CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Layla
Home.
The word echoes through my mind when I wake up the next morning. Slowly, in the dim light, the room comes into focus. It’s familiar, but not the one I’m used to seeing here. That one, the plain white bedroom on the other side of the far wall, is now occupied by Nico’s brother, Gabe. Poor Gabe. He had a taste of freedom for just over six months before he was right back to living with his mom.
Nico and I are on the pull-out couch in the living room, a space that’s cordoned off by a couple of screens that block the open doorways leading from one side into the hallway, and through the other into the small TV room and the kitchen. It used to serve as a storage space for Nico and his family, giving his mother a little extra room in her tiny apartment in Hell’s Kitchen. There is even more stuff now, he explained sheepishly last night, because they’ve been slowly moving her up here.
Several cardboard boxes are stacked against the plastered walls, and another side of the room contains a jumble of other household goods: a couple of old brass lamps, a stack of faded sheets, a box of cords, an old TV, and two or three laundry baskets with what look like children’s clothes that Allie has grown out of. Faint scents of rice and beans filter through the air, and even this early, the bright guitar of a bachata song fades in every now and then from the street below. It’s not a nice apartment by any stretch of the imagination, but I don’t feel awkward here. I never did.
Despite the chill of the room, I’m warm. It’s because, I soon realize, I’m in an equally familiar position: wrapped in five feet, elevenish inches of Nico. He’s curled around me like a shrimp, one big arm draped across my middle, the other wormed under my neck to hold me securely against his broad, warm body. Apparently, it didn’t matter how vehemently we both insisted we would stay away from each other through the night. Our bodies were determined to do differently.
I can’t say I’m surprised. And even though I know it’s wrong, I don’t move away. Nico’s nose is buried in the back of my neck, and his warm breath feels so good. His fingers tighten reflexively now and then, and every few breaths, a low hum escapes his lips as he dreams. His biceps flex, a sturdy cage. Even in his dreams, he protects me.
My phone blinks on top of the suitcase beside the couch: filled with messages, no doubt, from my roommates and Giancarlo. I texted all of them last night, but everything I said was lies. The twist in my stomach reminds me: I am not a good person. My roommates think I’m staying with my boyfriend; Giancarlo thinks I went to stay with them. None will be happy about it.
I sigh. The world outside this room feels heavy. But the person in it is not someone I should be with. And he’s also not someone I have ever been able to say no to.
Nico stirs again, inhaling deeply. The hand at my waist tightens, and his hips flex into me from behind. Well...something is definitely awake. Instinctively, he grinds into me again, and a light groan erupts from his lips as he burrows his face further into my neck and shoulder, lips and mouth seeking.
“Mmmm, Layla,” he murmurs as his fingers locate the hem of my t-shirt. I gasp as they slide underneath, skin on skin as his lips meet the soft spot under my ear.
“Ah!” I gasp as his teeth find my earlobe.
“Mmmmm.” Nico’s deep voice is a motor as the hand at my stomach drifts farther south and starts to slide under the waistband of my jeans.
“Nico,” I whisper.
“Just five minutes, baby.”
His voice slurs a little; he’s not completely awake. But as much as I want to stay here, want to let his fingers continue their path, I know I have to stop this. I have to stop before we make this mistake all over again, and I’m eaten alive with guilt more than I already am.
“Nico,” I say, wriggling against him.
Shit, that really doesn’t help. The rock-hard length of him pressed against my ass just gets even harder, and he groans as he thrusts lightly. Shit.
“Nico, you have to stop!”
“Hm? What?” The hand at my stomach starts. His whole body tenses. “Oh,” he says. “Damn.” But he doesn’t move away immediately. “Damn,” he murmurs again, and then, finally, withdraws his arms and rolls away.
His absence is sudden and acute. And now I am freezing.
I roll over to find him lying on his back, hands clasped over his broad chest while he stares up at the ceiling with a pained expression. Perhaps feeling my gaze, he turns to me.
“Hey,” I say softly.
He presses his full lips together. “Hey. Um, sorry about that. I...I was asleep, I guess. Hard to control myself when I’m not conscious.”
I give a lopsided smile. Is it fucked up that I like that I have this effect on him? This is definitely not someone who ever needs help getting things started.
“It’s okay,” I say. “Old habits die hard, right?”
His smile isn’t the big, bright one I usually get. He doesn’t even bare his teeth.
