True North Page 2

  “The office is in…” She pulls a printed email out of her Coach bag. “Murray Hill.” She looks up. “Where is that?”

  Nico takes the paper and glances at the address. “Oh, that’s only about ten blocks from here, Mrs. Barros. We could walk, unless…” He sneaks a look at her shoes, pristine white pumps that aren’t exactly made for the grimy August humidity. New York in the summer is gross. “Come on,” he says with a grin. “I’ll get us another cab.”

  ~

  Nico

  It’s a little awkward walking around with Layla and her mom from apartment to apartment for the next two hours, but after the first, Cheryl seems to figure out that I’m here for good. I’ll give her credit––she’s not treating me like a piece of furniture or a derelict the way most women like her––rich and white, I mean––would usually treat someone who looks like me, to the point where I kind of feel bad for assuming she would. But she’s also a little wary. I catch her giving me the eye up and down a few times, sometimes resting her gaze on the tattoos that snake around my right arm. I can’t really help the way I look. I can’t help my dark skin, the tattoos, or the fact that to women like her, I look dangerous.

  But Cheryl and I share something more important than appearances––Layla. And again, I remind myself, her opinion is the only one that matters.

  “Oh, Mom!” Layla murmurs as we walk into the final apartment of the night.

  The places that we’ve looked at have varied. One was a crazy nice place in Murray Hill, complete with a doorman, which Cheryl clearly liked, but the price was way too high. Honestly, my jaw dropped when I heard it, and I’ve lived in this city my whole life. If this is what I’m up against when I look for a place in a few months, I’ll be sleeping on a pullout for the rest of my life.

  The others have all had different problems. One was above a nightclub, which Cheryl and I both vetoed before we even went upstairs. No fuckin’ way am I having Layla live above a bunch of drunk assholes who would just as soon follow her as flirt with her, and Cheryl seemed to agree completely, even though Layla liked the neighborhood. Another was in a decent building, but was about the size of a drainpipe. My shoulders literally touched both sides of the hallway.

  This one isn’t perfect either, but it’s easily the best we’ve seen. Down where Chinatown, the Lower East Side, and Little Italy all meet, it’s in a newly renovated walk-up that looks over Delancey Park, which, as far as I can tell, isn’t one of those parks you’d spend a lot of time in, but also doesn’t seem to be a magnet for junkies either.

  The apartment itself is on the top floor of the six-story building. The top two floors are the only ones that are available yet, and the owners are eager to get them rented to subsidize the construction going on below. Cheryl sniffs her nose at the term “construction,” and Layla rolls her eyes and nudges her. I’m more interested in looking around the actual apartment.

  It’s nice. A lot nicer than any place I’ve ever lived, although that’s not saying much. Two big bedrooms look over the rooftops of Chinatown. A kitchenette next to a pretty big living room, with new fixtures in the kitchen and the bathroom.

  Layla wanders into one of the bedrooms, and I follow to find her at the window, looking over the rooftops of Chinatown. Maybe ten blocks away, I think I see the top of her old dorm, the one where she was living when I first met her. A final few rays of sun are setting through the buildings, lighting up her face. The room has great light. I could sketch Layla in here for hours. Laid across a big white bed. Preferably naked, and giving me that look she does when she’s about to go down––

  “How much?” Cheryl’s voice echoes as she and the realtor follow us into the room.

  I turn toward the windows to hide the, ah, evidence of my imagination. Shit, I really need to get my girl alone before I embarrass myself completely.

  “They’re asking nineteen hundred a month,” says the realtor, a kid who looks like he should be in a punk band, not showing apartments. Everyone needs to make a living, right? “But I think we could negotiate down to eighteen, maybe even seventeen-fifty. They really need to rent the available units.”

  I raise an eyebrow, and so does Cheryl. We’ve seen enough tonight to know that’s a damn good price for an apartment like this in this part of town.

  “Dude,” I say. “Why didn’t you just bring us here first?”

  The realtor shrugs. “Honestly, I didn’t know it would be available until about thirty minutes ago. They literally just posted it. You’re the first ones to see it.”

