CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Nico
I start awake on K.C.’s couch, my cheek sticky against the black leather. Everyone thinks that leather couches are nice because they’re expensive, but they kind of suck to sleep on, especially when it’s hot. K.C. has a really great apartment in West Hollywood, but it’s still just a one-bedroom. And the walls are fuckin’ thin.
There’s a loud thump on the drywall just above my head. And another. And another. Followed by the low moan of a woman’s voice.
Oh, so that’s what woke me up.
“Ummmmmmeeeeeeeeee!”
The moan sounds again, followed by a high squeal. I pull a pillow over my face, and try to block out the sound of my best friend fucking whatever random girl he picked up at Venom tonight, but no such luck. Jesus Christ, this girl sounds like the pig from the movie Babe. K.C. is basically fucking a CGI pig.
I have got to find my own place.
I sit up and flip on the TV, knowing there’s no way I’m going to be able to sleep while they’re going at it. But, of course, late-night television isn’t much better––it’s either infomercials or reruns of the shit they can’t play during primetime. Showgirls is just going to make this situation that much more awkward.
I yank a pair of jogging pants out of the duffel bag that’s spilling clothes all over K.C.’s living room floor and get dressed, trying my best to block out the noises still shouting from the bedroom. The sky out of K.C.’s windows is turning lighter. I pull on my sneakers and lace them tight. I might as well use the time now that I’m up––it’ll be better than working out mid-afternoon anyway before I have to be at work.
A jog around the neighborhood turns into a full-on run. A little over an hour later, I’m flopping on the sand at the Santa Monica Pier, breathing hard after pounding the pavement for nine miles. It’s longer than my usual run, but I’m in good enough shape to take it.
I strip off my t-shirt, which is damp with sweat anyway, and use it to mop off my face and neck. Fuck. That felt good. I’ve been pushing myself harder than I probably should lately, like I have all this pent-up tension to release. New York feels like a magnet, pulling me back with everything there, but keeping me at arm’s length too.
My family. Ma is driving Gabe and Maggie crazy, and he said a few weeks ago that the landlord started asking who she is. It’s not the worst thing in the world, of course––he can’t legally require her to provide proof of residency, but if he asks for ID from all his tenants, he could ask for hers too. ID that she doesn’t have.
Something has to be done there, but I don’t know what. I really don’t know what the fuck we could do to help her. All I know is that I could do it better if I were there.
And then there’s the job. It’s been almost three months since I had my interview at the FDNY headquarters. Finished the background check, took the physical, kicked its ass, then sat through a psych interview that I was told would take fifteen minutes but ended up taking an hour. Since then, they picked at my record a little, but there’s been no official news since March. No email. No phone call. No, hey, sorry, we went with a dude who isn’t a criminal, you fuckin’ asshole. Anything would be better than this strange limbo. I’ve been literally homeless for months, waiting around to see if I should sign a lease on a new place out here or keep saving my money for the move back to New York.
And the anxiety, of course, only makes me want to call one person––the only person whose blind faith calms me down and makes me fly all at once. I wouldn’t have been able to go through the whole application in the first place if she hadn’t said, over and over again, how much she believed in me. How much she knew I could do it, even if she didn’t know what “it” really was. Who knew that having my own personal cheerleader, even from three thousand miles away, could be so effective?
But we haven’t talked since March, since I begged her to leave that guy and be with me, and she told me to fuck off. I’ve sent texts. No answer. Tried to call a few times. No answer. I can’t stand the not knowing. Is she still with that motherfucker? Did she break it off and make things right with her friends? Most of all, it’s driving me crazy that I don’t know if she’s safe.
But she told me to stop calling. She told me we were done. I hurt her––I know I did––for not believing in us the way she did. For not taking that leap with her, and letting her fall on her own.
Fuck. I’ll never regret anything more than that. Never.
I stare at the ocean, watching the slow glimmer of the sun rising across the white-blue waves. This early in the morning, it’s still clean and smooth, without the winds that chop it up later in the day. A row of surfers rides a wave breaking off the pier.
I watch them for a few minutes. I thought about trying surfing when I first came out here––Jessie goes sometimes––but I’m a terrible swimmer. It’s one of those things I missed out on growing up. We visited public pools a lot, especially since New York is a fuckin’ sweatbox in the summer, but the only swim lessons my mom could afford were the ones Alba’s boyfriend gave me and K.C. when we were kids, which mostly consisted of tossing us in the pool to find out if we would sink or swim. I know it’s one of those things she feels guilty about––after all, her own father died drowning––but it can’t be helped now. I’ll do my best to make sure Allie learns to swim, that’s for sure.
The surfers make it look so easy, their boards cutting across the glassy surface. But I’ve messed around in the whitewash just enough to know it’s probably really hard. When I first moved out here, K.C. and I actually rented boards. Too scared to paddle out for real, we spent most of the time pulling kelp out of our mouths and freezing our asses off because we didn’t get wetsuits. The Pacific Ocean is really fuckin’ cold, even in California, and the currents underneath those glassy waves are a fuck lot stronger than you’d think.
