“When is Carnaval?” Nico asks as he opens up his box of beef broccoli and starts eating directly from the container. “And what did he mean by ‘everything has been arranged’?”
“He means this, I think.” I pull an airplane ticket, the old-fashioned kind that are still printed on cardstock, out of the envelope and hand it to Nico. He flips it over and back again, examining it.
“This is three weeks from now.”
I nod.
Nico’s mouth quirks a little. “You leave the day before Valentine’s Day.”
I glance down, suddenly guilty. I shouldn’t go. It’s Nico’s and my anniversary of sorts. Our first one since coming back together. I’m not going to miss that.
“Layla.” Nico’s deep voice calls me back. “You should go. Fuck, Brazil? Of course you should go. This is great, baby. You should be happy.”
Happy. It’s a funny word. But as I look at the sturdy, mint-green paper of the ticket, all I feel is dread. Trepidation. There’s an inquisition waiting for me in another hemisphere, and he’s six feet tall with a barrel chest, and responds to “Dad.” He’ll look at all of the progress I’ve made over the last six or seven months and rip it to shreds. To my dad, I’m never quite enough.
We bring our food to the dining table and sit down, and before we’ve eaten anything, I know what I want to do.
“You should come with me,” I blurt out.
Nico frowns through a big bite of broccoli. “What, to Brazil?”
I brighten, suddenly full of vision. “It’s the perfect idea. He can’t say no to someone who just flew four thousand miles to meet him. Even my dad would have to admit that’s a pretty great thing to do.”
“And what am I supposed to do when I get there?”
I grin. Yes. I like this idea. I more than like this idea. Suddenly, facing my father again without Nico next to me sounds impossible. “You’re supposed to tell him how much you love me. And then we’ll tell him that we’re living together, and there isn’t a damn thing he can do about it.”
His black brow arches high. “You must really think I’m whipped, don’t you?”
My mouth drops. “Oh, I…” Shit. I hadn’t thought about that. I didn’t mean to imply that he was at my beck and call or anything like that. Anything but.
Nico chuckles. “I’m just playin’, baby. But honestly, even if I get the money together for a ticket, I don’t know if I can swing the time off. Rookies don’t really get their pick of the schedule, and I have no vacation time. Nada.”
“What if I paid?”
With a mouthful of rice, Nico gawks. “Hmm?”
I nod, even more convinced. “I have enough in my savings. I could swing it, and you could pay me back later if you really want to. Everything else would be taken care of, like he said. We’ll probably stay at his apartment, or maybe my aunt’s if there isn’t room. We’ll eat with them, so there won’t be a bunch of extra expenses. No car, we’ll be right by the beach. We’ll go to my cousin’s thing, and then come back. Or, you know, you could do stuff on your own if you wanted a break––”
“Layla.”
Nico pushes his food to the side, stands up, then lifts me bodily onto the table so that he’s standing between my legs, my hands on his shoulders.
“Do you really think I’d go with you to Brazil and then ditch you?”
I push my fingers through his thick black hair, so densely curled I almost can’t do it.
“Please don’t make me go alone,” I whisper. “I want him to meet you. I want him to know the real man in my life these days. The one I can’t live without.”
Nico gazes up at me, his dark eyes wide and uncertain. Then he presses his forehead to mine and sighs.
“Fuck,” he mutters. “It’s those damn Bambi eyes you got, you know that? I can’t say no.”
I blink when he pulls away. “Does that mean you’ll come?”
He sighs, even though his mouth quirks on both sides. “It means I’ll try.” Then his eyes drift down to my mouth, which I just happen to lick at that moment.
There’s that hunger again––not for food, but for something else. Something in both of us that we can’t ever seem to sate completely. If anything, the longer we’re together, the worse it seems to get.
Nico traces his nose across my chest and places a kiss on my sternum. “If I go.” Another kiss on the shoulder. “You’ll tell him?” One more on my neck. “And your mom too?”