“I––this is hard,” he admits, turning back to the ceiling. He pushes his hands into his hair, which is a little longer than usual. “I don’t know how to do this.” His eyes sharpen. “I don’t want you to see that guy anymore, Layla.”
All the warmth of this moment disappears. “You have no right to say that.”
“I have a right as your friend.”
“Do friends dry hump each other in their sleep?”
Nico groans, loud and long, into his elbow. The movement makes the tattoos over his right bicep ripple. I try not to drool.
“Fuck,” he whispers loudly. I know he’s struggling to keep it down because his family is still asleep. Then he looks at me with a dagger-like expression. “You called me, you know.”
I scowl back. “Do you wish I hadn’t?”
“No. Yes. No. Fuck!”
Nico sits up, and the covers fall down. His white t-shirt isn’t leaving much to the imagination, and neither are his boxer briefs. Jesus, he has really been working out in LA.
“I’m glad you called,” he says. “But you shouldn’t have been up there in the first place. Layla, I don’t know what kind of shit your boyfriend”––he spits out the word, like it gives him a bad taste in his mouth––“is into, but he should know better than to send his innocent girlfriend in his place to deal with a fuckin’ gangster!”
“I see. So you think I’m too ignorant and stupid to understand what was going on?” I ignore the fact that I didn’t actually know what was going on. Gangster?
“Fuck––me cago––no, I didn’t mean it like that.”
But I’m already swinging my legs out of the bed and searching for my shoes. I slept in my clothes last night, too wary of what might happen if there were only a few pieces of underwear between Nico and me. Nico’s feet hit the floor with a thump, and then he’s coming around the mattress to stand in front of me.
“Layla.”
I look up, and despite the anger I feel––at him, at Giancarlo, at myself for even being in this situation––I still want to do what comes most naturally. Nico’s dense, close-cut hair is sticking up a little around the crown of his head, and there’s a solid day and a half’s worth of black stubble on his cheeks and chin. He rubs his eyes, which have shadows underneath them. But his lips look so soft and full, and all I want to do is throw my arms around those broad shoulders and kiss him until neither of us is mad anymore.
Okay, I want to do a lot more than that.
Nico puts his hands on my shoulders and stills me. I look up, expecting to see disdain. Condescension. Someone who thinks I’m stupid, because in my heart, I know I’m being horrible to someone who helped me last night. But all I see is concern and maybe a little frustration warring across his face. His eyes drift to my mouth again, and without thinking, I lick my lips. His eyes dilate.
“Fuck,” he murmurs as he closes them. He exhales forcefully, then looks straight at me. “Don’t go back there.”
My mouth drops. That was not what I was expecting him to say. “What?”
“I––” He rubs the back of his neck uneasily. “You don’t––I mean––look, I wasn’t going to say anything, but there’s a chance I’m moving back to New York. I don’t know when. But possibly within a few months. You don’t need someone like him, Layla. Not when you and I...”
“What do you mean, there’s a chance you’re moving back?”
The words seem to crackle in the air. I’m honestly not sure if I really heard him say that.
Now Nico’s the one who looks guilty.
“Ah, yeah. I wanted to tell you, but I didn’t want to get your hopes up.”
I don’t say anything. Just wait for him to say whatever this is.
“It’s...you remember that EMT test I told you about?” he ventures.
I still say nothing. He blinks, his expression black and uneasy. Suddenly I feel like I’m made of glass, about to shatter.
Nico takes a deep breath. “It was, um, actually the FDNY entrance exam. I took it last November. And then...well, I did pretty well. Actually, I did great.”
“Of-of course you did,” I murmur, more to myself than to him. “Of course you did.”
“Well, um, yeah. So I was called up this week to, um...keep interviewing.” He keeps going, now in a sudden rush. “I had the physical on Tuesday. The psych interview is today. You should have seen me the last few months, baby, I’ve been working out like a beast. It’s basically all I do, other than work. Anyway, they seemed to think I did well on that, and now the psych interview is this morning. I still don’t know...I don’t know. I have a record, and they may decide in the end that someone with a history of assault isn’t worthy of the FDNY. But I had to try, you know? It’s...it’s what I’ve always wanted...”
For a long time I sit there, taking in his words. Nico’s quiet now, watching to see what I’ll do. He chews on his lips and cracks his knuckles––he’s never been good with silence.
“I just...I just...” I shake my head, back and forth, trying to register what he’s telling me.
He’s coming back. He’s coming back to New York. And he knew all this time that he was trying to do that. Every time I asked to be together, he knew.