It makes me consider what other things might be harder than I thought. As a kid, I grew up in a city full of contrast. I shared that tiny apartment in a building full of people living the same way. People who worked hard for every scrap of food they had, who banded together to survive in a neighborhood where you were just as likely to get mugged as looked at. Everything felt so damn hard. My mother’s job. Paying the rent or the electricity or the phone bill. Sharing food between the five of us. It was like there was a ceiling, low and hard, ready to smack you down, if you tried too hard to stand up too fast. The world felt small and harsh and cold.
But three blocks away was Times Square. You’d cross Eighth Avenue, and suddenly you were in the theater district, blinded by lights, ladies in fur coats, men flipping tips around like it was nothing. I remember walking by one of those theaters with K.C., thinking about how easy everything seemed for them. I had just found out that I was hired at FedEx, and K.C. and Flaco and I were going downtown to celebrate. I was on my way to get my first tattoo––the compass on my chest.
The world was bigger that day. I was just a kid, having dropped out of community college to help my mom. But I had a job, a real job that would take me out of the crappy back room where I was living at my boxing gym, a job that would keep food on the table for my brother and sisters, make it so we could afford things like regular dentist appointments and school supplies.
I remember walking by those rich people and feeling like nothing could touch me. I felt larger than life, even when a tall man in a black suit stared me down after I accidentally bumped into his daughter.
I start, suddenly remembering those big blue eyes.
Holy shit. Holy fucking shit. It was her. The girl I bumped into that day. The girl with eyes the color of the summer sky. How the fuck could I have forgotten that?
The memory comes flying at me like a one-two combo to the face––Layla, an awkward girl with a mouthful of braces and way too much black hair. Me, a cocky nineteen-year-old bouncing down the sidewalk with my boys. She must have been there on vacation––they were seeing a Broadway play, like so many tourists do. Phantom or Cats or one of those overpriced shows. For a second, even then, the world stopped right there, on one of the busiest streets in New York. All I could see were her eyes before her dad called her away.
Suddenly, I can’t breathe. The best moments of my life have always been with her. Right from the start. They were always meant to be with her.
I pull out my phone, ready to tell her as much. Suddenly, I’m full of decision. That no matter what news comes from the FDNY, I need to get back to where I belong. I need to be with her, whether she wants to come here or wants me there. Layla and I are meant for each other––I’ve never been surer of anything in my life. We can make it work. I’m not going to pussy out anymore.
I punch in her number and hit send. The phone rings. Three, four times, then goes to voicemail like it always does. Her voice, bright and warm, echoing through my ear, but I cut it off and dial again. I’ll dial the rest of the day if I have to. I need to tell her how I feel.
Except.
Her words come back. It hurts too much.
Yeah, baby. It does.
I love her. I do. I love her enough that I put my phone back in my pocket. I’ve been selfish, and I fucked things up––I have no one to blame but myself for the failure of this relationship. For the fact that she moved on with someone else. If he makes her happy––it’s a big if, but I’m not there, so what do I know?––if he does, I have to be okay with that. Because I love her enough to do the same thing she did for me.
I love her enough to let her go.
“Hey.”
I look up. I’ve been so lost in my thoughts that I didn’t even notice the person approaching until she plops down on the sand next to me.
“Jess. Hey. What are you doing over here? So early, too.”
Jessie looks down over her sports bra and shorts and then back at me. “Same thing you are, looks like. I have a shoot this afternoon, so this was the only time I could work out.”
Fitness was one of the few things Jessie and I always had in common––it was actually one of the things we would do together every now and then. Since she’s an aspiring model, she has to look good. Exercise is part of her job.
“How’ve you been?” she asks. “Did you find out about your job yet?”
I examine her, a little taken aback by her casual attitude. She wasn’t exactly nice the last time we talked, when I turned over my key to her apartment at the end of April.
“Um, no. I’m still at K.C.’s place until I hear. It’s been a while. I’m guessing I didn’t get in.”
She frowns. “Really? I thought it all went so well.”
I hunch my shoulders. The sun is getting hot. “Yeah, well. You never know, I guess.”
“I guess.” She traces a finger around the sand. “Well, if you want to stop by our––I mean, my––place, I still have some of your mail there.”
I frown. “Really? You want me to come by? When I left, you threw a lamp at me and told me to burn in hell before I came back.”
Jessie cringes. “Yeah, so maybe that wasn’t my best moment.”
She gives me a shy smile, the one that’s been getting her a bunch of jobs lately. Last week I saw her face on the side of a billboard.
“I just...I liked you, you know?”
The smile is still there, but it’s sad now. I watch her for a second, then realize that she’s telling the truth. Jessie could be pretty damn manipulative, but this isn’t one of those times. And it’s got to be hard for her to admit this. Like most people, she’s not great at saying how she feels.
I sling an arm around her shoulder and give her a quick hug. “It’s okay. I get it.”
She nods. “I thought you would. That girl...”
“Yeah,” I say. But I don’t continue the conversation.