  Cheryl examines the space appreciatively, checking things like the tile in the kitchen and the molding around the doors. The rooms are big, with ceilings that are about three feet taller than the average apartment in New York. Layla’s not going to find better than this, not anywhere. I’m not going to lie––I’m a little jealous.

  Cheryl turns to her daughter. “What about a roommate?”

  “Shama’s coming tomorrow.”

  Layla turns to me and smiles. Even if I sort of wish I was the one who got to stay with her, I’m glad she’s still rooming with Shama, one of the few people who really stood by her last year. Out of all her friends, Shama’s the one I like best.

  “She didn’t want to help find the place?” I wonder.

  Layla shrugs. “She said it was fine if it was just my name on the lease. I’ll send her some pictures before we sign anything. But…” She trails off, looking around the bedroom appreciatively. “I don’t think we’ll find anything better than this, do you?”

  “Do you?” Cheryl’s voice repeats, and she looks straight at me.

  It’s a direct look, one without any judgment. She just wants my opinion. She trusts me. It’s scary, but it also feels kind of good.

  I clear my throat. “I agree. This place is a steal for an apartment without rent control.”

  Cheryl nods. “Still, the building isn’t secure. What do you know about the neighborhood?”

  Again, she’s asking me this question, not her daughter or the realtor. I straighten up a little and look her in the eye.

  “Mom,” Layla says. “I used to live maybe ten blocks from here. Remember my dorm sophomore year? That was in Chinatown too. I was fine.”

  Cheryl says nothing, just waits for my answer.

  “I’m not going to lie,” I say. “You walk about five or ten blocks east of here, you might end up in a place you wouldn’t want to be at night alone. But honestly, that’s everywhere in this city. And Layla’s smart. This is a well-lit street, and Delancey Park is safe. She’ll be all right.”

  I want to add that I’ll keep her safe, but I feel like that might be overkill. Still, Cheryl seems to get the message.

  “Okay,” she says, turning back to her daughter. “This is where you want to be?”

  Layla gazes at me, her blue eyes full of promise. Shit, I really need to get her alone.

  “Let’s get things started. We can sign the lease tomorrow, if you want,” Cheryl tells the realtor, who immediately flips open his cell phone and starts tapping away. “Is there anywhere around here to eat that won’t make us sick?”

  Laya snorts. “This is New York, not New Delhi. Come on, there’s a ton of good Chinese and Italian places within walking distance.” She turns to me. “You’re coming, right?”

  I grin. “Wild horses couldn’t stop me, baby.”

  ~

  We make it through dinner––an overpriced meal of pasta and salad at one of those places in Little Italy where the tourists like to go. Cheryl chose it because it seemed “authentic” to her, and I didn’t have the heart to tell her that most of the servers are probably Latino, not Italian, because she seems to enjoy the fact that they are all dressed like penguins and serving our dinners on white linen tablecloths.

  Afterward, Cheryl decides that she wants to go have a nightcap somewhere with her daughter, and gives me a knowing look that says “get lost” in the nicest possible way. With some regret and a lot of guilty thanks after Cheryl pays
the tab in full, I have to say goodbye. It’s almost eleven o’clock, and I have to be at the academy early in the morning, which means an even earlier wake up to get the train on time.

  “Thanks again for dinner, Cheryl,” I say as I stand up from the table. I drop a quick kiss on Layla’s cheek. “I’ll call you tomorrow, sweetie.”

  It’s late, but Mulberry Street is still crowded, full of tourists out and about during the last few weeks of summer. Green, white, and red lights are strung between the fire escapes, casting a romantic glow down the alleys, while occasionally you can hear a cheesy violin or accordion filter out from one of the restaurants. It’s dumb, but as I walk by couples finishing up their meals on the sidewalk tables, I’m irritated I had to leave. This is just the kind of place I wouldn’t mind walking around with Layla. Where I could kiss her on the corner under these lights, like I did on our first date. Sweep her into a dark alley and let her know how much I missed her.