He knew. And he always said no.
Suddenly, it’s hard to breathe. I suck in the air, hiccupping around each breath.
“Layla?” Nico sits next to me, worried. “Are you all right?”
“I...can’t...” I take another deep breath. “I can’t believe that you are doing this to me...again!”
Nico’s brow screws up in confusion. “What?”
“Did you know?” I demand, my voice already choking up. “Did you know that you might be coming back? Have you known this whole time?”
“What? I, well––” He’s stumbling, unable to put together a complete sentence.
“Of course you did,” I continue without waiting. “You applied. You took a test. You knew even then that you had made the final cut, and you didn’t tell me?”
“I just...Layla, do you have any idea how many times I’ve applied for the FDNY over the years? This was a long shot. I still can’t even believe I got this far!”
“Who the fuck cares?” I snarl. “You don’t get it, do you?” My voice cracks, and I can feel my chest cracking right along with it. “All I’ve wanted is you. All year. Ever since you left. And every time I’m starting to think about moving on again you pop back into my life, every time, sweep me right back in, make me love you, all just to leave me. I can’t take it, anymore, Nico!”
He sinks down onto the bed with a dazed expression, like he can hardly believe what he’s hearing. I can hardly believe it myself. I look around frantically for my shoes. I just want to go. I want to leave and bury myself under a mountain of blankets. I want to find a place in this world, this life, where this ache in my chest can finally go away.
“Layla.” He says my name slowly, deliberately.
“I have a boyfriend,” I say, though the words are weak.
“Who, that asshat from Argentina? The guy who robs his girlfriend blind and lies the fuck about it?”
“Shut up.”
“No.” He kicks at his shoes lying on the floor; they flop over.
I spy my boots behind a box and make a grab, hopping wildly around the room while I put them on. “Come back to New York,” I say. “Don’t come back to New York. But whatever you do, don’t do it for me.”
The words bite; they don’t sound nearly as indifferent as I intend them. I’m crying too hard to look apathetic anyway.
“Layla, please. I’ll––listen, I’ll be back in a few months. In May. I don’t live with Jessie anymore, baby. I’ve been staying with K.C. for a while now. I just...tell me it’s not too late. It’s you and me, Layla. You and me. You can’t tell me that you and fuckin’ Evita have anything on that!”
He squats down, cups my face between his hands. “You don’t need him. You have me.”
I lean into the touch––that warm, familiar touch. Nico has always been a furnace when I’m with him––he radiates heat all the time. I close my eyes, enjoying the roughness of his callouses against my skin, the gentleness of the thumb lightly brushing my cheekbone. When I open them, he’s giving me that look––that Nico look, that’s black and fathomless, but open and full of love. Love he’s never given completely, but that I wanted so badly.
“I don’t want to be alone,” I admit, for the first time that I can remember.
And I don’t. Because being alone hurts––it reminds me that the person I want to be with doesn’t want me back. It reminds me that even if he loves me, he still chose a life without me. Without us. And every single time I think of it, it’s like he drives a knife further and further into my heart.
“Baby...”
“I don’t want to be in love with you anymore,” I whimper and fall into his chest.
He starts for a second in surprise, but quickly folds his arms around me, holding my shaking form as the tears fall before I can stop them. I start to shake violently, as much for the pain of loving him as for the pain of admitting I don’t want to anymore. Giancarlo might say mean things. He might yell or shout or throw the occasional dish. But nothing hurts more than this man’s love. Or, I should say, nothing hurts more than loving him.
I jerk away, pawing at my face. I’m so tired of crying for this man, for the pain of being without him.
“And if you aren’t hired?” I ask. I can see the suggestion hurts him, just like it hurts me to say it. Nico would be a brilliant firefighter––he’s a natural hero. Any fool could see that.
But I still need to know the answer to that question. I need to know what he wants from us.
“Are you––are you coming back to New York? Are you coming back here?”
Nico opens and closes his mouth, like he wants to say yes, but then his chest deflates. “I––no. No, I’m not.”
And there it is. The answer that’s been breaking me from the start. The reason I need to convince me that he really doesn’t feel the same way about me as I feel about him.
We stare at each other for a long time, and it’s almost like time acts as a magnet. The longer we stare, the closer we get, until our lips are almost touching. Suddenly all I can think about is that those lips showed me what love felt like. That maybe I never knew what that really felt like until I met him.
That maybe I never will again.
