Bad Idea- The Complete Collection

by Nicole French

  Jamie does my makeup, keeping it natural with only a bit of liner and mascara to make my blue eyes pop, and just a dab of lip gloss. My hair, now mostly dried, falls over my shoulders in thick, wavy ribbons. With my brown leather boots, I feel completely and perfectly ready for my super incredibly casual Valentine’s Day date.

  “Wait!” Jamie cries out as I start to leave the room. It’s almost nine, and I figure I should make peace with Quinn before I go. Jamie shuffles over, carrying a couple of gold necklaces and a pair of hoops to match.

  “You said he’s Puerto Rican, right?”

  I nod. “Part, anyway. He’s half Italian too.”

  “Well, you should play up your Brazilian half. So he doesn’t think you’re just a dumb white girl, you know?”

  I roll my eyes, and Shama snickers beside me.

  I bite my lip. “You think a couple of chains are going to change the fact that I’m not not a dumb white girl?”

  Jamie just gives me a long look. “No, that’s Quinn.”

  “Hey!” Quinn shouts from the sofa.

  I sigh. I don’t really want to have the “what am I?” conversation with my roommates right now, and I’m not interested in starting another fight with Quinn. I am what I’ve always been: Layla. If Nico is the kind of guy who’s going to call me a coconut—a brown person who acts white—he’s not going to be worth my time anyway. I’m not going to try to act like someone I’m not.

  I also can’t help but wonder if perhaps that’s why I sometimes feel like a little kid when Nico looks at me. I wonder if maybe it’s not because I’m so much younger than him. I haven’t even considered that an issue—not since chatting him up outside the club. But maybe he sees me as some rich white girl, or at least as a Latina who is trying to be white. He wouldn’t be the first.

  So I let Jamie clasp the three gold chains around my neck the way all the Puerto Rican and Dominican girls do while I put gold hoops through my ears. I do look a little less like the Stepford side of my family and more brasilera—it reminds me of the time I went clubbing with my cousins in Vitoria, and they dressed me up like a doll. I run my hands up my top. I’m not pretending to be anything I’m not. Really.

  I walk out to the common area, and Quinn looks up from the couch, where she’s paging through one of her textbooks. She looks me over and nods appreciatively.

  “You look great,” she says simply. “And I’m sorry.”

  I don’t waste time walking over to her and wrapping her in a big hug, which she returns. “I’m sorry too. You’re not racist. You’re my best friend, and I love you.”

  “I love you too, you idiot.”

  Then my cell phone rings.

  “He’s he-ere!” Jamie shrills from my room, earning shrieks and laughs from Shama behind her.

  “Shh, shut up!” I answer the phone once they quiet into hushed giggles together on the couch with Quinn, openly eavesdropping on my conversation. It’s one of those sisterly moments that, despite the annoyance, I actually really love them for. “Hey, Nico?”

  “Hey, sweetie.”

  His voice sounds even deeper on the phone, and I swear it vibrates down my arm and through my chest. Shama fake-swoons at the sound that carries through the room. I shoot a quick grin to my roommates and turn my back on them to listen.

  “You here?”

  “Downstairs. I’m outside.”

  “Sounds good,” I say. “I’ll be right there.”

  I hang up the phone and pull on my gray wool jacket, fluffing my curls a little in the mirror next to the door. “Okay, girls, last-minute check. Anything out of sorts?” I twirl in front of them.

  “You look hot, mama,” Quinn pronounces. “If he doesn’t try his damnedest to nail you tonight, then something is seriously wrong with him.”

  “You guys going out tonight?”

  They all nod. Shama wants to meet up with Jason again at Fat Black’s, so they are all planning to stay there for the evening.

  “We’ll be back late, babe,” Quinn informs me. “So if you need to get your hooch on in our room, you have until two a.m. or so.”

  She grins when I throw the nearest piece of mail at her, but only because she knows she was right to tell me.

  “Only if I’m lucky. Don’t wait up, girls,” I say and promptly leave before another round of teasing can commence.

