CHAPTER SIX
Layla
It’s twelve o’clock when I tumble into Shatzi’s, the Jewish deli around the corner from campus, and set my giant bag of books on the floor with a loud thump. My roommates, Shama, Jamie, and Quinn, all look at the stack with big eyes.
“Damn, babe,” Quinn remarks. “Did you bring the entire library to lunch with you?”
I roll my eyes as I take a seat. “This is what I get for starting a major so late in the game. I have to catch up. Portuguese and Spanish, through level three. And my other two classes are seriously reading-intensive.” I let my face fall into my hands. “What the fuck was I thinking?”
“The Wretched of the Earth?” Shama picks up one of my books curiously.
Quinn frowns. “The sounds like a ball of laughs.”
“It’s interesting,” I say, taking the book back from Shama and paging through it. “It’s this account of the psychological effects of colonialism. Frantz Fanon wrote it about his experiences during the French-Algerian war.”
“Why are you reading about Algeria as a Latin American studies major?” Quinn shakes her head, as if she still can’t believe my choice. I still can’t believe it myself. And although my dad’s sudden departure at first put the same sour look on my face about it, once I realized that my major is exactly the opposite of anything he wanted me to study in college, I came back to it with a renewed sense of purpose. It means I’ll probably have to take classes through next summer to graduate on time, but the good thing is that a few of my general education classes from freshman and sophomore years will count.
I got lucky too. After spending most of my summer taking intensive Spanish at the local community college when my parents weren’t looking, I was able to place into an intermediate Spanish class this semester. It’s going to be hard, and I already know I’ll be imagining Nico the entire time. But he’s right. I can’t let what’s happening with my family dissuade me from my original goals––to learn about myself. My dad already took that from me once. He’s not taking it again.
I shake my head. In the last two weeks, I’ve been doing everything I can not to think about Nico. Ignoring his calls, which have finally dropped off. Pretending the punching bag I take my frustrations out on at the gym is his stupid, gorgeous face.
The first few days back were the hardest, when I was here alone. But as my roommates, Quinn, Jamie, and Shama, all arrived and we started to settle into our new dorm on Union Square, it’s become a little easier. Classes start on Monday. Nothing like a bunch of food for my brain to distract me from my heart.
“It’s for my African Diaspora class,” I say, taking back the book. When Quinn’s confused frown deepens, I shake my head. “Quinn. There are black people in Latin America. Lots of them. Afro-Latino history is a major part of the regional history.”
Quinn looks at Jamie and Shama for support, but neither of them meets her eye. Quinn turns back to me.
“But you’re not black. Was this the only class that was open?”
I sigh, irritated. “Do you have a problem with me taking a Black studies course, Quinn?”
There’s an awkward silence. Shama watches the tension between Quinn and me while Jamie picks at something invisible in her pastrami sandwich.
“I just think it’s weird,” Quinn says finally. “You decide all of a sudden that you’re going to learn about your culture. But this isn’t your culture. You’re paler than I am, and that’s saying something.”
I scowl, and Shama shakes her head. “Oh my God,” she murmurs to herself.
“What?” Quinn asks. “It’s not like Shama just stood up today and said, I’m going to major in Chinese studies because India’s in Asia too. It’s a huge continent.”
Shama buries her face in her hands. I just glare.
“Half of my family comes from a Latin American country, Quinn,” I say. “And even if they hadn’t, it doesn’t mean I can’t learn about this stuff if I want to. Maybe you should take the class with me.”
“And have a bunch of liberal guilt shoved down my throat? No, thank you. Besides, this isn’t you learning about yourself. Or anything practical, for that matter. It’s you learning about him.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I demand.
“You know exactly what it means,” Quinn counters. “I just hope you’re not doing this for Special Delivery, Lay. FedEx guy doesn’t care if you know about his mixed racial background.”
“Quinn!” Jamie finally pipes up. “I think we should talk about something else.”
I stand up. My chair squeaks loudly, even over the din of the diner. Quinn stares at me. Then, finally, she exhales heavily.
“Okay,” she says. “Okay, I’m sorry. It’s none of my business anyway.”
“No,” I say, slowly sitting down. “It’s not.”
“I know,” Shama says as she pounds a hand unnecessarily hard on the bottom of a ketchup bottle. “Let’s talk about where we’re going to go tonight. It’s our first night out together now that everyone is back. What’ll we do?”
