Bad Idea- The Complete Collection

by Nicole French

  Nico gulps while he crosses and uncrosses his arms. His hesitation stabs, hurts more than I thought it would. After talking to Maggie and Carmen, I knew this was a possibility. That whatever he did, wherever he went, something about it might finally cross the line. That after this is all over, he might want nothing to do with me.

  “No,” he says, loud and clear.

  I try to ignore the way my chest feels like it’s going to cave in. It hurts. Oh, God, it hurts so much worse than Giancarlo’s hands or my ankle.

  But Nico doesn’t look away. His gaze remains steady, bound to mine. “She’s her own woman. I’m just lucky enough to love her.”

  Then he crosses the room and collapses next to me on the couch. Pulls me into his arms and cradles me to his broad, warm chest.

  “I got you, baby,” he says, repeating those sweet, simple words that flood my body, my heart, my soul with warmth. With homecoming. “I got you.”

  Slowly, my arms find their way around his waist. Slowly, I’m holding him too.

  “I got you, too,” I murmur into his chest. The lines of his compass tattoo, black and broad, show through the thin white cotton. I kiss him there, and a low rumble, so low only I can hear it, stirs in his chest.

  “I know, baby,” he says. “I know.”

  We sit like that for several minutes, until Carmen emerges from the kitchen holding a spatula.

  “Ya la comida está,” she tells us.

  As we all gather around the small table to eat the chicken and rice that Carmen has made, Nico sighs as he looks over the food. It’s a good look. This room used to be where the TV was, and the other room was storage area for his and his siblings’ things. But since Carmen moved here, this apartment, which always felt more like a bachelor pad, turned into a home.

  “Mami,” he says sadly as he dishes up some food. “Tienes que mudarte para tras a Hell’s Kitchen.”

  I glance between him and his mother, not understanding what he said. But Carmen freezes as she dishes up Allie’s food.

  “What? Why does she have to move back?” Maggie’s voice is sharp.

  Carmen sighs wearily and finishes putting rice on Allie’s plate. “Por qué?”

  Nico rubs his face and pulls off his baseball cap so he can run a hand through his hair. Carmen snags the hat and tosses it onto an extra chair behind her.

  “He knows. Layla’s—the guy—he knows about Ma. Flaco and I found a whole bunch of coke stashed in his closet, so we called the cops. But when they were taking him out...” Nico sighs and takes his mother’s hand. “He said he knew, Ma. I think he’s gonna tell them about you.”

  The desire to eat vanishes as my stomach drops to the floor. This is my fault. Yet another way I’m causing this family damage.

  “Oh my God,” I say. “Oh my God, oh my God.”

  Carmen is strangely still.

  “I’m so, so sorry, Carmen. I told him because I—” I cut myself off, suddenly remembering the catalyst of everything that’s happened. The passage. The book. “Where did you put my stuff?” I ask Nico as I stand up.

  His brows screw up in confusion. “By the door. Why?”

  “Hold on,” I say. “I have to show you something.”

  I hop down the hall and root around the trash bags until I locate the textbook I had been reading when I came across the paragraph on Cuban immigration. Quickly, I flip to the page, carry it back to the table, and set it down in front of Carmen.

  Nico scoots his chair over to look on with his mother. “What is this?”

  “Look at the second paragraph,” I tell them.

  Carmen scans the page, but it’s clear she can’t read English much better than she can speak it. She looks to Nico, whose dark eyes are flying over the text, his lips moving silently with it.

  “Mira, mira,” he says, pointing at the paragraph. “‘Any close relative of a Cuban national can visit the country.’ Ma, do you understand this?” He looks at me, suddenly alert. “Does this mean what I think it means?”

  I swallow and nod. “I think so. I think it means you can go to Cuba to get her birth certificate. I was on my way here to tell you that when Giancarlo, he—”

  My voice fades away, and Nico, with obvious understanding, reaches around the table and takes my hand.

  “This is why he got angry?” he asks. “Because you were trying to help my family?”

  Wordlessly, I nod. “He found me here, about to press the button. This was before—before I called you.”