We sit there for a moment together, then Jessie stands up and dusts off her legs. “Come on,” she says. “I drove here today because I wanted to run north. I’ll give you a ride back to the apartment, and then I can drop you downtown on my way to work. I have a shoot in Culver City.”
I watch her for a second, looking for an ulterior motive. But there doesn’t seem to be any.
“Okay,” I say and follow her off the beach.
~
Back at the apartment, I noticed immediately that my old bedroom door is closed and there are boxes everywhere.
“New roommate?” I ask, looking around.
Jessie follows my gaze. “Oh, um, no. I’m moving out. I can’t afford the place by myself, and I don’t want another roommate. The lease is up this month. Time to move.” She pauses biting her lower lip for a second. “I think I could use some time by myself, you know?”
I nod. “Yeah, I know.”
“Anyway, the mail is in my room.”
I follow her into her bedroom, also lined with boxes, and wait awkwardly while she fishes a paper bag of mail out of her closet.
“Here,” she says, handing it to me and then proceeding to watch me. “Come on. I know there’s an FDNY letter in there for you.”
My head snaps up. “You couldn’t have fuckin’ led with that one?”
She giggles. “I had to play with you a little, you know.”
I roll my eyes, but immediately dig into the bag. It doesn’t take long––soon I find the thin envelope with the thick FDNY letters printed on the front. I turn it back and forth in my hand. Jessie walks up and clasps my face between her hands.
“Hey,” she says. “Good luck.”
Then she kisses me. Her lips are soft, and her hands feel good when they slip down my neck and over my bare chest. It’s nice enough that the tension in my stomach lets up a little. The noises I’ve been hearing from K.C.’s bedroom sing through my mind––I wouldn’t mind getting laid right now. It actually might help.
But something’s not right. It’s never been right. And I’m not going to do this to her again.
I pull away. “Jess...”
She steps back with a sigh, but for once, she’s not angry. I’m reminded that for all of her cynicism, Jessie’s not a bad girl. She’s lost, trying to figure out how to be more than the place she came from. Trying to play catch-up with everyone else, just like me.
She looks me over, her big brown eyes suddenly sympathetic.
“You really love her, huh?”
I pull at the backwards brim of my hat, then twist it around to the front. “Yeah. I do.”
The admission cuts deep, an arrow into my heart. There’s a reason, I realize, why Cupid carries an arrow. Love is a weapon. It spears.
“I think you shouldn’t give up on her.”
I frown, surprised. “What?”
Jessie sits down on her bed, folds her long legs up underneath her chin, but doesn’t look at me, just keeps her eyes focused on her flowered bedspread. “I was mad about it for a while––okay, I was more than mad. I was really, really jealous. But that’s just because I...” She shrugs. “Look, I’ve never felt that way about anyone, the way you feel about her. I think if I did...I probably wouldn’t give it up without a fight.”
“Yeah, well.” I sink into the chair across from her and turn the letter over and over in my hands.
“People like us,” Jessie says, “we’re always so scared. You ever notice that? Scared to try. Scared to do more. Scared to succeed, maybe.”
“That’s because we know what it’s like to fail,” I joke. “We were born into failure, not victory, like them.”
“You really believe that?”
I think about Layla. The way, even with everything going on around her, she’s never been afraid to try. With jobs. With school. With us. I thought it was her age, her naiveté that made her so ready to give everything up, to move out here with me. To give it her all. But now that Jessie’s talking, I realize that maybe it was also my fear that held us back.
All my life they’ve called me a fighter. I’ve used my fists more than once, in ways I haven’t always been proud of, but mostly I was just trying to find something better for my family and me than the lot we were dealt. I didn’t grow up with anywhere near the resources someone like Layla has had access to. School always felt like a struggle, because who was going to help me with my homework? No one was watching where I went or what I did because my mother was too busy working and trying to take care of her three younger kids.
But I wasn’t born into failure either. I know it’s not as simple as that. We had Alba and her family looking out for us. I got into some trouble that will follow me for the rest of my life, but I’ve still worked my ass off to avoid selling dope or stealing shit for a living. So I know what it’s like to try. Maybe it’s time to accept that I can also succeed, just like anyone else.
I turn the letter over, fearful, but also excited about what might be inside.
“Open it,” Jessie says. “Come on. They’re offering you the job, I know it.”
I slide my thumb underneath the edge of the paper. Suddenly, I feel like I’m about to throw up. I’ve never wanted anything this badly before. Never tried so hard to get it. Hours of time, forcing my brain through those books, forcing my body through the workouts. If I don’t get it...fuck. The idea is paralyzing.
“Nico,” Jessie says, but I can barely hear her.
“Okay,” I say.
Before I hesitate again, I rip my finger through the paper, then pull out the letter inside.
Dear Mr. Soltero...
“Well?” Jessie asks. “Well? What did they say, you asshole? Don’t keep me in suspense!”
I read it once. Then I read it again. And again. Then, finally, I look up. For the first time in my life, my shoulders feel light. The future seems wide open.
~