He looks up with gleaming, hopeful eyes, and I clasp his face gently.
“We can tell him together,” I say.
Nico’s face is blank while he chews on his lower lip. He looks scared. It’s not a look I recognize.
“Would you believe I’m not usually the guy girls want to take home to meet daddy?” he jokes as he presses his nose to mine. “Seriously, NYU. What’s he going to think?”
“He’ll think you’re the kind of man who takes care of his girl,” I say. “And if he doesn’t, he can stay in his hemisphere while we go back to New York together. Because he might have everything to say about my life…but I belong here. With you.”
“And what would he think if he knew I was doing this to his daughter, huh?” A big hand snakes underneath my pajama shorts and takes a thick handful of flesh that makes me hiss.
“I don’t know,” I purr as I tip my face up to his waiting lips. “What would Carmen think if she knew the things I do to you?”
A low chuckle emerges from the back of Nico’s throat, but he maintains the kiss for a few more seconds.
“Why do you think my mother goes to Mass three, four times a week, NYU?” he asks just before slipping his tongue around mine in that dance I know so well. “She’s praying for my poor, corrupted soul. And now, yours too.” He kisses me again. “Welcome to the family, baby.”
~
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Nico
The next day, my brother, two sisters, Layla, and I are all crowded into one tiny office at Family Immigration Services, which is housed in the third floor of a walk-up in Spanish Harlem. Ileana, the caseworker assigned to our mom, is holding the newest letter from the Treasury Department, tapping insistently on her beaten-up desk with a pencil. She looks pretty much the way you’d expect a social worker to look––granola-eating white lady, wearing a wrinkled blouse, a sweater that looks like she borrowed it from her grandfather, mousey brown hair, and a mouth that moves too fast.
Layla is sitting next to her desk, watching with keen interest as Ileana flips through all of the paperwork we’ve submitted trying to get this damn permit. I can’t help but chuckle a little bit when I think of the fact that this is going to be Layla in a few more years. My girl has absolutely no idea how gorgeous she is. Inside this ugly, tiny room, she shines like a diamond.
Layla catches me watching her and gives me a shy smile. I wink, give her body a look up-and-down, and she immediately blushes.
“Coño, can you stop?” Maggie puts in, shoving me hard in the shoulder. “Stop undressing her with your eyes. You’re embarrassing yourself.” She turns to Selena, who’s trying hard not to laugh. “He acts like no one is here. I feel dirty.”
“Gata, I didn’t say anything. You always gotta read so much into things, don’t you?” I retort, though I don’t drop my gaze. I’m enjoying the way Layla’s biting her lip too much and the way she’s squeezing her thighs together.
“Ahem.” Ileana calls our attention as she sets down the paper.
And as much as I’d like to keep flirting, I turn to the desk along with the rest of my siblings, all those dirty thoughts flying out of my head. This is too important.
“It’s bad, isn’t it?” asks Gabe. He rubs his chin, which is showing signs of a goatee. I smirk. My little brother is actually starting to get some facial hair these days.
“It’s not great,” Ileana says frankly.
She leans back in her chair and surveys all of us, looking everyone in the eye. It’s one of the things I like about this chick–
–she might look like a mouse, but she’s a firebrand, and she’s never treated anyone in my family with anything less than respect.
“Look,” she continues. “We had a window last spring, because the new adjustments were passed in June. But they didn’t process the family license before then, and since June, the administration has pushed through much stronger restrictions. Basically, they’re grandstanding, you know? Creating conflict where there is none to get people all riled up. You know, so we’ll conveniently forget about the human rights violations they’re committing all over the Middle East.”
Maggie and I raised our brows at each other as if to say “here we go again” while Gabe shakes his head. We’ve all heard Ileana go off about the current president more than once, usually about the current war. I don’t know. It’s not really pertinent to our situation.