  Nico says nothing for what feels like several minutes. He blinks, his long, black lashes sweeping across his cheeks in slow-motion.

  “He would have done it anyway,” Maggie says, more to Nico than to me. She obviously understands his tendency to bear the blame for more than he has to. “Whether it was this or something else.”

  “I know,” I say, more to Nico than to her. “I know.”

  He blinks again, his eyes deep with emotions I can’t quite read. Then he leans over and pulls my hand to his lips. “Thank you,” he says quietly. He kisses my knuckles again. “Thank you.”

  I don’t respond, just squeeze his hand.

  He turns back to the book, flipping the pages back and forth, though he doesn’t let me go. “There’s nothing else in here about how this works. Baby, do you know anything more?”

  I shake my head. “No, I’m sorry. But—I could find out. I could ask my professor or someone who would know. I only saw this myself, and I tried to come and tell you as soon as I could.”

  “Nah, baby, that’s okay. We’ll find an attorney.” Nico looks up suddenly. “Why didn’t we know about this?”

  The entire family looks guiltily at each other around the table.

  I shrug. “I don’t remember this being in the papers. It wouldn’t have been front-page news.”

  Nico’s shoulders relax. He turns to his mother, who is still staring at the book, frozen. “Te comprendes?” he asks her softly.

  Slowly, Carmen nods. She doesn’t shake or cry—something tells me that Carmen Soltero rarely does either of those things. But her stillness has the whole table frozen right with her, even little Allie.

  “Well, then,” Nico says, looking back to me with shining eyes. “Looks like I need to get a passport, huh?”

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Nico

  It’s dark that night when I take Layla back to her apartment. After finishing dinner with my family, I brought her to the police station and literally held her hand the entire time while she told the cops what happened, then waited for another hour while she went into a room with a few of them and did it again. It was...hard. Harder than I expected to sit there and stay silent. She cried at least twice, and I practically ground my teeth into dust listening to her recount, again and again, the way Giancarlo cut his wrist and tackled her on the bed.

  She wiped off that god-awful yellow makeup that Maggie painted on her face and let the officers photograph her bruises. I don’t know what’s worse—the yellowy brown, caked-on crap or the blues and purples that make her face and neck look like a fuckin’ Jackson Pollock painting. But in the end, I think I’d take the latter. I want Layla, real Layla, however she looks.

  I waited in the front of the station while she signed her statement. If I didn’t know I loved her before, I do now. I wouldn’t have sat in front of a suspicious row of cops for anyone else.

  So, it’s close to eleven by the time she unlocks her door, me right behind her with the three garbage bags full of stuff I got out of Giancarlo’s place. I’m guessing she hasn’t been home in a while. she wasn’t exactly moved in at his place, since her things were just sort of stacked in dickhead’s room, but there was a lot there. For whatever reason, she felt safer there than she did here. That’s how far this dude had his claws into her.

  It just makes me feel that much more guilty.

  When we walk in, Jamie and Shama are gone, out for the night to let off some steam after giving their own statements earlier tonight too. Quinn sits in t
he common area, surrounded by a pile of books. She pulls at a couple of the doll-like curls hanging around her face while she reads. Her hair reminds me of the stuff they had on my sisters’ dolls when we were kids.

  She turn around when the door shuts, and her expression turns ugly. “Oh. It’s you.”

  In front of me, Layla stiffens, but keeps hobbling in.

  I frown. “How you doin’, Quinn? How was the rest of your day?”

  I’m not exactly sad when she shrinks a little at my sharp tone. This bitch is supposed to be Layla’s friend, and she skipped all of it. I might feel guilty about everything that’s happened, but this chick has no fuckin’ excuse. She thinks she has the right to give me attitude? Yeah. Fuck that.

  Quinn swallows when she catches my glare, then gets a better look at Layla when she limps into the kitchen for some water. “Jesus. Are you—are you okay?”

  Layla turns around, and the fluorescent kitchen light reveals the real extent of her injuries. Quinn cringes. My grip on the bags is so tight I might pop a blood vessel.

  “I’m fine,” Layla replies.

