CHAPTER SEVEN
Layla
I spend most of Sunday trying to get ahead of my reading and assignments for the week. I’ve only had this part-time job for a few weeks, but the suck on my time is starting to get the best of me. I need to be more disciplined.
Sometime around four o’clock, my cell phone buzzes on my desk. With an annoyed expression, Quinn looks up from her bed, where she’s surrounded by books.
“Senhora Barros?” she asks.
I nod. Like clockwork, my mom calls every Sunday while my dad lies down for a nap after lunch. With a shrug at Quinn, I grab the phone and duck out of the room and into the hall, where I won’t disturb anyone. Most students are probably doing the same thing we are, so the normally bustling thoroughfare is empty.
“Hi, Mom,” I answer once my door is safely shut behind me.
“Hi, honey. How are you this week? How is the paper going?”
When we’d spoken last week, I mentioned a paper that would be due this Monday. I’m not surprised she’s asking about it. She knows sometimes I procrastinate, and one of the conditions of even being in New York is that I maintain straight As. Otherwise, it’s back home and to a state school for me.
“It’s fine,” I say. “Mostly drafted. I have a bit of editing to do tonight, but it shouldn’t take me long.”
I don’t include the fact that I’ve got another hundred pages of reading to get through before I can actually start on it. But I’ll deal.
“Good, good,” she says. “How are your grades looking this semester?”
She asks me that same question every week—I know it’s because my dad wants to know, and he makes her ask. He usually can’t be bothered to call me directly. Too tied up with work.
I sigh. “It’s still early, Mom, like I told you last week. I won’t really know until I get my papers back and we take our midterms.”
“There’s no reason to be curt, Layla.”
I stifle a groan of frustration. Sometimes my mom is the most sensitive person on the planet. According to her, everything out of my mouth should be the equivalent of roses and sunshine. Polite. Demure. But it’s no use arguing with her either—I learned that a long time ago.
“Sorry,” I mutter. “But there’s really nothing to report. I will let you know when there is.”
Mom sighs prettily. I can just imagine her on the other side of the phone. She’s a timid West Coast princess, raised in Pasadena before meeting my dad while he was studying medicine at UCLA. Dad was the big rebellion of her life, and only because he was a Brazilian medical student instead of an American one. Still a doctor. Still wealthy, conservative, and everything else her family expected of her. He just had an accent, is all.
The story of how they fell in love isn’t well known—not to me, not to anyone—and I suspect it’s because it was a forbidden affair. I don’t know her family well; they never seemed to approve of my dad or me. It doesn’t matter that my dad comes from a wealthy family too, or that his skin is as light as theirs. She was only eighteen when they met; my dad was almost twenty-eight. We see her parents every few years or so, usually when they come to marvel at the big house my dad’s career as a plastic surgeon has bought their daughter. But Dad doesn’t waste time placating his in-laws anymore. He usually has better things to do.
For a minute, I consider telling Mom about Nico. Maybe she’ll get it instead of insisting I get on the first plane back to Seattle. There are a lot of similarities: the age difference, Nico’s Hispanic background. The fact that I’m almost as young as she was when she fell in love.
But my parents aren’t happy with each other these days. Once they were in love—their wedding pictures, the shots at the Rio cathedral of my mom drenched in lace and my dad, dashing in his black tuxedo, are a testament to that. But these days they are more indifferent than anything else. I haven’t seen them kiss each other in years, and Mom is usually more concerned with the state of her antiques collection than with her husband. It’s been like that for as long as I can remember.
The only clue to anything beyond their pleasant détente was a comment my mom made when we attended her cousin’s wedding a few years ago. They were another young couple, marrying right out of college. The ceremony was short and sweet, but it wasn’t until the bride tossed her bouquet into a crowd of thrashing bridesmaids that I heard my mother speak to herself.
“No one should get married that young,” she murmured.
And before I could reply and let her know I’d heard her, she had located her glass of white wine and gone off to seek out her old friends, her slim, blonde form disappearing through the crowd.
So, I keep my mouth shut while Mom conveys the news from the week: that she has been appointed treasurer of the local Rotary club, that Maura Smith’s son has been accepted to UW with early admission. That Dad is leaving for some kind of conference tomorrow, so he can’t talk just now. I sigh and lean back against the wall as I listen. She doesn’t explicitly come out and say it, but I can tell my mom is worried about something.
Another Sunday, another absence. Lately, though, it seems like every time I talk to them he’s on his way out of town or working late. In Brazil, it’s common for wealthy men of a certain age and wealth to have mistresses. I remember my shock when one of my cousins mentioned something about their grandfather’s girlfriend, and just shrugged when I started to ask about what Mamãe, our grandmother, must have thought. Considering how badly my dad always wanted to be considered American, I’d hoped he would forego that family tradition.
