Catch Me (29 page)

Cringing, I close my eyes. It sounds so much dirtier when you actually voice it. More judgmental. “Yep,” I repeat, quieter this time.

“Brooklyn, look at me,” he says. “Please.”

My shoulders slump and I turn at his plea. Apparently I can’t say no to someone with good manners. “What?” I whisper, still unwilling to look him in the eye, so I zone into his collarbone, hoping he won’t notice.

He brings his hand to my chin and tilts my face. “Why’d you put up with that?” he asks.

I don’t know what I was expecting or where I thought this conversation was going, but it wasn’t that question at all.

“What do you mean?” I ask, frowning.

“Why would you let him use you like that?” he asks, frowning back at me.

“He didn’t use me,” I argue, shooting him a confused look. “It was just what we did. It worked for us.”

Nick looks at me for a long moment and I see sympathy in his eyes. It occurs to me that he knows Shea well, and he sees the way he treats the women around him. He searches my face for a moment longer and finally drops his hand from my chin. “When did it stop? I’m assuming you ended it?”

“About a year ago?” I say, not meaning to make it sound like a question, but it does. We weren’t actively together up until then; a year ago was a slip up on my part. In the past I’ve needed drugs. A year ago, hanging out with Shea, I was tempted being around a lot of drugs and ended up choosing my best option for the night—which was him.

Nick nods rapidly as if he’s trying to process all of this, and then suddenly hits his steering wheel. “Fuck,” he mutters, shaking his head.

“What?” I ask, confused and taken aback.

He exhales, looking at me again. “So many things, Brooklyn. So many fucking things, one being that I didn’t realize you hooked up with him that recently, I thought it was a teenage relationship, I don’t know. I swear life has a way of taking a shit on your parade just when you think you have it all figured out. No more Shea,” he says, a demand.

“He’s a good friend,” I say, secretly reveling in the way my insides flip flop at his tone and his words.

“You’re not going to fall in his bed again?” he asks, his jaw clenching at the words.

“Never,” I say quickly, knowing that’s over for good.

“Good,” Nick replies. “I hated seeing his hands all over you last night. I swear I don’t know what I’d do if I had to go through that again. He’s my boy and all but … I just … no more Shea, Brooklyn.”

“Yes sir,” I reply with a smile, loving that he actually cares enough to be territorial over me. Nina would totally hate this, but I love it, I’ve never felt this wanted.

Nick chuckles when he sees my face and leans over the console again, this time to grab my face and kiss me. “You’re adorable,” he says against my lips.

When he starts driving again, Nick sorts through his music using the steering wheel until he finds the Beatles’
Please Please Me
CD.

“Where are we going?” I ask, leaning my head back on the headrest and turning my head toward him.

He looks at me and grins. “My parents’ house.”

“What?” I shriek, wide eyed. “I can’t go to your parents’ house!” I look down at my wardrobe, completely horrified by this news. Nobody has ever taken me to meet their parents. Why would anybody want me to meet their parents? Oh my God, I think I’m breaking out in hives. This is so not funny.

Nick laughs, aware of my discomfort, and squeezes my hand in his. “Relax. They’ll love you,” he says, shooting me a quick glance.

My shoulders relax a little. “Shouldn’t you tell them you’re bringing company? Have you even spoken to them? What are their names? Are they nice? Is your mom super skinny? Is she going to look at me like I’m trash because I’m wearing ripped up jeans and flats and a loose T-shirt with a skull on it? Oh my God, I think I’m going to be sick, Nick. Just drop me off at the hotel and meet up with me later,” I say, my words spilling out of me all at once. Nick is quiet throughout my rant and I can’t even bring myself to look at him when I finish.

“Whoa. You lost me at ‘is your mom skinny’,” he says, chuckling and letting go of my hand. He tugs on the end of one of my curls. “Look at me.”

I do, and I try to remain calm despite the cluster of fucks running through my brain.

He’s frowning as he searches my face. “I’ll call them now, but what the hell is up with the skinny question? Are you competing? And why would she think you’re trash just because of what you’re wearing? You look beautiful, Brooklyn. You always do. Don’t I tell you that every time I see you?” he asks, his voice soft and slightly concerned.

I let out a breath, slumping into the seat behind me. “My mom’s a bitch,” I explain, hating that he cringes when I say those truthful words. “If I had to see her right now, all I would hear is how much fatter I’ve gotten since the last time she saw me and how I need to watch what I eat and that I need a new wardrobe and that ladies don’t wear flats. I dunno. Sorry,” I mutter, feeling like a moron, but Shea’s mom is similar to mine, as is Ryan’s, and those are the only mothers outside of my family I’ve ever dealt with. Mothers are scary as hell, especially when they know you’re interested in their son.

Nick shakes his head, his face disgusted. “Your mom is obviously a nut job and may need her eyes checked.”

I smile, but insist that he calls his family to give them a heads up, so he does. I watch him as he holds the phone to his ear, waiting for them to answer. When his face breaks out into a huge smile, lighting his eyes up, I can’t help but smile too. It must be nice to feel that sense of happiness when calling your parents. I’ve never felt that, but I don’t get all woe is me about it. I just always figured that’s how it was for most people. I think it is.

Once in a while I come in contact with somebody that has a great relationship with their family. It always makes me feel happy and jealous at the same time when I hear them talk about their fabulous family lives. On one hand I feel like I can experience a different life through them, on another it makes me sad to realize that even though I have it all, I have nothing at all.