“So, what’s left?” Layla asks as she picks up the different letters of rejection. “What else can we do to help Carmen? She has every right to be here by U.S. law––it’s ridiculous that losing a piece of paper when she was two will force her to live in the shadows for the rest of her life, especially when she has every legal right to be here!”
The passion in her voice ignites a warmth in my chest. It’s fucked up, but I love watching Layla get riled up like this about my mom, my family, her blue eyes suddenly full of fire. I have to stop myself from kissing her right there. I meant what I said last night: she is part of the family now. Moments like this show it more than anything else.
But Ileana sighs, and blows all of those good feelings out of the room.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I’ll keep researching, but we’re running out of options. The best way would be to find someone who actually has living family in Cuba to do this for you. Otherwise, it might be time to start putting together a case for relief. You mom doesn’t know any Cubans in New York?”
Beside me, Layla brightens at the idea, but Maggie shakes her head.
“Mami came here with a Puerto Rican family. She’s been sheltered by Puerto Ricans her whole life. All her friends are Puerto Rican, other than David…”
She trails off, looking at me and Gabe uneasily. David, Gabe’s father, is Dominican, but I haven’t seen or spoken to the guy since I beat his ass and kicked him out of our apartment for beating on Ma and the rest of us one too many times. That was over ten years ago now, but it’s the family’s worst kept secret that sometimes our mom would still find her way up to the Bronx to see him in a moment of weakness. Maybe she still does. None of us really know or want to know.
“What about Luis? Isn’t he Cuban?” Gabe pipes up, giving Maggie a dark look at the mention of David. I know he speaks to his dad sometimes, but he doesn’t mention it to me, knowing there is no lack of bad blood between me and that violent asshole.
I sigh. Everyone in my family has a big damn mouth, but we still keep too many secrets.
Maggie and Selena both look like they want to beat Gabe’s ass at the mention of their father, Luis, who hasn’t been seen since Selena was about three. He’s Cuban, it’s true, but the dude dropped off the face of the earth.
Yeah, you could say our family has some daddy issues. One more thing Layla has in common with us, as it happens––she doesn’t exactly get along with her father either. The dad she wants me to meet. I press my face into my palms. I have no idea how I would be able to do that without punching the guy who broke his daughter’s heart last year.
“One of the girls in my Spanish class has some family in Havana,” Layla pipes up. “I don’t really know her, but she seems nice. I bet she would be willing to go to Cuba over spring break or something if we could get her the permit.”
“Has she gone in the last three years?” Ileana asks.
“Yeah, she went last summer to visit her grandparents.”
“Then it’s out. The new laws only permit visits once every three years anyway.” Ileana looks at the rest of us. “And let’s be clear. Your mother says she was born in Santiago, not Havana like you originally thought, and they aren’t exactly close. You can’t substitute one for the other. What about the rest of you? Do you know anyone with family in Cuba?”
I shake my head, and beside me, Maggie rolls her eyes at Selena. I could see it all too easily––someone taking our money, a free trip to Cuba, and disappearing on us. Scammers in New York are a dime a dozen; no one in this room other than the two white girls think that’s even an option.
“Then it’s either keep trying with a family application for one you,” Ileana says in a resigned, stern voice, “or we need to turn your case over to a lawyer and get you ready for court. You never know, they might allow one of you a permit. Or else, and I’m really not officially suggesting this, you understand, you could also fly there from another country. There’s no guarantees you won’t get caught, and spending any U.S. currency there is illegal, but you could probably fly there from somewhere like Venezuela. Maybe Toronto or Montreal.”
“I’ll do it.”
Gabe glances around the room, his voice grim and determined while he toys with the bottom of his blue t-shirt. He looks up, and the glasses he started wearing this year are slightly crooked over his fierce expression.
I frown. “Mano, you don’t have to do that. We’ll keep applying. Ma’s all right staying at Alba’s. They’re practically having a slumber party over there, you know?”
