True North

by Nicole French

  Beside me, Layla wilts, and I have to physically force down the growl in my chest. Is it fucked up that I want to punch that smug look off his face? What the fuck does he mean, “proud of what?” Layla’s a fucking incredible person, and you’d think the guy who fucking raised her would understand that. Dick.

  “Well, to start, she’s killing it in school,” I say, receiving a grateful smile from Layla. “You know every school of social work in the state is going to be throwing money at her for next year.”

  “Social work?”

  The elevator doors ring open, but no one leaves. Dr. Barros steps in between them so they won’t close, then turns to face his daughter.

  “What is he talking about?” he asks.

  Beside me, Layla shrinks into my shoulder. Fuck. I didn’t want to get her into trouble with her dad––I was just trying to focus on the good stuff. I thought she would have told him about her applications by now. A quick glance at her, and she shakes her head imperceptibly––no, her dad did not know anything about her plans to switch to social work. And clearly, he’s not happy about it.

  “Answer the question, Layla.”

  She sighs. “Do you think we could talk about this somewhere else besides the elevator, Dad?”

  Dr. Barros worries his jaw back and forth a bit before exhaling heavily through his nose.

  “Bring in your things,” he says in a much lower voice. “Take a rest. And then we will talk about whatever this… ‘social work’…is.”

  He walks out of the elevator without another word, and Layla gulps.

  “Sorry,” I whisper.

  She gives me a weak smile and shrugs. “It’s my fault. We don’t talk enough, and I was too chicken to tell him before. I’m sorry he’s being so rude to you.”

  “Please,” I say. “Like I ain’t seen scarier dudes than your dad a hundred times before.”

  I’m not about to tell her that even though I don’t like her dad, and I’m positive I could take him in a fight, I actually find the guy pretty fuckin’ intimidating. Sergio Barros isn’t a slouch. He’s obviously intelligent, ambitious, and successful. You don’t have to see his nice car or his fancy degrees to know he’s the kind of dude who doesn’t settle for less. And I already know he extends those expectations to his daughter.

  Yeah. That makes me nervous.

  But instead of saying so and stressing out my girl, I shrug back and stamp a quick kiss on her cheek when he’s not looking. Layla giggles. As we step out of the elevator into the apartment, I relax a little. In the end, it doesn’t really matter if any of the Barros family likes me at all––Layla is the one whose opinion counts.

  We walk into one of the nicest apartments I’ve ever seen, and that’s saying something. I may have grown up in a crappy little place, but I’ve seen some sweet digs in New York. This place is nicer than some of the posh pre-war spots my mom used to clean on the Upper East Side. Nicer than K.C.’s townhouse in Hoboken or Alba’s view on the West Side. This place is huge. Apparently a plastic surgeon’s salary buys you an entire floor of beachfront property in Brazil. It has me wondering why I’m a firefighter again.

  The living room alone is bigger than Layla’s and my entire apartment, covered with dark wood floors that aren’t even a little scuffed. The room has not one, but two sitting areas that include a bunch of spotless white furniture, including some arranged around a fireplace. Why would you ever need a fireplace in Brazil?

  The walls are decorated with tasteful and expensive-looking modern art––not really my preference, to be honest, but it definitely looks nice. No chintzy religious pictures or movie posters for this guy. But I also can’t help but notice the lack of pictures. No photos of his daughter or family. No mementos of his travel or knickknacks that show anything about his personality.

  I don’t know…Dr. Barros might be the kind of guy who likes interior design, but I’m betting he had this place decorated for him. This is the kind of place that screams high maintenance and makes me miss our secondhand couch and beat-up dining table. I’m here for less than five minutes, and I already want to get back to me and Layla. Our small piece of New York. Home.

  “Dad. Wow. This place is amazing.”

  Layla’s even taken aback as she stares around the giant living room, with its picture windows that look out over the promenade and hills rising to the southeast. Is it weird I’m glad she’s impressed? That she’s not really used to this kind of luxury?

  “Remove your shoes. Then come.”