“Anything else to report, honey? How’s the new job? Any young men you’re interested in?”
I could tell her about Nico now. Part of me wants to. There’s a side to my mom that likes to indulge me a little. When I had my first boyfriend in high school, she kept the secret with me for over a month before I told my dad. She’s always asking about my personal life, telling me it’s “our little secret.”
And sometimes I tell her about the dates I’ve been on, or the guys I meet. Sometimes. But not this one. But it’s too early. I’m not ready to be told he’s too old, too poor, too whatever. I’m not ready for the low, shameful sighs that will feel just as harsh as any winter wind when I tell her the truth.
Besides, there’s nothing to tell.
“Nothing new,” I say. “How’s church?”
She takes my cue like I didn’t just brush her off and starts talking about the Mass this morning. I put ungrateful thoughts of my dad aside and do my best to listen. It’s hard, though, when there are so many things between us that we’d both like to talk about but can’t.
~
Nico and I don’t get much of a chance to talk the week after seeing each other at AJ’s. Karen is almost always there to sign for the packages and flirt with him. He catches me glaring at her once and winks at me when she turns her back. I flush, and he just smiles wider. And honestly, I don’t even care that he caught me looking jealous. This bitch is derailing all of my carefully laid plans, and I’m running out of time.
By the time I close the office on Thursday, I’m starting to stress. Valentine’s Day is tomorrow. I know it doesn’t really matter if he asks me out for exactly that day, but I’m my father’s daughter: a goal setter, and extremely competitive, even with myself. There is nothing I hate more than losing.
It’s seven forty-five in the morning on Friday, and Jamie and I were up late studying for our tests. Vinny and I are stopping for coffee at Reggie’s, the local café across the street from the College of Arts and Sciences building. Huddled in our parkas in the February wind, we stand in the long line of students snaking out onto the sidewalk. Washington Square Park, the unofficial “quad” of the NYU campus, is a freaking wind tunnel during the winter.
“Relax, kid,” Vinny says. “If it’s not meant to be, it’s not meant to be. There’s plenty of time to let the guy into your pants.”
I bang my palm into my forehead. “Jesus, Vin, it is way too early in the day to be talking about my pants or anyone sneaking into them.”
Vinny snorts. “You make it sound like I’m talking about little trolls who come out at night.”
“Pants trolls?”
“Yeah. They climb in when you’re asleep. Have a party. Brush their hair. Yell at goats. They’re a bunch of little perverts.”
The students in front of us snicker, but we ignore them as the line inches forward. I nudge Vinny, but I’m still laughing.
“You’re such a weirdo,” I say.
I’m practically drooling at the smell of fresh coffee. Coffee is my lifeline, and I haven’t had any yet this morning. Four hours of class per day, working twenty-five hours per week, plus finding enough time to study, work out, and maintain an active social life is exhausting. I need my caffeine.
“Jesus,” I say, catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I touch the hollows in my cheeks lightly in my mild horror. “Well, he’s not going to be asking me out with these freakin’ suitcases under my eyes. I look like my grandmother.”
“Whatever,” Vinny scoffs. “It’s still early, and you look fine. Just rub Vaseline under them like my Bubbe does.”
“How do you even know she does that?” The line moves forward again, and at last I’m able to order. “Large Americano, no room,” I say, wincing a bit as I hand over the four dollars to the waifish guy behind the counter. Four dollars is way too much for a cup of coffee, but I just can’t take the battery acid this morning. I need something stronger.
“I don’t know how you drink that without eating anything,” Vinny remarks after putting his own order for white chocolate mocha with caramel on top and a blueberry scone.
I have to laugh; it’s always guys who order the girliest drinks. I empty one sugar packet into my coffee and stir it for a moment before taking a long, satisfying sip.
“No money,” I say as we walk past the other students still waiting for their turn to order. “I’ve told you this before. My parents are paying for tuition and dorm fees, but I have to pay for everything else. That’s food, insurance, transportation, books, spending money…” I tick off each item with my gloved fingers. “And I spent too much already last weekend. So, the choice is food or coffee. If I eat, I fall asleep in class. Coffee, and I’m hungry, but alert. Let me tell you, my folks won’t give a shit that I’m eating well if my grades suck. And my mom always wants me to lose weight anyway.”
Vinny just shrugs before we cross the street to an NYU building now jammed with students. A massive purple banner bearing the university logo flaps in the harsh breeze, just above the brass rotating doors we push through.
“All right, Lay, I’ll see ya,” Vinny says as he leaves me standing in line for the elevators. His class is on the first floor, lucky bastard. “And don’t worry!” he calls from down the hall, attracting the tired glances of a few other students. “It’ll all work out in the end. You’ll get laid before you know it! Trolls or no trolls!”