  When I exit the building, I immediately spot Nico leaning against a lamppost, casually dressed in a pair of dark blue jeans, a black thermal shirt that hugs his trim torso in all the right places, and a leather jacket. He’s wearing the same black beanie from last weekend, and I have to remind myself not to tear it off. I’m dying to know what his hair looks like under all those hats. God, I hope he’s not bald on top.

  The sly grin he breaks into has me stumbling down the stairs from my building, prompting him to push off the post and meet me at the bottom just as I’m catching my footing.

  “You all right, sweetie?” he asks.

  His question is innocent, but his knowing smile says different. He knows exactly the effect he has on me.

  “Fine, fine,” I say. “These sidewalks are slippery in the snow.”

  I brush off the flakes that are starting to fall on my shoulders, as if to demonstrate their threat. Nico nods and sucks on his full bottom lip, which, if we had been walking, would have made me stumble again.

  “What’s up, NYU?” he says gently, taking my hands gently into his and tugging me close to kiss me lightly on the cheek.

  Electricity sparks all over my skin despite the cold. God, he smells good. I don’t reply, but only because, well, I can’t.

  Nico, as I had anticipated, definitely does not have anything planned for the evening, so we decide to walk through Nolita and Little Italy to see if there are any restaurants that aren’t too crazy. It is, after all, the number one date night of the year. He holds my hand securely despite the bulk of our gloves. I find myself wishing that it wasn’t cold so that I could feel the warmth of his fingers.

  “What about this place?” I ask.

  We stop in front of a small bistro in an old brick building on Elizabeth Street that is only about half full of people. The menu posted on the window shows a number of French-style foods and a wine list. It’s nothing too elaborate, but the food they’re serving looks edible and not terribly expensive. I’m just eager to get out of the snow that is still falling in small flakes.

  “Sounds good to me,” Nico says, and holds the door open as we walk inside.

  Chapter Nine

  Nico

  Once again, I feel like a complete asshole. I’m out on Valentine’s Day in New York City, and I completely forgot the most basic thing: reservations. Everywhere decent is filled up because, you know, it’s the busiest night of the year. And I’m stuck wandering around with Layla like a bum. She’s going to think I don’t give a shit about tonight. About her.

  It’s not like I don’t know how to do this. I’m just a little rusty. It’s been a long time since my last girlfriend––three years, to be exact. And twenty-three-year-olds aren’t exactly known for being masters of romance. But still. I should have known better.

  The hostess seats us at a small table in the window where we can people watch, mostly other couples out on similar kinds of dates. I offer to take Layla’s coat because I’m not a complete Neanderthal. But it turns out that was a mistake, because what I see just about knocks me the fuck out. Suddenly, I can’t quite breathe the right way. Between the skin-tight jeans she’s wearing and a shirt-thing that I’m really not sure how the fuck stays on, she looks like a package I want to unwrap. Like, right the fuck now.

  “Damn,” I breathe, and she looks over her shoulder to find me practically drooling. Fuck me, her ass looks good in those pants.

  When I realize she’s caught me staring, my mouth snaps shut, and I try to smile, although I have a feeling I look more like a serial killer. Layla sits down smugly. Yeah, she knew exactly what she was doing wearing that outfit.

&nbs
p; Luckily, I didn’t mess around either. A leather jacket might not be the best choice when there’s a blizzard threatening outside, but the only stuff she’s seen me in are the baggy FedEx uniforms and the puffy coat I wear at the club. Between my job and the gym, I actually work out pretty hard most days, and I’m wearing a black t-shirt that shows it off. From the way Layla’s looking at me right now, the shirt is doing its job.

  Unfortunately, she’s not the only one who notices. The hostess, a cute little thing with long brown hair, bats her eyelashes as she hands me a menu. She’s pretty, sure, and if Layla weren’t around, I might be a little interested. But it’s the same look I get all the time. They see the tattoos, they see the dark skin, and they see a bad boy and nothing else. Right now, I can’t see anything but the girl across the table, the girl who seems to see me. And I want this chick to stop flirting with me in front of my date.

