“You think we should go to confession?” Nico jokes.
I snort. In a weird way, it would be fitting. I haven’t been to confession since my dad left, and since then, I’ve been sinning left and right. But I don’t think I could ever repent for anything I do with this man. Everything about him feels right. Even when it hurts.
So I sit up and wipe the tears away. Again.
“I want you,” I admit. “I’ll probably always want you.”
One side of Nico’s full mouth quirks with a half-smile. “Yeah.”
I sigh. “Yeah. But I want to do something different than mope about the fact that you’re leaving again. If we only have five days, then I want to do them right.”
~
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Nico
“Okay,” I say once Layla sits up and stops crying. I’m glad––not because I don’t want her to feel what she feels, but because I fuckin’ hate it when my girl is sad. And I hate it even more that I’m the one who made her cry. “What should we do, then? Hang out here? Go get some food? When do you take off for Thanksgiving with your friends?”
“Um, never?” she says, swiping under her eyelids again.
I know I shouldn’t like it since she’s been crying, but afterward, her eyes turn this crazy shade of aquamarine. Right now they shine, and I can’t look away.
“I’m not going anywhere for Thanksgiving,” she says.
I frown. “You’re not going home with Quinn or one of them?”
She shakes her head. “My roommates are all going somewhere with their families.” She shrugs. “I’ll probably just stay here and get ahead on schoolwork.”
Huh. This is not what I expected at all. Despite the fact that Layla comes from so much more than I do, I actually have more of a home to go back to than she does. The shitty one-bedroom where my mother still lives might not be much, but it’s the place where I grew up. And when all of my siblings and I get together there, we might drive each other crazy, but it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Layla doesn’t have that anymore. My chest physically hurts as I realize the pain she’ll be going through over the holidays this year.
“Fuck that.”
I shake my head. The idea of Layla sitting alone in this dorm room eating takeout while I’m gorging myself on turkey and sweet potatoes goes against everything I know is right.
“You’re coming home with me.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “Seriously?”
I nod. The idea is scary––between my sisters and my mother, I’m basically feeding her to the wolves––but it also sounds right. I’m home for the holidays. Celebrating with my family, and Layla should be there. It will maybe make up a little for this colossal fuckup that just happened. You don’t take someone you don’t care about home to meet your mother. And, I realize with an ache in my chest, there’s no one I care about more.
I kiss her again––because her lips just beg for it, and the way they’re open right now in surprise is too fuckin’ adorable not to. Then I kiss her again, and again, until the room is full of her laughter, chasing away her tears.
“One rule,” I confirm. “No holding back, baby. My mother puts something on the table, you gotta eat it.”
Layla just giggles. Motherfucker. I forgot how beautiful that sound is. My grin is so big I feel like my face is going to split into pieces.
“Okay,” she says. “Stuff myself silly. Got it. What can I bring?”
~
Layla
We meander around Union Square a while, hand in hand, talking about everything and nothing. In a way, it’s like he never left. I tell him about my classes––despite Quinn’s reservations at the beginning of the quarter, my African Diaspora class has ended up being one of my favorites. Where I went to school in Washington, black history was one-sided, had one month where when you learned anything about it. The teachers usually recycled the same few faces: Martin Luther King, Malcolm X. Sometimes they brought up Oprah.
But in this class I’ve been learning that because of slavery, Africans came to this part of the world almost concurrently with Europeans. I’m learning about how deeply entrenched racism is in just about every country in the Americas; how deeply entwined that history is with my history, my family’s history. And more evidently, Nico’s family’s too.
“Do you consider yourself black?” I ask him after I mention a book we just finished, Piri Thomas’s Down These Mean Streets. It’s a book that made me think a lot about Nico and his mother when I read it––a memoir of a Puerto Rican man from Spanish Harlem figuring out his identity as both black and Latino. Even though it was written in 1967, a lot of it seemed relevant to Nico’s life. At least, so far as I could tell.