I turn red and try to look as if I’m not the one whose sex life has just been broadcast all over campus. As I step forward in line, I pass a jumble of cardboard hearts decorating the student center window next to the stairs and sigh. Today is Valentine’s Day, but I am singularly without a Valentine. One can only hope.
~
As it happens, Karen calls in sick to work today, so I’m left alone at the desk without her imperious glare and with a little extra spring in my step. I know there’s a better than decent chance that Nico has a date for tonight—with my luck, he probably has a girlfriend. But I can’t not try to make something happen. It doesn’t matter that he’s seven years older than me, and it doesn’t matter that he’s just a FedEx guy (though my parents and Quinn would certainly disagree on both counts). Whether it’s lust or actually some weird form of love at first sight, I can’t deny the way I’m feeling. I’m petrified of regret—always have been. It’s just not in me to be passive.
As if appearing solely to boost my confidence before six, Alex keeps stopping by my desk all afternoon to chat. He asks how my weekend was, demands to know what I’m studying, compliments my outfit. It’s flattering, if slightly annoying and verging on inappropriate.
“So,” he says on his fourth “coffee break” in the lobby, “here’s a new topic of conversation for you. Is there a Mr. Barros, Ms. Barros?” He waggles his eyebrows in a way that makes them look like lively caterpillars, and I can’t help but giggle.
“Ah, no,” I say with a grin. “Not at the moment.”
“And how is it that a gorgeous girl like you is single? I just flat out don’t believe it.”
I giggle again, even though I’m pretty sure this counts as sexual harassment. The consistent eye rolls in his direction I’ve seen from other female employees tell me I’m not the only one who gets this kind of attention. In a weird way, his charm offensive reminds me a little bit of my dad. He’s also tall and handsome, and has that same charisma that Alex has when he wants. I try not to wonder if my dad talks to the receptionists in his office like Alex is talking to me.
“What can I say?” I ask, tossing my hands up. “I’m a particular woman who knows what she particularly wants.”
At that moment, the elevator doors open and he whom I particularly want very badly wheels in his dolly with a large smile that fades almost immediately at the sight of the attractive attorney leaning over my desk.
~
Nico
“You’ll have to tell me more about that some time.”
Asshat is back. Son of a bitch. This time he’s leaning so far over Layla’s desk she practically has to recline her seat.
This guy. All his packages come from fashion designers and modeling agencies––he represents some of the biggest names in the business, even though he works solo. But right now, the only name he’s into is the girl whose face has been imprinted on my brain for the last two weeks, the girl I still haven’t managed to get a moment with. The way he’s sneaking looks down her shirt makes me want to toss him down the stairs and teach him the real meaning of “New York State of Mind.”
A glance at Karen’s shut door tells me she’s gone. If this guy weren’t here, I’d be able to do what I’ve been planning all week: ask Layla out on a date.
“Maybe over lunch?” he’s saying. “I’m a member at the Princeton Club, you know.”
I roll the dolly into the lobby, and just like last time, while Layla glances at me with a friendly smile, this shithead doesn’t even look my way. Go figure. To people like him, people like me are invisible. Yeah, forget that.
Layla smiles, but it’s not the kind of smile she gives me when I tease her about her hair or her dance moves. It’s the kind of smile that’s uncomfortable, the kind of smile that says she wants this asshole out of her personal space, but doesn’t feel like she can tell him that.
“That’s so nice of you,” she says, “but I doubt I could make time. My class schedule is pretty tight. I’m downtown all morning before I come here, and I have to study for midterms.”
Behind them, I snort as I start to unload packages. There’s only a few for them today, but I’m taking my sweet time. Dickwad doesn’t even notice, but I see Layla bite her lip at my response. There’s my girl.
My girl. Fuck me, I haven’t even taken this girl out yet, and I’m already thinking things like that. What the fuck is wrong with me?
“Well, the offer’s open anytime,” says Twatwaffle with a wink as he pushes off the desk. He doesn’t even acknowledge my presence as he walks back to his offices.
I’m still staring daggers at the guy when Layla reaches up to tap my hand. I practically jump, and she scoots back a little. It’s then I realize I’m still glaring.
“H-hi there,” she says just before she bites her lip again. Fuck me, she really has to stop doing that.
But then she offers me a shy smile, and it pretty much melts away the jealous rage I was just feeling. I smile back, and she relaxes visibly.
“Hey, NYU, you fixing a date with the geriatric ward?” I toss my head in the direction he went. It’s none of my business, but I can’t help but ask.
Layla just snorts audibly, and like always, it’s pretty much the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. “Absolutely not. Alex is a flirt, but he’s married. I don’t think he really means anything by it.”