Both Quinn and Jamie hum with agreement. I sigh. I’m still annoyed, but Jamie’s right. We should just let it go. The semester starts on Monday, and we’re supposed to be celebrating. I don’t want to ruin it by fighting with Quinn.
“Okay,” I say. “But it better be someplace good.”
~
Old habits die hard. Despite best-laid plans to do something out of the ordinary, we end up at our favorite bar near campus, Fat Black’s, where the bouncer takes a look at our fake IDs and waves us in without a second glance. I don’t actually mind. It’s just so nice to be back in New York, like coming home after a long trip away. The heartbreak of summer starts to fade away with the familiar smell of stale alcohol and the sexual energy crackling around the bar.
The girls and I don’t skimp, either. Working at Nordstrom had its perks, including a discount that helped me beef up my wardrobe. I should have known my dad was leaving just by the way he gave me money for the school year. By the way my mom suddenly put extra money into my savings every now and then. Unlike the last two years at NYU, I’m actually starting the school year ahead of the game financially.
I’m guessing by the effort we’ve all put into tonight that my roommates haven’t had many chances to go out this summer either. Shama and Jamie visited each other a few times, since they only live a few towns from each other in Jersey, but Quinn spent most of the summer taking an MCAT prep course in Boston. Everyone has on their finest “come fuck me” gear––short skirts, high heels, and we spent the last hour and a half doing and redoing each other’s makeup.
Shama’s boyfriend, Jason, is DJing, although for the first time, she doesn’t immediately say hi to him. Normally she’d want to take advantage of the fact that the elevated DJ booth blocks on the dance floor from seeing anything below the waist. Instead, she takes a seat on the barstool next to me and sends covert glances his way.
“What gives?” I ask nodding to where Jason is watching her from the booth.
She glares at him, then turns to me. “Oh. That.” She shakes her head. “I found an email from an old girlfriend on his computer last night. Asking him to hook up.”
I suck in a breath. “You don’t think they...”
Shama gives a small shrug that just about breaks my heart. “I don’t know. We barely got to see each other this summer. I came into the city a few times, but he was working so much he couldn’t even get out to Jersey.”
I frown at Jason, who is now bent over his turntables. This isn’t good. Our yearly schedules are one of the things that sometimes gets in the way of dating people who aren’t also students. I get that Jason works a lot, like most people trying to make a living in this expensive city, but not visiting his girlfriend once in three months? That’s messed up.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Shama says as we turn around to the bar. “I just want to drink. Have a couple of guys buy me drinks. Make him jealous so I can yell at him or have makeup sex or whatever ends up happening later.”
The four of us order a round of cheap shots, then another, and it doesn’t take long for the room to start spinning. And while the alcohol quiets the ache that seems to throb inside me no matter what, it also makes me really, really...horny. Um, yeah. I said it.
It’s been more than three freaking months since I’ve had sex. And the side effect of making out with Nico on the beach is that it awakened a beast inside me. A beast that really, really needs to be fed.
“That one,” I whisper to Shama, who, after nearly two hours of intermittent dancing and drinking, is the only one of our foursome left sitting with me at the bar. Quinn has cozied up with a business grad student in the corner, and Jamie has disappeared to find her new boyfriend, Dev.
Shama follows my gaze across the bar. “Who?”
Before I can say anything, Quinn and Jamie reappear with their companions. Quinn pops up on the stool next to me while the business student waves over a bartender.
“Who’s that guy?” Quinn asks, her voice slightly slurred.
“Who?” Jamie giggles as Dev suddenly becomes very interested in touching her neck.
Quinn nods over my shoulder. “The guy across the room. The one who looks like Antonio Banderas with glasses. He’s staring at you, babe. Do you know him?”
I look where Quinn gestured. It’s the same guy I just pointed out to Shama, and he is indeed watching me intently through a pair of glasses while he holds his beer bottle in a death grip. He’s tall and lanky, with a face that’s shadowed in the dim club light, but I can just make out the thin line of facial hair around his jaw, a mop of wavy black hair, and glasses that sort of look like Malcolm X’s. I don’t know who he is, but he’s hot. Dark. Exactly what I’m looking for tonight.
“And...she’s gone,” Shama says behind me while I’m locked in a stare with Mystery Man.
I pay her no mind as I slide off my chair.