  Dr. Barros waves us down a long hallway off the other side of the living room, but as Layla and I awkwardly take off our sneakers, I can’t help but notice that her dad keeps his on. I follow them down the hall, holding my beat-up Converse like a bum while Dr. Barros gives us a lightning-quick tour of a bathroom, his bedroom, another bathroom, his housekeeper’s quarters (holy shit, this guy has a live-in housekeeper?), and the three more rooms at the end of the hall.

  “You will stay here,” he says to Layla, pointing through an open door to a simple bedroom with a double bed and a dresser. “Guest room.” He gestures at me, but doesn’t make eye contact. “I didn’t know you were coming, but I will have the maid make up this room.”

  Dr. Barros jerks his head toward another room, which looks like some kind of rec room, with a TV and a couch. No bed.

  “My bedroom is here. In the middle.” He gives me a knowing look. “I am a light sleeper.”

  It takes everything I have not to look away, but I’m not going to be ashamed. I want to tell him that if I want to sneak into Layla’s room while we’re here, I’ll be as quiet as a cat. I want to tell his smug face that I already know his daughter Biblically in every sense of the word, that we share a bed every single night. But I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t be allowed to know her that way ever again if I spilled that secret for her. Not right now.

  Instead I just give him the biggest grin I can manage––the one that Layla calls my lady killer when she thinks I’m not listening to her talk to Shama. It’s the one that shows my dimples, and I enjoy the way that Layla blushes when she sees it. I also enjoy the way Dr. Barros scowls when he notices his daughter’s reaction.

  “Couch sounds great, Mr. Barros.”

  He frowns, the lines on his forehead deepening. “Doctor. It’s Dr. Barros.”

  I grin even wider and nod. Yeah, asshole, I know. Some people just need to be fucked with.

  Dr. Barros turns to Layla, clearly about to launch into a new tirade, probably about the little bomb I dropped in the elevator. But just as his mouth opens to reveal two silver fillings, the pager on his belt goes off.

  Dr. Barros mutters to himself in Portuguese, something that I’d guess isn’t too polite by the look on Layla’s face. He looks up, twisting his mouth around into another deep scowl. I swear to God, it’s like a frown is this dude’s default expression. I wonder if he goes out of his way to make himself look like an asshole.

  “I have to return to the hospital,” he says. “I will be back, maybe for dinner. Benedita is doing the shopping, I think, but she will have the cooking done by eight.” He looks up. “Layla, there is a key for you in your room. I already told the guards downstairs your name. Can you give your…his name to them if he leaves?”

  Dr. Barros tips his head at me, like I’m not even there, and I’m practically grinding my teeth to keep from shouting, “Nico, you arrogant fuck! My fuckin’ name is Nico!”

  Layla sighs and nods. “Yeah. I think my Portuguese is good enough to do that.”

  Dr. Barros clears his throat while he glares between us. “And no…you do not go into her room. This is a decent house. You are not alone. Entende?”

  He lapses into Portuguese, like he almost can’t help himself. Like the very thought of his daughter being defiled by the likes of me makes him lose his mind.

  And you know what’s fucked up? I like it. It makes me a dick, but I like that the one thing that really disturbs this cocky asshole’s perfect cool is his awareness that h
is only daughter is probably getting it good on the regular from a tattooed, working-class me.

  We glare at each other, and I stand as tall as I can. I can’t help it. I arch one eyebrow, and Dr. Barros sucks in a breath. He knows exactly what I’m thinking.

  “Dad.”

  Layla’s voice breaks the standoff. We both turn to her, and suddenly, it’s very clear my girl is ready to drop. And of course she is. We’ve been traveling for way too long, starting with a red-eye out of New York. Her eyes are bloodshot, and her skin is pale. As badly as I might want to fuck with her dad by fooling around with Layla while he’s gone, there’s obviously no way she’s going to do anything but sleep in his absence.