  “You don’t look fine.” Quinn walks into the kitchen to examine Layla more closely. “You look like you just came back from a war zone. Have you seen a doctor? Called your parents?”

  “I said I’m fine,” Layla repeats testily. She finishes her water and sets the glass in the sink with maybe a little more force than she needs. “No thanks to you.”

  Quinn’s mouth falls open with disbelief. “Babe, you aren’t seriously mad because I didn’t join the cavalry to save you, are you? It doesn’t sound like they needed my help.”

  “I’m not mad,” Layla replies coldly. “And don’t call me babe.”

  They stare at each other, and it’s like the air between them is hard enough to smash. I’ve never seen Layla talk to her best friend like this before. Well, supposed best friend. I’ve heard enough about their banter to know that Layla and Quinn usually give each other as good as they get. Quinn’s goading her a little, probably trying to reestablish the pecking order. I heard enough last spring to know the score. Quinn usually talks to Layla like a big sister. Condescending, but caring.

  But older siblings don’t leave their little sisters in the lurch when they need help. I should know.

  Layla’s not having it either. Without responding to Quinn, she limps back to me, takes my hand, and pulls me into her room, where she shuts the door. I drop the garbage bags on the floor, and while I sit down on her bed, Layla immediately starts pulling things out of them and putting them away, despite her limp, moving in that fast, forceful manner I recognize clearly. They’re the same jerky motions my sisters use when they’re pissed off about something but trying to hold back. Human equivalents of a kettle put on to boil.

  Slam, two pairs of boots hit the floor of the closet. Smack, smack, belt buckles flying into the door of the closet. A bag of makeup hits the desk hard enough to send stray papers flying.

  “Hey, NYU?” I ask as I pull my hat off and set it on the desk. Her shoulders tense. “You, um, you sure you don’t want to rest or something? That stuff can wait.”

  My girl is about to drop. Her movements are sure, but her body droops. She pauses for a second at her closet. The only thing I want to do is curl up with her on this tiny-ass mattress of hers and fall asleep. I’ll hold her until she starts to forget. Forever, if I have to.

  But forever is going to have to wait.

  “What the fuck?”

  Quinn marches into the room without knocking with a determined look on her porcelain face. I sit up straight. Fuck, no. This bitch is not about to start something with Layla. Not now.

  Layla turns around wearily from the closet. “Quinn, what is it?”

  “You just gave me the silent treatment, that’s what!”

  “Quinn,” I warn from the bed.

  “Hush, FedEx!” she snaps at me before turning back to Layla.

  Her hands find her hips, making her look a little like Peter Pan. A curly-haired, imperious, crazy bitchy Peter Pan. I sort of want to toss her out the window. Be all like, you can fly, bitch.

  “You’re unbelievable,” she snaps. “You waltz back in here looking like Night of the Living Dead, with Special Delivery on your heels, and you expect me not to say anything? Give me the cold shoulder and expect me to take it?”

  I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from saying anything. This chick has always looked at me like that, unable to see past the day job. She’s the kind of person who likes to box people in. Layla was fine as long as she was willing to play her part: best friend, whatever. But she didn’t stay in her box, and Quinn isn’t taking it well.

  “My ex-boyfriend just sprained my ankle,” Layla points out as she limps toward Quinn. “I hardly think that allows me to waltz in anywhere. I’m just tired. I was going to put my stuff away and go to sleep, if that’s all right with you.”

  Quinn rolls her eyes. “This is my room too,” she continues. “And you need a reality check. I don’t think I’ve been out of line by asking you not to screw my life up with yours. Speaking of which, what’s he doing here?”

  Quinn nods at me like I’m a fucking lamp or a coat rack. For real, this girl has always bugged me. She has that way about her, that thing rich people do when they treat everyone else like inanimate objects. Like they don’t fucking matter.

  “Don’t talk about him like that,” Layla says as she steps toward me. “He just saved my life.”

  Without thinking, I take her hand and squeeze it so she knows I’m here if she needs me. I’ll save her ten times daily. And tossing this chick out would be no hardship.

