at arm’s length to do it, and all I want to do is come close.
“You know what helped me the most?”
I look at my sister, whose face has been marred like Layla’s, also by a man who was supposed to love her. Maggie was pretty once. When she was younger, she was one of those girls who would laugh louder than everyone else. Her moods were always a little crazy, but when she smiled, so would everyone else. Now she’s as stoic and hardened as ever. It’s a look I understand––everyone from my neighborhood looks like that sometimes. It’s a look of self-defense, one that knows better than to be vulnerable, because that’s how you get hurt.
But it’s also a look I never, ever wanted to see on Layla. At some point, the numbness she has is going to turn into that hardness. And it’s going to kill me.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Do you remember showing me how to throw a punch after…what happened with Jimmy?”
I squint. I remember showing Jimmy what I could do with my fists, but not much more than that. I was too angry to think about what I was doing. “Sort of. I took you to Frank’s.”
Maggie nods. “Yeah. You showed me how to use my legs and make a fist that wouldn’t break my thumb when I hit some
one. We did it for maybe an hour? I don’t know.”
“Yeah, yeah. I remember that now.”
“Well, it helped,” Maggie continues. “The next time I saw Jimmy, I clocked him in his stupid face. He never saw it coming. And I think that’s why he never did it again neither. Not just because he knew you would fuck him up. But because he knew maybe I could too.”
I almost choke on my water, imagining Maggie, who’s maybe five foot three with heels, coming at her ex, a guy at least as tall as me, with a balled-up fist. “Mana, you never told me that.”
She shrugs. “Broke his nose too. We got into some fights after that, but Jimmy always knew he would get as good as he gave. He never hit me again.”
I look at her for a long time, but she keeps her gaze on Allie. My siblings are a lot stronger than they seem. It’s easy to look at Maggie and see someone who kept going back to a man who mistreated her, just like our mom did. It’s easy to think that she was weak, even though she was also doing it to keep a family for her daughter. In the end, she got them both out when they came to live with me for good. That alone took more strength than I give her credit for.
I forget sometimes that I’m not the only one who grew up fast in our house. That they don’t need me to take care of them the way they used to.
“My two cents: give her something to hit,” Maggie says. “See the way she’s scrubbing that pan in there? She’s not just sad, Nico. She’s angry. And right now, she has nowhere to put it.”
We both watch Layla in the kitchen, the way her small shoulders tense as she goes to fucking town on the pan. Maggie’s right––she’s wielding the sponge like a weapon, and her rose-petal mouth is twisted together, her forehead bunched.
It’s a look I know well. Really, really well. Anger and me, we got a long history together. And for once, that history makes me happy. Because as I watch my girl take out her frustrations on the dirty dishes, I finally feel like I might have a way to help her.
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