  I’m still fighting the disappointment when my name echoes off the old brick buildings.

  “Nico!”

  I turn to find Layla barreling through the crowded sidewalk toward me.

  “Hey,” I say. “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah,” she says, breathing hard. Her face is flushed. “You just forgot something.”

  I frown, patting my back pocket for my wallet. “What’s that?”

  Layla grins. “This.”

  Then she kisses me. It shouldn’t surprise, the way she’s willing to do that in the middle of a crowded street, where everyone can see her. Layla has never been shy about showing how she feels. It’s one of my favorite things about her.

  So of course, I kiss her right back, wrapping my hands around her waist and lifting her into my chest. I tease her mouth open to taste her, taste the remnants of coffee and tiramisu still lingering on her tongue. Fuck me, she’s so sweet. Somehow, I have a feeling that waiting for her mom to fly back to Pasadena is going to be harder than waiting an entire summer. Things go from zero to sixty in about two fuckin’ seconds with this girl. They always did.

  “Fuck,” I breathe as she breaks away. I steal another kiss, then another until she giggles, and I set her down. “I missed you so goddamn much, you know that?”

  Her eyes flutter shut. “I missed you too.”

  She leans her head on my shoulder and hugs me tight. There’s still desire there––I can feel it in the way she presses her entire body into mine, including the part that’s missed her in an entirely different way this summer. Then she sighs, full and long. I know the feeling. I don’t ever want to let her go.

  “She leaves the day after tomorrow,” Layla whispers in my ear. She leans back to look at me. “Do you have to work tomorrow night?”

  “No.” The answer is knee-jerk. And also wrong. “Wait. Yes. Coño, I have a shift at AJ’s tomorrow night.” I rub my nose to hers. “I’m sorry, baby. I thought we’d, you know, have tonight…”

  “It’s okay.” She kisses me again, this time more softly, sweetly, sucking lightly on my bottom lip before releasing it. “Maybe I’ll have to come pay you a visit.” She bites her lip. “I mean, if you don’t mind. Crap, I didn’t mean to assume––”

  I cover her mouth with one more kiss, shuttering her doubt. I want more, but I’ll take whatever I can get. After all, now we have all the time in the world.

  “Baby, you don’t ever have to ask to hang out with me,” I tell her.

  I’m rewarded with another sweet smile.

  “Okay,” she says. “Then I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

  ~

  CHAPTER THREE

  Layla

  “Isn’t that what they say?” I ask. “That we all fall in love with our parents?”

  Through smudged glasses and under a hat that never seems to stay on straight, Dr. Parker, my therapist, watches me kindly.

  “Well, it’s a very Freudian way to think about relationships,” she replies. “Or have you been reading too much Sophocles in your classes?”

  I shrug. Oedipus Rex is required reading for most college students at some point. I’m not sure a parable about marrying your mother and killing your father applies here, but I know the origins of Freud’s theory.

  “I don’t think it’s as simple as that,” continues Dr. Parker. “Do you think you were trying to replace your father with Giancarlo, Layla?”

  It gets right to the heart of the issue. The idea is grotesque. Who tries to replace a family member with a lover? Ew. But when she says Giancarlo’s name, it hurts. I see his stern look, the one that was half-terrifying, half-erotic. Sometimes, when he would pin me down to the bed, controlling every part of me so I couldn’t move, I was shocked by how much I liked it. By how strangely…familiar it felt to be controlled that way.

  Until the last time, when he did it to hurt.

  Or maybe it hurt the whole time. I never could tell.

  “No,” I say too quickly. Suddenly it’s hard to speak. My chest feels like it’s bound with cement. I can’t breathe.

  “Close your eyes. Inhale deeply. Focus on where you are now. The room. My voice. The here and now, Layla. The here and now.”

  It’s a routine Dr. Parker came up with about two weeks after I started seeing her, when she diagnosed me not just as a trauma victim, but also with mild post-traumatic stress disorder. It was common, she said, for women coming out of abusive relationships to experience some measure of PTSD. Flashbacks. Shortness of breath. Dizziness. Those, she said, were my symptoms. We were working on learning my triggers.