Nico blinks, clearly surprised by the question. Whatever he was expecting me to say right then, it wasn’t that.
“No,” he says finally. “Do you?”
I can’t tell for sure, but his expression isn’t one I’ve seen before. Guarded, sharp. Maybe a little scared.
I shrug. “No. But I’m not. My dad is a light-skinned Brazilian, and my mom’s about as Aryan as it gets with her blue eyes and blonde hair. It’s not really up for discussion.”
“And it is with me?”
I glance at him nervously. “You act like I’d think it was terrible if you said yes.”
Nico shakes his head. “It’s not that. I just…no. No, I don’t consider myself black. To start, it’s not something most people say to me. I mean, I’m sure there’s some African in there somewhere. My mom’s darker than me, from Cuba, right? It’s in the blood over there. At the same time, I grew up boricua, or Puerto Rican, even if plenty of people would say that I’m not actually from the island. But I grew up speaking Spanish, you know?”
I frown. “I don’t get it. If you know you’re part black, doesn’t that make you black?”
“I think there’s a difference,” he says carefully, “between having somebody’s DNA running through your veins and having it come out on your skin, versus being a part of a culture, you know? Maybe that’s what that cat in the book was talking about, what he was struggling with. Like, I could see how it would be hard for him in El Barrio, especially in the sixties. That racism you’re talking about, it’s everywhere. Puerto Rican, Cuban, Dominican, whatever––a lot of people don’t want to be seen as black because they think it makes them less Latino. Less…I don’t know…pure, I guess.”
I twist my mouth around. I wouldn’t necessarily look at Nico and say he’s black, but you can tell he’s a mix of a bunch of things, and that black is probably one of them. He makes it sound like it’s a choice he has. It’s confusing.
“Shit,” he continues. “You wanna talk DNA, most of the people in this country are technically people of color. You know, if you want to go by the one-drop rule. But one drop, ten drops, none of it matters if you don’t look the way that people see you.” He looks at me knowingly. “I think you know that. Technically you and I are probably the same percentage Latino, whatever that really means. But which one of us looks it, huh?”
I look down at our joined hands. My much lighter skin contrasts with the deep tan of his.
Nico shrugs. “In New York, you know, sometimes it’s just about how you show it. I look mixed, so I guess if I wanted people to think I was black, I could be. Other people don’t have that choice, like my sisters.”
“What do you mean?”
Nico pulls me into his side, and we take a seat on a bench that faces Gramercy Park. We’ve been walking a while now, having circled the park a couple of times. I like this part of the city––it’s quieter, full of classic old brownstones that feel like an Edith Wharton novel. Like someone wearing petticoats and carrying a parasol should walk around each corner.
Nico doesn’t say anything for a while, so I wait patiently. His answers have my mind working a mile a minute.
“My dad was half Italian, half Puerto Rican,” he says finally. “I ran into him a few times when I was
a kid. He was a little dark, but not too dark. I get my hair from him, and also my nose. Selena and Maggie on the other hand, their dad was from Cuba, and dude was like, black black. Like, you-wouldn’t-be-asking-this-question black. They both have darker skin, much darker than mine.” He pauses, and taps his finger to his lips. “Then there’s Gabe’s dad, David. That asshole’s family is from the Dominican Republic, but the way he tells it, he descended from Christopher fuckin’ Columbus. He’s fair––really fair, like you. And Gabe looks like that, doesn’t he? Like, until he opens his mouth and starts talking, it’s not really clear what he is, huh?” Nico pauses again, mulling. “I guess…for some people, maybe the lucky ones, race is a decision more than something they just are. For others, the ones who can’t hide it, it’s just a fact. To me, that’s where you really see racism. That lack of choice. That’s why, you know, racism isn’t just about how others hate you for your skin color. It’s about a system that also makes you hate yourself.”