  Dr. Barros seems to know it too. For the first time, a little softness crosses his face as he looks––really looks––at his daughter for the first time since she arrived. His eyes travel over her weary body, taking in her rumpled t-shirt, the way her hair is piled atop her head, the dark circles, a lot like his, that have gotten worse for lack of sleep. He reaches out a hand and gently strokes her cheek. And as if she can’t help it, Layla closes her eyes and leans into his palm.

  Fuck. It physically hurts to see how badly she wants her dad’s love. And honestly, who doesn’t? I remember when I was a kid, when I tracked down my dad at the grocery store in the Bronx where he worked. I was dying for his attention, and when he barely looked at me, it just about killed me. I can’t imagine how painful it is to have someone turn their back on you when they spent the first eighteen years of your life actually being present.

  And yeah. It makes me hate the dude that much more.

  “Go rest, linda,” he tells her, and then, with another nasty look at me, he leaves.

  When the elevator doors close behind him, Layla practically melts into the doorway. The high of landing in Brazil and seeing her dad is gone now, and what’s left is exhaustion.

  “Shit, sweetie,” I say as I pull her against me. “Come on. Let’s get you into bed.”

  She lets me tow her into her room, despite the fact that her dad just told me explicitly not to enter there. But despite the fact that her body feels as good in my arms as it ever does, I just help her lie down on the bed and sit next to her, stroking her hair back from her face as she looks drowsily up at me, her blue eyes the only light in the darkened room.

  “Sorry my dad was such a jerk,” she murmurs, one hand clasped lazily around my wrist.

  I smile down at her. “Don’t worry about it. I’m sorry I blew your news, baby.”

  She sighs and shakes her head. “It’s fine. He needed to know anyway. I keep too many secrets from him.”

  Like me, I want to say. Like the fact that I’m not just your boyfriend, not just some dude you go on dates with. Like the fact that I’m the love of your life, right? That we live together? That we’re starting to make a real life together?

  Aren’t we?

  It’s kind of crazy how much I liked what she said at the airport. The idea of having a daughter of my own one day scares the shit out of me, but the idea of Layla pregnant, our kid growing inside her…yeah. I probably like that too much. And it didn’t escape me how quickly she walked it back.

  So I try not to overthink why Layla hasn’t told her parents about the real extent of our relationship yet. I try not to wonder if maybe, just maybe, she hasn’t really told them because she’s ashamed of me. Because maybe she doesn’t really think we’ll be together forever.

  The thoughts press like a knife that’s always poised right over my heart, holding me hostage, and these doubts are the blade. Nothing’s cut through. But the possibility is always there.

  Just ask her, cabrón. K.C. is sitting on my shoulder again, telling me not to be such a pussy. Flaco and Gabe are right behind him, shaking their heads and muttering to each other that I need to get my head out of my ass. After all that you’ve been through, what the fuck are you waiting for?

  Ask her what? I want to say back. How she feels? If she really loves me? She tells me that every day, multiple times a day. Should I cut off my own balls too, just to make it clear that I have no fuckin’ ability to restrain myself when it comes to this girl?

  I open my mouth to let it out, because why the fuck not? I’m here. And if I want her to be honest, maybe I need to start doing that too.

  Layla sighs as her eyelids flutter shut. I close my mouth and stroke her hair back again. She leans into my hand, just like she did with her dad, but now her expression is peaceful, without any trace of pain. She knows I love her. She doesn’t worry about that anymore.

  So, once she’s asleep, I decide to do what I normally do when shit gets a little too much to handle––something I feel like I’m going to have to do a lot while we’re here.

  I work out.

  ~

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Nico

  Layla sleeps through most of the afternoon and into the night. My girl was tired, and any idea I had about sneaking across the hall into her room late at night was put straight to rest by those circles under her eyes. So in the morning, when I get up and run awkwardly into Dr. Barros in the kitchen, where his housekeeper is serving him, I’m a little irritated by the suspicious looks I’m getting. Fuck that. I’m behaving like an altar boy.

  Benedita, the housekeeper, gives me a hooded look, like she knows me, even if she doesn’t really. She looks over my faded shirt, my sweat-stained hat, my running shoes that haven’t been white for a really long time. It’s like she knows we’re cut from the same cloth; that my mother cleans up rich people’s shit for a living too. Like she knows I’m not really supposed to be here.