  “Say it out loud,” she urges gently.

  “The here and now,” I whisper. I don’t shut my eyes. Instead, I open them wider, trying to let the light of the room banish the darkness that threatens.

  “He’s gone, Layla,” hums Dr. Parker. “He can’t hurt you anymore.”

  “But he’s not gone.” Those are the words I can finally muster when my breath starts to return. “He’s not.”

  ~

  “Layla?”

  My name interrupts the memory, and I blink at my reflection in the mirror. The dark circles that have been stamped under my eyes since last fall are still there, but they are slowly starting to fade a bit more.

  I run the water in the pristine new sink and splash a bit on my face. It’s been a long day. After signing the lease this morning, Mom and I went to get my stuff out of storage, and then spent the rest of the day getting the other furniture I’ll need. Shama and I can figure out the main room when she gets here, so we just bought a bed and a desk, along with the necessary sheets and basics that I’ll need, along with a few things for the kitchen. I’m actually really thankful she came––my mom knows a hell of a lot more about setting up a new house than I do.

  But now it’s done. The living room is still completely empty, but I am the proud owner of an entire taxi cab full of linens and kitchenware from Bed, Bath, and Beyond, plus a brand-new double mattress set and a plain oak desk and chair.

  “It’s late. I’m going back to the hotel to pack,” Mom says as I exit the bathroom. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather just stay at the suite with me? You’ll have the rest of the year to sleep here.”

  I shake my head. “You have to leave at four a.m. to catch your flight home. I’m good.”

  Mom looks at her tasteful white-gold watch and tucks a nonexistent flyaway back into place. “Hmmm. Yes. I suppose.”

  Then she looks up, and her blue eyes, the same bright shade as mine, float over me, in that same way they always do. Checking to make sure everything is there. Nothing’s broken. Nothing’s out of place.

  “Maybe I should stay until your roommate gets here.” Mom taps a nail on the wall. “Maybe this is too soon. I don’t like you being alone.”

  I sigh. I’m so tired of being looked at this way. It’s been three months of this––of her and my grandparents treating me with kid gloves, walking around me on eggshells. It’s almost like they thought I beat myself up last spring, like if they left me alone, they’
d come back to find me bruised and bloodied all over again. Ever since Dr. Parker mentioned the letters PTSD, everyone has treated me like a basket case. Everyone except Nico, who doesn’t know.

  Things like that don’t happen in her family. In Pasadena, abuse is done nice and neat, behind closed, carved-wood doors and the pretty white stucco walls. It’s done with cutting words, neglect, and bank accounts, not knives and fists. But abuse is abuse. And I think my mother took her fair share for years.

  “I’ll be fine, Mom.”

  I cross the room and give her a hug. Her thin form is stiff in my arms––we’ve never been a touchy-feely family. But eventually her hands grasp my waist, and she squeezes tightly before letting go.

  “What about your prescription? Do you have enough?”

  I cringe. There’s an orange bottle of pills sitting in a drawer of my new desk––a low dose of Valium that I’m supposed to take in the event of a trigger. I don’t like them. They push away the shadows, but they veil the rest of the world too. Somehow, I don’t think I’m going to find my way back to my old self when I’m on a bunch of mood stabilizers.

  “There’s plenty,” I assure her. “I’ll be fine.”

  “That boy…”

  At that, I look up. Mom hasn’t said much about Nico since we’ve been here. She watched us, carefully, when he accompanied us from apartment to apartment the night before. She listened and laughed at his jokes, but always focused sharply whenever he brushed my arm, held my waist, snuck a few kisses. I think she was relieved that he had to spend the day at the academy today before going straight to his weekend job.

  “The way he looks at you…Layla, he’s very in love with you.”

  I frown. She says it like it’s a bad thing.

  “Well…I’m in love with him,” I say plainly. I don’t know why it makes me so nervous to say it out loud. It’s the truth.