  “Should we get a bottle?” I ask Layla when the hostess asks for drink orders.

  Her eyes bulge slightly as she nods. She’s only nineteen––I wonder if this is the first time anyone has ordered a bottle of wine at dinner who wasn’t her dad. Shit, I’m not sure I’ve ever ordered a bottle of wine at dinner.

  “Um...that one,” I say, pointing to a random name on the list. I have no fuckin’ clue what I’m doing. Usually I drink PBR or whatever cheap beer is handy.

  The hostess walks away with another wink my way, but I ignore her, especially since I see that Layla has noticed the flirting too and is not happy about it. Okay, time to distract. I’m not going to let this date be ruined in the first five minutes.

  I tug off my beanie and set it on the table. When I look up, Layla is staring at me, mouth slightly open, as I push a hand through my short, curly hair. Really? All I had to do was take off my hat to get her to look at me that way?

  I clear my throat.

  “You clean up good, NYU,” I say, trying for some levity. “But I already knew that. A lot different than your usual look in the office.”

  Immediately, she smiles. She does look different. With the gold chains and the tight clothes, she sort of looks like some of the girls from my neighborhood. I can’t decide if I like it or not.

  “Oh. Yeah, thanks,” she says as she opens her menu.

  I watch her for a second. She’s fidgeting, tapping a finger on the side of her menu, avoiding my gaze. Does she really not know the effect she has on me?

  “Well, I think you’d look good in a paper bag,” I tell her, provoking another shy smile.

  A silence falls, and we both become really interested in looking through our menus. Layla seems surprised when I order the steak. I want to ask her why, but I don’t want to hear her say what I’m pretty sure she was thinking: that she thought I was too poor to order the most expensive thing on the menu.

  No. I’m not going there tonight. Not when I’ve been thinking about this date for the last two weeks and definitely not when she hasn’t said anything. I’m not going to let the chip on my shoulder fuck things up.

  “I’ll have the side salad,” she says, handing her menu back to the waiter.

  Now I’m the one who’s surprised. “You’re only going to eat a side salad?”

  Layla just looks uncomfortable, but smiles at the waiter and nods. “I had a big lunch,” she says to me.

  I don’t believe her. “Whatever you say, sweetie,” I say.

  I have two sisters––I know how chicks are. Layla’s nineteen and obviously does something to keep her ass looking like that. Guaranteed she can put it down. Which means she’s not ordering for one of two reasons: she doesn’t want me to think she’s fat (yeah, not possible), or she can’t afford it.

  It’s then I consider that maybe Layla isn’t exactly the same as the rich kids she goes to school with. Her jewelry and her nice clothes tell me she comes from something, but she’s also working twenty-five hours a week on top of going to school. It’s not full-time work like my sister, but she’s no slouch. Rich kids don’t have to work as receptionists.

  I hope she’ll tell me what’s up, but she doesn’t say a word. Okay, then. Time to move on.

  We continue sipping our wine way too quickly, making awkward conversation about the weather and the recent subway repairs on Forty-Ninth Street until our food arrives. It’s…weird. And really fuckin’ awkward.

  I don’t get it. The energy I feel with this girl in every other place is like the way the air feels right before a thunderstorm. Sparks everywhere. All she has to do is smile, and I’m on fuckin’ fire. But now, on an actual date, sitting across from one another, we can’t get up a conversation any better than one I’d have with my Great Aunt Cecelia. And she speaks this really weird Creole dialect that I barely understand.

  I watch as Layla drains her second glass of wine and reaches for the bottle, and it’s then I realize the problem. We’re both nervous.

  Layla

  To hell with playing nice, I decide just as our food arrives. Nico and I have been staring awkwardly at each other for the last fifteen minutes while we drank an entire bottle of wine. My lips are feeling loose. I have questions. He has stories. With a little liquid courage, I’m ready to dive in.

  “So, Nico,” I say, spearing a piece of lettuce with my fork. “What’s with working at FedEx?”

