CHAPTER EIGHT
Layla
At exactly seven-thirty, I sprint into the apartment, tearing off my clothes because I have less than an hour and a half to get ready for what feels like the most important night of my life. He called me at seven and said he would pick me up at Lafayette at nine, maybe a bit later depending on the train. I gave him the address, biting back all the other things I wanted to say. Things like, by the way, the sound of your voice makes my panties basically disintegrate or, oh hey, I’m in love with you and want to have your babies.
I have about a million questions I want to ask him. I want to get to know the man behind that gorgeous face, the person who exudes that magnetic charisma. What are his siblings like? How did he come to love art? Why wasn’t he scared that guy would beat him up outside the club? Is he content working as a FedEx guy? Has he ever lived outside of New York? Where does he see himself in ten years?
I don’t even care about looking desperate anymore. I’m just giddy about the prospect of having him all to myself for an entire evening.
While I’m tearing literally every single piece of clothing I own out of the tiny closet Quinn and I share, all my roommates crowd into my bedroom and alternately coach and tease me. Jamie, predictably, is almost as giddy as I am. Shama is more practical, trying to help me find an outfit. Quinn just sits on her bed with her books open and acts the part of the cynical peanut gallery.
“I mean, it’s one thing if it’s just a little fling,” she says to Jamie, who’s looking through my jewelry. “But let’s be honest. It’s not like she can have a real relationship with a twenty-six-year-old FedEx thug from Hell’s Kitchen.”
Shama and I both turn from the closet and glare at her.
“Seriously?” I say. “You don’t even know him. Why are you being so negative about this?”
“I’m being realistic,” Quinn counters. She turns to Jamie. “Lay’s just mad because she knows she’s slumming and doesn’t want to face up to the truth.”
“What the fuck...” Shama trails off behind me.
I hurl a sweater onto the floor and march into the center of the room, where I face Quinn with my hands on my hips.
“What the hell, Quinn?” I say directly.
She just stares at me calmly and sets her book aside. “Lay, calm down.”
I rub my forehead. “I’m calm. I’m not the one being racist.”
“Oooh, here we go,” Shama says.
Jamie shakes her head. “Guys, we don’t really need to do this, do we?”
Quinn’s forehead wrinkles as she stares at me. “Are you serious? What did I say that was racist? Is he not from a shitty part of town? Is he not a FedEx guy? Is he not twenty-six?”
“Just because his family doesn’t have money doesn’t make him a thug,” I retort. “And Hell’s Kitchen is not that bad anymore, either. Would you be saying this about him if he were white? Would you be saying that about him if he wasn’t Puerto Rican?”
“No, I wouldn’t be saying it if I hadn’t seen him shove and physically threaten a couple of guys just for saying something he didn’t like,” Quinn says. “He’s dangerous, Layla, and you know it.”
“Those guys were being assholes to all of us, and you know it!” I argue back. “He was defending your honor. And if it had been a nice investment banker from Stamford, you’d have been all over it. I can’t believe you right now!” I look to Jamie and Shama, who are studiously avoiding my gaze. “You guys. Come on. Back me up here.”
Jamie just swallows and goes back to looking through jewelry. Shama sighs.
“I think you’re both right,” she says diplomatically. I roll my eyes. I expected more from her. “Quinn, you can’t make massive generalizations about someone based on one interaction and a few things you know about him,” Shama continues. “Coming from someone of your background––no, girl, really––it does come off sounding racist. So you need to be aware of that.” She turns to me. “Still, Lay, you can’t deny that what he did was kind of scary. Hot, yeah. But Quinn’s got a point. I do think you need to be careful with him.”
I sigh and pick my sweater up off the floor.
“I’m not ‘slumming’,” I mutter as I turn back to my closet. “I think I just want to get ready on my own.”
Behind me, Quinn sighs. “Stop. I’ll go.” I stare at my clothes while listening to her gather up her books. On her way out, she pauses behind me. “I hope you have fun tonight, babe. Be safe.”
She goes to the other room while Jamie and Shama stay, and we fumble around in awkward silence for the next twenty minutes while they help me pick out what I’m going to wear. It’s starting to snow outside, so my outfit needs to be warm, but I don’t want to look like the Michelin Man either.
“Hair curly or straight?” Jamie asks as she goes back to perusing my jewelry box.
I have a bit of decent jewelry courtesy of our trips to Brazil. My dad’s family lives in the center of Minas Gerais, the gold and gemstone mining state, so I picked up a few quality pieces when we visited.
“Curly, definitely curly,” I say. “If it gets snow on it, it’ll just get wavy anyway, plus I don’t really have time to straighten it. He’s going to be here in less than an hour now.”
Shama critically flips through a few more outfits.
“I think you should just wear jeans and some sexy shirt,” she says. “You don’t want to look like you’re trying too hard, and this is a last-minute thing. He didn’t make reservations anywhere, did he?”
I shake my head and wonder if that should bother me as I continue towel drying my hair. I know we’re just supposed to be drinking, but should I expect anything more because it’s Valentine’s Day? Nico mentioned dinner, but no reservations.
“No, I think we’re just going to play it by ear. Grab food somewhere easy and then find a bar or something like that.” I walk back into the bathroom to grab the leave-in conditioner that will keep my curls in check throughout the night.
“K, these are the jeans,” Shama announces when I return.
She’s laid a pair of moto-style gray jeans on the bed that usually fit me like a second skin, flattering my ass and making my legs look a little longer than usual. They have a few tears in the knees, so they look nowhere near formal. The opposite of try-hard.
Shama yanks several different tops for me to choose from—all of them, I notice, are cropped. I can’t argue with that; my abs are one of my best assets. I pick one of the ones I brought home from Brazil last summer: a magenta shirt with long sleeves and two long panels of extra fabric extending from my ribs that I wrap around the remainder of my torso to fit as I like. When I’m done, only small patches of my stomach and waist peek through the twisted fabric. I tie it just above my belt, leaving a sliver of skin exposed around the top of my pants. My abs are on display in the tight material, but not so much I look open for business. Mom would be proud.
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.
~