I blanch. I’ve read Invisible Man. I’ve read Kate Chopin. Most of my life I’ve barely considered myself Latina because other than a few oblique references to my “exotic” black hair or curvy physique, I mostly “present” or “pass,” as my professor would call it, like I’m white. I checked the Latino/Hispanic boxes on my college applications mostly to be considered for scholarships and affirmative action, not because I really thought of myself a part of that category.
Until now. Still, I’m not sure that I agree with Nico about everything. Identity isn’t just skin-deep, and it’s not something I could choose like a mask either because I have light skin. It’s hard to claim a trauma I’ve never personally experienced. Not in the ways that Nico, his sisters, or even my father surely have. But I’m not just written through with my mother’s privilege either, totally oblivious to these issues because I don’t experience them at all.
I really don’t know. But the whole question does make me understand more why my father works so hard to distance himself from people of color. I just wish he had shared those hardships with me instead of pushing me away. Maybe we could have borne them together.
I shake my head. “Tell me about your test,” I pivot. “I’m so excited for you.”
Nico brightens, clearly happy to change the subject. I don’t blame him. It’s complicated––maybe too complicated for an afternoon still. If he was paler, I’d be able to see him blush, but Nico just shoves his hands in his pockets and pushes a nonexistent rock aside with his toe.
“Um, yeah,” he said. “It’s no big deal. It just sounded like…” he sighs, like he’s trying to decide whether to tell me something. “I just don’t want to do the same old shit for the rest of my life. You know what I figured out this summer? That I fuckin’ hate nightclubs. I hate everyone there except K.C. I hate the people. I hate the music. I just want to do something I actually like. And saving lives sounds pretty damn good.” He shakes his head and runs a hand over his beanie. “I don’t know. I’m not much of a student. I’m not smart like you, baby.”
I don’t say anything for a long time. Finally, he looks at me, his eyes big and nervous.
“What?” he asks. “You think it’s a bad idea?”
His face is full of doubt, and I hate it. I want him to see himself like I see him. I want him to see how smart he is, how kind, how full of joy, full of so much to offer the world. This is why we need each other in our lives. Nico buoys me, makes me think in ways no one else does. Maybe I can do the same for him.
“I am so fucking proud of you,” I tell him solemnly. “You are super smart––way smarter than me. And I think it is awesome you are doing this. You’ll kick ass if you give it your best. I know you will.”
Slowly, as my words sink in, warmth flows into the endless black of his eyes. I press a gentle kiss to his full lips, but his arms snake around my back, and he holds me close as he turns the kiss into something much more intoxicating. When he lets me go, his face is a curious mix of desire and gratitude. He blows out a long breath.
“Thanks, baby,” he says. “I needed that.”
We get up and continue walking, circling back down through the Flatiron District and back to the Village. It’s a good place to walk. The affluent neighborhood is full of quiet, brownstone-lined streets with trees that still have the last of their fall foliage. Eventually the conversation rolls around to our personal lives. Nico keeps looking around as we pass other men, and he stiffens a little whenever someone with glasses walks by.
“So, your new man,” he says, like it’s totally normal that he’s bringing this up after we just had sex and spent a good part of the afternoon together. “What’s he like?”
I give him a funny look. “Well, like I said, he’s not my man. We hang out sometimes. Second of all, do you really want to hear about this?”
Nico’s face darkens. “No,” he admits. “But I probably better. Just in case.”
“Just in case what?”
“Just…in case,” he says cryptically. He presses a kiss to the back of my hand and gives me a smile that’s tinged with pain. “Look. I’m not going to pretend I like it. But…it is what it is. And I need you in my life, Layla, which means I need to hear about what’s going on in yours. You’re so beautiful…” He hooks my chin with a finger. “Of course you’re gonna have a boyfriend. I’m honestly surprised you don’t yet.”
I sigh. Nico shrugs.
“So, who is this bum?” he jokes.
I roll my eyes. “He’s Argentinian. A student at City College.”