“Hey, Mima,” Nick says into the phone, smiling his face off right before he goes off into an entire conversation in the most perfect Spanish ever. I think I lost count at the amount of times he’s made my jaw drop, but this was something I wasn’t expecting. I understand it, the conversation, even though my Spanish sucks. My mom is Cuban, but she never made it a point to speak to us in Spanish. Our nanny, on the other hand, was Mexican and only spoke to us in Spanish. When I was little I didn’t like it, but now I appreciate that she did because the only time my mother speaks Spanish is when she’s talking shit about Hendrix, my father or myself. Nick laughs, hanging up the phone and blows Mima a kiss. My mom used to call her mom Mima, so I wonder if they share the same name, my grandmother and whoever he’s speaking to.

“What the fuck, Nick?” I say as soon as he hangs up, still looking at him completely stunned.

He laughs loudly, his blue eyes twinkling. “What the fuck what, beautiful?”

“How do you know Spanish?”

He laughs harder. “Still predictable?”

I roll my eyes and slap his shoulder. “Asshole.”

He brings his arm around my shoulder and pulls me to his side, kissing the top of my head when I lean into him. “My family’s Cuban, I thought you knew that?”

My mouth drops open. “How would I know that if you never told me?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know, I thought maybe I did. I know your mom’s Cuban and your dad’s American. I thought we talked about it, the Cuban thing.”

I shake my head. “No …” I say; my eyebrows knit together as I try to recall that conversation.

“Oh,” he says suddenly. “It was your brother. Sorry, baby, I thought it was you.”

Tingles fill my nerves at his endearment. I know it’s stupid, but I can’t help the way everything that comes out of his mouth makes me feel at this point.

“Makes sense. Still, your Spanish is perfect,” I say.

He shrugs. “Not perfect, but good enough that my grandmother doesn’t kick my ass over it.”

That makes me smile. “So you were talking to your grandmother?” I ask.

“Yeah, you’ll love her,” he says, smiling.

“I’m sure I will,” I respond, my voice drifting off as I look back outside, feeling more excited to meet them than the original terror I had. I’m not worried about them not liking me anymore, I’m only worried about the way I’ll feel when I lose him and them, because I will. I always do. It’s like my mother says, I can’t keep the good ones around, which is probably why I always go for the bad ones. Until Nick.

“How do you drive here? The waves of the streets would drive me crazy,” I say suddenly, unwilling to let myself get down on something that hasn’t even happened yet.

“Used to it, I guess. Don’t you drive in the Hills?” he asks, referring to Beverly Hills.

I nod. “Yeah, I guess you have a point. Still, this is worse. Our actual streets aren’t like this, only the hills.”

“Well, we have over fifty hills. Most of our neighborhoods are named after them: Nob Hill, Potrero Hill, Russian Hill,” he states, counting them with his fingers.

I laugh softly. “I’ll be sure to note that and save it in my box of Random Facts of San Francisco.”

Nick brings my hand up to his mouth and nips the tips of my fingers. “You never know when they’ll come in handy,” he counters, raising an eyebrow.

“I know. They may call me to do Who Wants to Be a Millionaire next week,” I say, shrugging.

“Well, keep my number handy if they do, I’ll be your lifeline,” he says, smiling, though his eyes are serious.

I stare at his profile for a moment and all I can think is that I’ve never wanted anything more. Then I snap out of it and tell myself I don’t need anybody to be my lifeline. But if I did, Nick would be my number one choice.

“We’re here,” he announces as we make a turn onto Cliff Road, which I would laugh at if it weren’t for the fact that it terrifies me to know we’re on a cliff. One thing I noticed after being sober for the better part of seven years is that I’m a total chicken when I’m not high as a kite.

Nick keeps driving, passing a couple of homes until he reaches the last one on the street; a stunning redwood home with windows and glass doors everywhere. It reminds me of the home my father is building in Calabasas right now. It has a modern feel to it, but the old cherry wood makes it feel cozy. The view of the San Francisco bay is stunning even from the front of the house. I can only imagine the back view. Nick goes around the car quickly and opens my door, pulling me out and walking me to the front door. He pauses in front of the door and unlocks it.

“Lucy, I’m home,” he bellows as we walk in, and I laugh even though I am completely mortified that this will be the introduction. I’m on edge mainly because I still don’t know what to expect, but then a very short and rather round older lady with completely white hair dressed in a flower nightgown and slippers walks over to us with open arms.

“Nicky,” she says brightly with a heavy Hispanic accent.

“Mima,” he greets, throwing his arms under hers and picking her up to hug as if she doesn’t weigh a ton. He whispers something in her ear that makes her laugh a throaty laugh as he sets her down.

“You must be Brooklyn,” she says, walking over to me and wrapping her arms around me. I hug her back, instantly feeling a sense of calm wash over me. She smells like fried food and seasonings, which makes my stomach rumble.

“Nice to meet you.” I let the words hang because I’m not sure whether or not to call her Mima too, since it’s a nickname.

“Evelyn,” she says. “But you can call me Mima, Eve, whatever you feel comfortable with.”

I smile gratefully at her. Her eyes are the same aqua ocean blue as Nick’s. Unlike Nick’s mischievous look, hers are welcoming and warm.

“Nicky!” another woman’s voice sings out from another room in the house.

“Ven,” Mima says in Spanish, so we follow behind her. “Your mom is in the kitchen. Isaac and Damien went kayaking. They should be back soon.”

The kitchen is a vast open floor plan, much like the rest of the house. It looks clean and simple; everything is a blend of cherry wood and off white. The light that bathes the house comes from the floor to ceiling windows that surround it.