My skin feels prickly. Uncomfortable. Like all the hairs on it are standing up, but not from fear. More like I’m a cat that’s been pet the wrong way, and now I need someone to smooth everything back into place. Who am I kidding? Someone? One person.
Except he’s three thousand miles away, and I’m standing in this bar with a blood alcohol level that should probably be illegal. The hell if I’m going to waste my temporary loss of inhibitions. Don’t be easy, my mom would say. Well, I’m about ready to say fuck it. Fuck her stupid conservative advice––what did it get her? A divorce? A husband who left her? Who the fuck cares if I’m easy?
“Lay, where are you going?” Quinn asks. Shama and Jamie trade glances, as if to say “of course” to Quinn’s controlling behavior.
“I’m just going to say hi,” I say, still watching the stranger. But before I can leave, Quinn grabs my arm and pulls me back to face her.
“Hey,” she says. “Not for nothing, but something seems off to me about that guy. He’s a little intense, don’t you think?”
I look back to Glasses, who, very subtly, tips his chin at me like a short summons. Quinn’s right. He does look intense. But that also might just be what I need right now.
“I’ll be fine,” I say, shaking her hand off irritably. “It’s just a conversation.”
Glasses watches me intently as I weave through the crowd. He takes a long drink without breaking eye contact, then sets his empty bottle on a table when I approach. He stands there, still looking, but not saying anything for a solid ten seconds. I stand awkwardly. Didn’t he ask me to come here?
“Um, hi,” I say, giving a light wave. I cock my head, waiting for a response. An introduction. Any of the normal niceties that would make this a little more comfortable.
Glasses nods. “I saw you dancing before.”
His voice is low, but not quite as low as I would have expected from someone with such an imposing presence. It has a lilt I don’t recognize. Like so many people in this city, he was born somewhere else. Italian, maybe. It’s hard to tell from just a few words.
Glasses doesn’t say anything else, so I nod and focus on my drink. He watches while I polish off the rest of it quickly. The alcohol goes straight to my head. Damn. I don’t normally pound whiskey––I usually get it because it’s better for sipping. But this guy makes me nervous. I have this urge, this immediate desire. I really want him to like me.
“Let’s go,” he says, and before I can reply, he walks around me.
I turn, and like he’s Moses and the Red Sea, the crowd parts on either side of him, opening a space in the middle of the dance floor. He turns around and jerks his head at me, like he’s surprised I didn’t automatically follow. I set my drink on the table. And then, for some reason I can’t really fathom, I do as I’m wordlessly told.
I understand now why birds in the wild do mating dances. I’ve danced with plenty of guys in clubs. I’ve let them touch my body, kiss my lips, even cop a feel here and there. It’s not always what I want to do, but it’s better than the alternative of telling them to fuck off and starting some drama. But this...this is different. This guy doesn’t touch me; in fact, he stays a solid foot away from me while we dance. He circles around me with every step, forcing the crowd to back up around him while he moves, his gaze slowly raking up and down my body. I never knew it was possible to be turned on and terrified at the same time, but here I am.
He circles again, and at the end of the song, he closes a big hand around my wrist and pulls me close. His touch feels like a brand. Then he leans down so his lips are next to my ear, and his scent surrounds me––something salty, warm, overlaid with a sharp cologne.
“Your name?” he asks. His breath smells of some kind of sweet liquor. Rum, maybe. It’s a bit like cachaça, the sweet Brazilian liquor my dad likes in the summertime.
“L-Layla,” I stutter. “Yours?”
“Mmmmm,” Glasses hums, but doesn’t answer my question. His grip around my wrist tightens, and he tugs me closer. “Let’s dance, Layla.”
So we do. While my roommates watch with wide, speculative eyes, I let the handsome stranger wrap a long arm around my waist and pull me close. I let him guide me around the dance floor with hip movements that seem almost sinful. I let him dust his lips over my ears and shoulders, but he never goes farther than that. His hands drift to my waist, but never lower, never farther up. He’s a tease, and it only makes that wanting, that painful desire, throb all the more.
And at the end of the dance, we do it again. And again. And at the end of those, when I’ve had three more drinks and can barely remember my own name, much less to ask him his, I say yes. I say yes to the tall, handsome stranger when he asks me to leave with him. I say yes, because he makes me feel like I can forget.
~