  “Cafe?” Dr. Barros asks, gesturing at the shiny silver set on his bright white tablecloth, at the rolls, cut papaya, some kind of creamy white cheese kept in a jar, and a square loaf of something that looks like jelly. He shakes out his newspaper, but doesn’t look at me. He’s being polite and rude at the same time, in a way only rich people seem to know how to do.

  “Obrigado, but I’m good. Just going to go for another run.”

  At that, he looks up. “Another run?” He looks me up and down, like he’s appraising my body. He’s a doctor, so I can’t help but wonder what he’s looking for.

  The coffee smells good, but I need to exercise before this day starts. First up is Mass with Layla’s entire family, followed by some giant barbecue at her aunt’s house, with cousins, If the Barros clan is anything like Layla’s dad, I’m going to need to run at least ten miles just to relax. I ran a quick couple of miles up and down the promenade last night before coming back to the house. But I’d forgotten to have Layla call down to the doorman for me, and he made me sit on the front steps until Dr. Barros showed up sometime past eight and approved me so I could follow his shiny black Benz into the garage. He wasn’t too happy that I was loitering outside “like a common street urchin,” as he put it. Well, he didn’t give me much of a choice, did he? And who the fuck talks like that except Disney villains?

  I grab my ankle to stretch out my quad, lingering in the doorway. “Yeah, I tend to be pretty disciplined about it. If I don’t do something most days, I get a little cranky, you know? What do they say? Everyone is supposed to get an hour a day?”

  I don’t mention that if I don’t exercise, my version of “cranky” isn’t the nicest thing in the world. Running. Boxing. Lifting. These are things I realized a long time ago that I needed to keep the darkness in my life from swallowing me up.

  “Some people need to be very…physical,” is all Dr. Barros says.

  I choose not to respond, even though it’s clear what he’s trying to say: that I’m the kind of person who uses my body because I probably don’t have a mind.

  “We leave for the church at nine thirty, is that right?” I ask him.

  “Nine,” he says, and with another loud shake of his paper, turns back to his coffee. “We will not wait, either.”

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Barros. I’m never late.”

  And before he can correct
his title, I jog out.

  I make my way up and down the promenade in front of the beach, the same run I did yesterday, but the relatively short distance isn’t enough for what I need. To start, there are too many people. Even at this time of the morning, it’s packed with other joggers, roller-bladers, cyclists, and people just walking around the busy neighborhood. But really, it’s the equivalent of running around the Upper East Side, and considering I’m going to get enough of that side of Brazil over the next few days, I wouldn’t mind taking a break when I can.

  The cities here are really different than New York, or even LA. The rich people are packed down on the beaches in thin strips of high-rise buildings that block out the hills behind them, covered with poorer neighborhoods. But you can’t get away from the poor here. In New York, you actually have to get out of the wealthy neighborhoods to see the city’s poverty, or even just peel back a layer or two to realize it’s right there with you, like my family’s apartment. But despite their proximity, the poor go out of their way to stay nice and hidden.

  Here, poverty looms all around, staring down at you from the hills that surround the low-lying beaches. People like Layla’s dad might live in high-rise buildings, but they can’t block out the favelas.

  So as soon as I finish jogging down the promenade and back up, I turn off the main drag and start exploring the interior of Vila Velha.

  I jog up side streets, vaguely noticing the way the buildings slowly morph from the glossy apartments into smaller, plainer structures that house businesses and shops, and eventually to places that basically look like stacked, multicolored cinder blocks, terraced up the hills that stick up from the land like fingertips. They look familiar, like the pictures of the slum in San Juan where K.C.’s family (and my mom) originally lived. Eventually there are fewer cars on the street––more bikes, sometimes a flimsy motorcycle or two. I actually pass a donkey around one corner. It’s still busy up here––people are passing back and forth between their houses; others look to be on their way to work. But although I get a few curious looks, most of them are friendly, nodding their “alôs” or “bom dias” as I pass.