And then our lips are touching. I’m not sure if I start the kiss or if he does, but quickly, it takes over both of us. And just as organically, his hands are back on my skin, sliding up and down my legs, up and down my body like he’s trying to commit every imprint to memory.
He’s warm. So warm. When the world is literally freezing, and the people in it offer the shelter of an igloo, this man heats my soul like fire. He pulls me flush against him so we’re chest to chest, legs against legs, so my soft parts meet his hard ones, and he throbs against my core.
“Layla,” he utters before taking another kiss, and then another one as he turns me toward the bed. His hands slip down, take a firm hold of my ass, that body part he seems to love so much.
“Nico,” I whisper against his lips, soft and sensuous, that pillow over my face. “Please,” I murmur against him, arching up to rub myself against his cock. I want him. My body craves kindness. It craves love. It craves a man who won’t hurt me, even when he’s angry. A man who won’t leave me when I’m at my most vulnerable.
Which, I realize, is exactly what he’s going to do. If we do this, it will feel good, so so good in the moment. I’ll lose myself in him in the way only Nico can make me do. But afterward, we’ll be right back where we are: he’s getting on a plane back to LA, and I’ll be here with guilt eating a hole through my stomach, feeling more lost, more alone, more hopeless than ever.
“No,” I say against his mouth. And then I pull away. Tears stream down my face in hot tracks. The glass is shattering. “I’m sorry. I just...I can’t anymore.” I suck a desperate sob in. “Please. I need to go.”
Nico covers my hands with his, holding them against his chest for a moment. His thumbs brush over the tops of my palms, and we stare at each other, caught again in each other’s thralls. When it’s just us together, things seem so simple. Him. Me. Everything else just fades away.
“Five minutes,” he relents as he steps away to grab some clothes. “And then we’ll leave together.”
~
We ride the 1 train downtown together, and Nico holds my hand the entire time. I don’t argue––I’m too weak to say no. It’s platonic, I tell myself, even though I know it’s a lie. I insist it doesn’t matter that I spent the night in this man’s bed. We didn’t do anything.
Nico plays his thumb over the ridges of my knuckles, and we sway a little on our seats as the train starts and stops, then dips below the street.
“What are you going to tell him?” he asks quietly after we’ve passed a few more stops.
I consider the question. “I...I guess I’ll tell him the truth. That I sold my watch to pay his debt, and I’ll ask him to pay me back. He will. Giancarlo doesn’t like to be indebted to anyone.”
I don’t want to think about what that might mean about last night. Nico thinks Giancarlo sent me there because he’s a coward who couldn’t pay his own debt. But a small part of me, one I’m not quite ready to listen to, says it’s something different. That I was sent to that pawnshop to make a point. To be taught a lesson about control.
Which means that he can’t ever know who helped me out of there. And when I see him again––today, tomorrow, or later this week––I’m going to have to pretend like everything went fine. Like, as he would say, I’m his.
“Just promise me this,” Nico says after the train leaves Seventy-Second Street.
I gulp. “What’s that?”
He pulls a little on the brim of his favorite old Yankees hat, then pulls it around so it’s backwards. It’s something he does when he wants to see me clearly. Or maybe when he wants me to see him.
“The second that guy does anything to you––”
“Who says he’s going to do something to me?” I interrupt a little too vehemently.
Nico sighs. “Okay. If. If he does anything to you...” Any softness in his eyes evaporates. They are black and stony. “You call me. No matter what time it is. No matter what coast I’m on. You call me.”
It’s a look that gives me shivers, but I don’t look away. I can’t.
“We’ll see,” I say in a voice that’s weak. Even saying the words makes me feel out of breath.
“Oh. Okay. But...you deserve the best, sweetie,” Nico says, and when he swallows, a muscle in his jaw ticks. “Don’t let anyone make you believe otherwise.”
Slowly, I nod. He squeezes my hand. I don’t ever want him to stop.
“Fifty-Ninth Street Columbus Circle.” The conductor announces the stop over the scratchy intercom. It’s intelligible only to people who live here and have already memorized most of the stops on the map.
Nico looks up as the train slows in front of the station. The doors open, and he looks at me helplessly.
Then, without warning, he darts in and stamps a kiss on my lips.
“Be good,” he says like always, before I can say anything more, and then skips off the train before the doors close.
The train starts to move again. I twist in my seat, my fingers over my mouth. Nico stands on the platform, his duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He raises a big hand at me while the train moves away. I set my palm to the window and watch him fade into darkness.
~