Nico perks up. “Yeah? I wonder if Gabe knows him. What’s his name?”
I narrow my eyes. “Giancarlo. Why would Gabe know him?”
Did Gabe tell him about seeing me uptown that one time? Nico hasn’t said anything about it, but you never know…
Nico gives me the biggest, fakest, widest-eyed look I’ve ever seen. “Maybe they have a class together or something. Maybe they can be friends. We could invite him to Thanksgiving too. You, me, my crazy family, and your new boyfriend.”
“Only if we invite Jessie.”
We’re both laughing, and it feels good to joke about this, even if the idea of each other being with someone else makes both of us kind of sick.
“Okay, okay,” Nico says after a bit. “Maybe not. I’m not sure I could sit across from Jack in the Box––”
“Giancarlo,” I correct him.
“What’d you say? Evita?”
“Stop.” I nudge him in the shoulder, but I can’t help but laugh a little.
“Whatever. El Tango Shithead.” Nico grins. “You know I’m never gonna like anyone you go out with, baby. Nobody’s good enough for my NYU.”
My smile falls, but before I can say anything, Nico slings a heavy arm around my shoulder and lays a thick kiss on my temple.
“What next?” he asks.
I shrug. “I need to study some more this evening. Boring, I know.”
He immediately turns us back in the direction of the dorms. But I’m surprised to find another silly grin on his face.
“What?” I ask as he steers us back down Broadway.
“You need to study?” he repeats. “Me too.”
I never realized how much fun that sentence could be before now.
~
CHAPTER TWELVE
Layla
On Thursday afternoon, I’m standing nervously on a corner in Hell’s Kitchen. For the rest of the week, Nico and I haven’t been able to see each other much. He was busy with family stuff on Tuesday and Wednesday while I finished a few midterm papers on top of my normal coursework, but we’ve been able to grab dinner together (okay, and a bit more than that in my room) once. But that’s about it.
My roommates all left for their various holiday destinations last night, and Nico is staying with me tonight before he goes back to LA tomorrow morning. After dropping his stuff off at my dorm, we left for Thanksgiving dinner. At his mother’s place.
Even in the cold, his palm is a little sweaty as he holds m
y hand tightly. He’s nervous too.
“Have you ever brought a girl home with you before?” I wonder as we walk down Forty-Ninth Street. Nico stops in front of an ordinary brick apartment building.
I’ve heard about this place a few times. You wouldn’t know by looking at it that it’s breaking down from the ground up because the landlord doesn’t bother to do any maintenance, forcing the residents to fix their own broken pipes or electrical problems…or not. Nico doesn’t talk much about his childhood, but I know it was hard. I know that his mother moved here when she was young and raised her kids, four of them from three different fathers, in a tiny apartment in an expensive city. I can imagine how hard it was for a single working mother to keep track of her kids in a city like this. There’s a reason why Nico got into enough trouble as a teenager to land himself in a detention center.
He squeezes my hand again.
“You’re the first,” he admits as he looks at the building.
I haven’t been around this part of the city much. Times Square is only a few blocks east, but once you cross Eighth Avenue, it’s a completely different world. Hell’s Kitchen is a neighborhood that’s changing fast. The street we’re on is an even mix of fancy new restaurants and mom-and-pop shops that you know have been there forever. A tapas bar next to a barbershop. A cigar store next to a boutique. Across the street from Nico’s building looms the red-brick walls of the local church, along with a fenced parish school.
“Did you go there?” I ask, nodding at the playground equipment locked on a blacktop behind a chain-link fence.
Nico follows my gaze and shakes his head. “Private school? Oh no, we couldn’t afford that, NYU. My school was about six blocks from here.”
Oh. Of course. I want to smack myself for even asking.
“We’d go to church there, though,” he says, nodding at a sign for a Spanish Mass posted next to the church doors. “Every damn Sunday.” He winks at me. “You better be careful. If my mother likes you enough, she’ll start dragging you with her.”
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