  He frowns at me mid-bite of his steak, then swallows heavily. “What do you mean?”

  “Do you like it there? How long have you worked there? Is that all you want to do for a living?”

  This strategy can go either way, I know. Some guys would take these kinds of questions to mean I think he’s a loser, like I’m giving him the third degree in order to make him feel like shit about himself, make him think he should change. More often than not, I’ve found those guys are just insecure in general. There’s a reason they always think they’re under attack.

  I hope he’s not like that. I don’t want Nico to feel persecuted here, but our date so far has been about as exciting as dry toast. If this is how “nice” girls behave all the time—non-confrontational and demure—I can’t for the life of me understand how any of them ever have fun.

  Nico peers at me with a raised eyebrow, as if he’s trying to figure out where I’m going with my questions, and then shrugs. “It’s not a dream job or anything, but it pays good. I’ve been there for almost seven years now.”

  I almost choke on my lettuce. That would have made him, well, my age when he started working for them. I can’t imagine having the same job for that long. If I had to answer phones at Fox and Lager for seven years, I’d strangle myself. With the telephone cord.

  But before I can respond, he continues.

  “I was actually in school before then, but I had to drop out when my mom got hurt. I was the only one old enough to help out when she couldn’t work. My buddy got me the job at FedEx, and I’ve been there ever since.”

  He takes another large bite of his steak, but keeps his intense black gaze trained squarely on me, watching my reaction carefully.

  I swallow. “Your mom. Is she okay now?”

  His expression softens, almost as if he’s relieved that I’m not trying to tear apart what he does. He nods.

  “Yeah, she’s fine, but she can’t really work much anymore. Her back’s all messed up. The doctor says she has a couple of ruptured discs.”

  “Jesus, that’s terrible.” I’m shooting for kind here, even though I’m wondering what kind of ruptured disc problem keeps you housebound for seven years. “She’s lucky she has you to help.”

  “Well, it’s not just me anymore,” he says gruffly. “But when I started, my sisters were both in high school, and my brother was just a kid. We didn’t have health insurance, so when I was old enough to get a job with benefits, I was able to claim them as dependents and get everyone medical.”

  I try to maintain a neutral expression and tone that echoes the one he’s kept firmly in place, but it’s hard. I can’t imagine having to support three younger siblings at my age. I also want to ask why h
is mother didn’t have health insurance, but something in his darkened expression tells me he doesn’t want to talk about this anymore.

  “So what about now?” I ask. “Do you ever think of going back? To school, I mean?”

  He considers the thought again, chewing carefully. “I’ve thought about it. But honestly, I actually want to be…well…it’s kind of dumb.”

  I lean forward over my plate, curiosity getting the better of me. He is so much more interesting than the watery cucumbers in my garden salad. “What? What is it?”

  He grins, and I almost knock over my wine.

  “Well,” he says. “The engineering degree was really more because I thought it would be a good idea than something I was really interested in. But since I was a kid, I actually wanted to become a firefighter. Like, for the FDNY. Those guys are tough, and they live a kick-ass life. You get to be active, save people’s lives, and once you’re hired, you pretty much have a job for life unless you do something to really screw it up. And then, after 9/11...well, you were here. You know what happened.”

  We both grow quiet at the mention of 9/11. I was only a freshman when it happened, had only been in the city for three weeks, and the memory of it was seared into my heart. Like most people who were actually in the city for it, neither of us elaborate. It was only a year and a half ago that the city shut down, filled with the ghostly debris of death and asbestos in the wake of one of the biggest tragedies in American history. Most of us still don’t have the words for it. I think the shock that everyone in the country felt was the only reason my dad didn’t yank me out of New York immediately.

  Nico continues. “I just kept coming back to the firefighters. I always wanted to be one before, but those guys were really heroes. Some of them gave their lives to help the people who were trapped in those buildings. I just...I remember thinking after that, I want to do that. I want to be someone people think about as a hero.” He bites his lip and gives a sheepish grin. “I sound like a little kid, don’t I?”