“Ma and Alba are driving each other up the wall,” Maggie puts in. “I was there yesterday, and I thought they were going to toss each other over the balcony. I don’t care how much you love your best friend. After a while, you need some space.”
“There was a rumor of some immigrations people sniffing around the church last week too,” Selena mentions.
I jerk my head at her. “What?”
Selena shrugs. “We heard about it from the priest, who said some of the other parishioners were talking about it outside. I don’t know if anyone was taken, but…”
I exhale forcibly. “Sel, you can’t be taking Ma to a church where there are fuckin’ immigrations officers hanging out!”
“I’m sorry, but have you met our mother? You try getting Carmen Soltero to attend any other church but St. Andrew’s.”
“Fuckin’ fine,” I spit. “But anyway, we can’t just get all crazy because of some rumors. I hope you didn’t tell Ma about those.”
Selena shrinks a little. “She was there, Nico. What the fuck did you want me to do? Cover her ears, like we do to Allie?”
“Not unless you want a slipper,” Maggie murmurs, setting off another round of snickering between her and Sel. I fall forward onto my knees, burying my head in my hands and relaxing only slightly when Layla starts to massage my neck.
“What about Brazil?”
Layla’s sweet voice cuts through the bickering, and everyone quiets as they turn to her. She casts me a nervous glance.
“No,” I say automatically as I sit up.
“That’s an idea,” Ileana murmurs. “You’re going to Brazil?”
“Who’s going to Brazil?” Maggie asks sharply.
“I am,” Layla says. “And maybe Nico too, if he can get the time off. To visit my dad. I don’t know if they have travel restrictions to Cuba, but if they don’t, maybe we could work a trip in. I, um, I could probably help with the cost…”
She drifts off, no longer meeting everyone’s gazes. I know it’s because Layla doesn’t like to talk about money in front of my family. She thinks it makes her sound like a rich girl, like the blanquita people sometimes call her when they first meet her. She hasn’t figured out that keeping silent about that sort of thing is a rich girl thing to do––nothing says you have money like pretending it doesn’t exist.
“No,” I say again. I swear to God, it’s like they didn’t even hear me.
“Nico, I could probably go. I have dual citizenship because of my father, so I could travel with a Brazilian passport––”
“No.” I bite out the word, standing in a rush. “I’m not send
ing you to fucking Cuba by yourself, Layla. End of fucking story.”
I grab her hand and pull her up. This office that smells like stale coffee and french fries suddenly feels like a strait jacket.
I glare at Ileana, who’s still looking at Layla thoughtfully. “Resubmit the applications under all of our names,” I bark at her. “One for each. You need anything else?”
Ileana frowns. I’m acting like a fuckin’ caveman, but I can’t help it. I’ve had enough of this office. I’ve had enough of doors being shut in my family’s faces our entire fuckin’ lives. I’ve had enough of being told no. So now I’m the one who’s going to say it.
“I’ll get that paperwork started,” she says carefully.
“I’m sorry about him,” Maggie’s saying as I turn to leave. “He’s just worried.”
For some reason the apologies make me even angrier.
“Come on,” I say as I tow Layla behind me. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”
~
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Nico
Layla’s quiet as we walk through Astoria, marching down the icy sidewalk toward the subway. I’m being an asshole, I know. And Layla, reading my mood, keeps trying to give me space. But every time she steps away, my hand only tightens its grip, as if by reflex.
I take an automatic sharp right off the main street.
“I forgot my charger at the firehouse yesterday,” I say shortly before Layla can ask where we’re going. “I’ll just run in and get it.”
Layla frowns. She knows I’m lying a little. My next shift starts tomorrow afternoon––I could just borrow hers, like I did last night.
I’m helpless. It’s a feeling I know too well, one I was slowly starting to think might finally be fading out of my life. But all I learned from that meeting was that there’s not a damn thing I can do to help my mother, and it’s killing me.
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