“Oh, he means something all right,” I say, leaning onto the desk. “Pretty girl like you, of course he does, sweetie. But he’s kind of old for you, don’t you think?”
God, I’m an asshole. It’s none of my business if she wants to flirt with her co-workers, which she wasn’t even doing in the first place. I’m fishing. I want her to say she doesn’t like him, that she likes me instead.
“Well, I don’t mean anything by it,” she says.
Immediately, I feel better. Too much better. To cover it up, I make a big deal out of scanning all of the packages I’ve lined up on the desktop. Be cool, Nico. Jesus, I am better than this.
“So, what are you doing tonight for Valentine’s Day?” Layla asks, standing up and leaning over to watch me at work. “Got big plans with a sweetheart?”
I look up and see her staring at me, a waterfall of her wavy hair dropping down one shoulder. She’s so damn beautiful, and I can barely register what she’s saying. Wait...Valentine’s Day...is tonight. I think about that fucker asking her out for a drink after work, which I know he will, and suddenly the only thing I want Layla to say is that she’s got plans. With me. The invisible FedEx guy.
“Not much,” I say, trying to be playful as I mimic the sing-song quality of her original question. We’re both trying to play it cool. I’m failing miserably. “I’ll probably go out for a drink when I’m off. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do on Valentine’s Day if you’re single? Drink yourself stupid?”
Layla chuckles. “Sounds about right. I’ll probably do the same, I guess.”
She nods nonchalantly as if in agreement, but my heart is soaring at the word when she agrees with the word ‘single.’ I didn’t think she had a boyfriend, but somehow, I’m really damn glad she confirmed it.
“You’re going out drinking, too, NYU? No boyfriend to give you hearts and flowers?” God, I really can’t help myself. “I’m sure Legal Beagle back there would take you to the Princeton Club.”
She snorts again, holding in her laughter as she glances nervously back toward the hallway. “I don’t think he looks anything like a beagle.”
I just shake my head, enjoying this little game we’re playing.
“Please,” I say as I restack the packages neatly on top of the desk. I’ve probably reordered them five times at this point, and now I’m going to do it again. Anything to stay here and make her blush. I lean onto the wood surface. “Dude was looking at you like a bloodhound.”
This time she full-on giggles, and the sound makes me feel like I’m walking on air. How can someone’s laugh do that?
“Maybe,” she says. “Anyway, yeah, I’m planning to spend some quality time at the bar tonight, just like you. No boyfriends in sight.”
“Well, then we should probably do it together. Be a shame to drink alone, don’t you think?”
I’m an asshole. I should just tell her I want to take her out. That I want to go on a proper date, not just sit together at a shitty bar or run into each other at all my different jobs, where I have to act like I don’t really care so much if she smiles or looks hot in a dress. I want to get her alone so I can show her just what those tight pants she wears do to me. I want to kiss her until we both can’t think straight anymore.
“You think?” she parrots me.
Her eyes are suddenly a pool of light I want to dive into. I don’t say anything, suddenly paralyzed that I royally fucked this up by not asking for a date like a gentleman. This isn’t the kind of girl you have a drunken hookup with at a bar. She’s the kind of girl you take home to meet your mother.
My mother? What the fuck is wrong with me?
“Yeah, that could be cool,” she continues.
That’s it. I’m done. I can’t stop the giant monkey-grin on my face when I realize she’s just agreed to a date. Suddenly, we’re exchanging numbers on Post-It notes, and I’m tucking that thing into my breast pocket like it’s made of solid gold. I don’t even care that today is the most overrated, overhyped, loved up day of the year. The only thing I care about is that the girl of my dreams just agreed to spend it with me, not some rich asshole with a club membership. Me. Nico.
“I get off between seven and eight most nights, and I can come straight from work,” I tell her as I hand her my number. “Text me when you’re home and ready to go? Want to meet up around nine for dinner? And drinks, of course.”
She stares at the number for a second, as if it says something more complex than just ten simple digits. Then she tucks the small blue slip into her purse and pats it, as if to assure me she’ll keep it safe. She nods, and her blue eyes sparkle when they turn to me. Now this is definitely a legitimate date.
“Yeah,” she says softly. “That sounds good.”
“All right, sweetie.” I tip my head to one side, mimicking the same action she’s doing. “I guess this means you’re my Valentine, huh?”
She gulps and grabs the edge of the desk, but doesn’t say anything. It’s probably for the best. I’m barely keeping it together myself.
I collect the clipboard and the dolly and wheel back to the elevators, careful to avoid her gaze in case she can see just how damn excited I am. I wink again––corny shit is becoming a habit with this girl––but when the elevator doors close, I collapse against the wall and exhale heavily. Holy. Shit.
~