His mother called him to come back. He smiled.
“For you, Arya, I just might.”
And he did.
After nine excruciating days, punctuated by a weekend full of screaming into my pillow. I was lacing my sneakers, getting ready for an afternoon of wandering around Manhattan aimlessly to avoid him. Ruslana was out, getting groceries, and my parents were at work and at a tennis lesson respectively. The house was quiet save for Fifi, a shih tzu, who was barking up a storm at a new statue Beatrice had won in an auction over the weekend. That dog had infinite amounts of cuteness and stupidity.
In my periphery, I noticed movement on my terrace, and when I turned my head to get a better look, I saw Nicky hanging between life and death.
I shot up from my bed and ran to the balcony.
“You jerk!” I cried, my heart beating five thousand times a minute.
But Nicky was lithe and athletic, and he jumped to safety and was dusting his hands off before I unlocked the balcony door.
“You could’ve died!” I pushed him into my room, railing.
“No such luck, silver-spooned princess.”
I loathed and enjoyed this nickname in equal measures. The dig was annoying, but he did call me a princess.
“Well, I could’ve been naked!”
“I could’ve been lucky,” he responded smoothly, closing the door behind us and sloping against a credenza, his ankles crossed. His face looked soft yet intense. Like an oil painting. I wanted to cry. It wasn’t fair that he wasn’t mine. And it wasn’t fair that even if he could be, we’d always have to keep it a secret. “We need to talk, pal.”
The way he said the word pal told me he did not consider me one anymore.
“Be quick about it. I’m seeing friends in half an hour.”
“No, you’re not.”
Crossing my arms over my chest, I was already on the defensive. I felt foolish. Up until now, Nicky and I had been kindred spirits. Tangled together by an invisible bond. Two forgotten kids in a big city. Even though we came from different backgrounds, we had so much in common. Now, it all felt wrong. He had the upper hand. He knew I liked him like that. The balance had shifted.
“Look.” He rubbed the back of his obsidian hair. “I freaked out, okay? It’s not that I didn’t want to kiss you. It’s just that I would really like my balls to be intact by the time I go to high school, and . . . well . . .”
“You cannot guarantee that’d happen if my dad catches us together,” I finished for him.
He smiled, a smile that told me he didn’t give a rat’s ass about what my dad thought about him, only about the consequences that might follow if he crossed him. “In a nutshell, yeah.”
I took a step forward, letting my arms fall at my sides. “I know my dad is overprotective of me. It’s an Aaron thing—”
“No,” Nicky said flatly. “It’s a rich-man-poor-boy thing.”
“Dad’s not like that,” I protested.
“He’s exactly like that, and a half. Honestly? If you were my daughter, I wouldn’t want you anywhere near me either.”
His conviction told me there was little point in trying to convince him otherwise.
“Anyway, I never would have offered if I thought we’d get caught. I’m sorry. I was being stupid. And reckless. And—”
“Arya?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m not done talking.”
“Oh.” An invisible ribbon tightened around my neck. “Sorry. Um, continue.”
“As I said, if you were my daughter, I wouldn’t want you anywhere near me.” He paused. “But since you’re not my daughter, I decided your theater-class thingy is worth the risk. Not because I want to kiss you”—he lifted a finger in warning—“but because I wouldn’t want to deprive the world of the next Meryl Streep.”
Everything in my body shuddered. “Hey, I don’t want to kiss you either. But I want to become an actress.”
I should’ve felt worse than I did about the lie. After all, my desire to become an actress was akin to my desire to become a circus clown. As in, not quite. Or not at all. But somehow, I told myself the end justified the means.
“I expect two tickets to whatever film you star in when you grow up. And a limo waiting outside my house to take me there.” Nicky was still wagging his finger.
“Limos are a little outdated.”
“My balls, my rules.”
“What else?”
“It better not be a bad movie. If you pull a Demi Moore in Nothing but Trouble, I swear to God, Ari, I’m washing my hands of you forever.”