  “Look,” Layla tries again. “I’m sorry. I’ve just...this day has been really hard, okay? I need some space.”

  “Because it’s about you, right?” Quinn’s tone turns nastier with every word. “I forgot. It’s always about you. So fucking selfish.”

  Layla wilts into herself, wrapping her arms around her waist. It’s a posture that, if you know her at all, is a dead giveaway for when she’s feeling like shit. Unsure. Saddened. Worried. I glance between them, seeing clearly for the first time just what my girl has been going through all year. A family that basically checked out of her life, friends who chink away at her self-esteem, and a boyfriend who took advantage of that vulnerability.

  You should have been here. The thought rages through my head.

  Maybe I should, maybe I shouldn’t have. But I’m here now.

  “Quinn,” I say as I finally stand up. I keep Layla’s hand firmly in mine. “Step off. She’s had a day. We’ve had a day, all right?”

  “Oh, she doesn’t need this?” Quinn whirls around to me, her Peter Pan face twisted into a wicked witch. “Are you kidding me? You’ve been gone all year, Romeo. You have no clue what kind of ridiculous fucking drama she’s put the rest of us through.”

  “I think I do.” I grit out, fighting like hell to keep my patience. “I think I know because I’m the one she called. And do you know why she’d call me instead of her supposed best friend? Because she knows I’m the one who will actually show up instead of judging her half to death.”

  “Right,” Quinn says. “Showing up to jump into her bed. Half this shit is your fucking fault, FedEx! She was fine before you came around, and now you’re here, just like you always were, to fuck her and leave her!”

  “You know what?”

  Layla’s small voice behind me somehow breaks through the conversation. She hops in front of me, and instinctively, I wrap an arm around her waist from behind. I don’t want to admit it, but some of Quinn’s nasty words hit a little too close. Some of this is my fault. And I’ll carry that guilt for the rest of my life.

  “Stop talking about me like I’m not here,” Layla says to both of us. She presses gently on my chest, forcing my arm to unwind and let her free. “You’ve done enough fighting for me today.”

  I open my mouth to tell her that I’d fight for her any day, all day. That I’ll fight for her
for the rest of my life if she’ll let me. But her face is defiant, and for some reason, it sparks a little pride. She needs this, to stand up for herself, to say what she has to say.

  So I step back, hands up. “Whatever you need, baby.”

  Layla turns to Quinn. “You don’t need to worry about me anymore either,” she says in a voice that’s a lot softer than I think she wants it to be. If it were any other day, she’d be shouting. But right now my girl is tired. Broken. She needs a rest.

  That Peter Pan fantasy starts to sound better and better.

  “What?” Quinn balks. “Of course I do. We all do, clearly. You need to get your shit together and—”

  “No,” Layla puts in again, her voice quivering. “I mean you don’t have to worry about me. You made that pretty fucking clear when Jamie and Shama walked into that room without you.” She shakes her head and pulls on the end of her ponytail. “I don’t blame you for what Giancarlo did or the choices I made with him. I really don’t. But, Quinn, you could have helped instead of pushing me away. You could have called my parents. Even just listened sometimes instead of telling me everything that I was doing wrong. In the last nine months, I have never felt more alone in my entire life, and a lot of that has to do with the way my best friend treated me.”

  Quinn stills. I smirk a little. She was spunky enough in the beginning, with her little threats to me. What’d she say? That she’d feed my balls to the pigeons if I ever hurt her girl? I thought at first that she was that friend, the one who was protective, who wouldn’t let her roommates come to any harm. But where the fuck was she when Layla was hanging around a guy like El Tango Shithead? Where was she when her friend was in danger? I’ve watched and heard enough to know that Quinn’s the other type of girl––the catty kind my sisters cycle through from time to time. Layla’s better off without her.

  Layla continues: “I learned today who my real friends are. Who will really be there for me when things get legitimately tough. Not tough the way we think of it, with tests and final papers and oh, my dad forgot to call me. But really, really fucking hard. Quinn, I’m sorry, but I just don’t have room in my life for people who can’t hack it. And I guess...that includes you.”