I’m about to double back to the beginning, not ready to give up, but a little less hopeful that I’ll find Nico by randomly circling his neighborhood, when a woman catches my attention. She’s stepping from an old, copper-colored Buick in the driveway of a house a few down from the one with the perfect yard, and she looks so familiar that I pull over and watch her in my mirror.
She’s wearing a bright red blouse and black pants, her hair piled high on her head in a bun. She flips open the back-seat door and bends down, a little girl climbing out soon and grabbing her hand. The young girl is wearing a fluffy pink dress, and her hair is split into two ponytails. It’s Sunday, and I’m sure they’ve just returned from church. My hunch is so strong that I wait for a few cars to pass and turn around, driving back into the neighborhood. I arrive at the house just in time for Nico to step from the passenger seat and walk toward the back of the car where he pulls open the trunk.
The woman eyes me as I slow my car, and she says something I can’t hear, but it gets Nico’s attention. He’s holding a paper bag to his chest, but he sets it back inside the trunk, brushing his hands on his gray dress pants and saying something over his shoulder.
I kill the engine, and instantly begin to sweat.
Say something. Something smart. Be nice. Please don’t be mad that I’m here.
“Hi,” I say, bright and cheery as if they’ve been waiting for me to arrive. The woman, who I am pretty sure I recognize as Nico’s mom from the few school activities I’ve seen her at, bunches her brow and smirks at me. She’s pitying me. Because I’m an idiot. And I just took that whole looking-out-of-place thing to an entirely new level.
“Uh, hi,” Nico says, his hand on his neck, one eye squinting more than the other as he looks at me sideways. “Are you…lost?”
“No,” I answer quickly.
My heart is beating so hard that I feel it in my fingertips, so I flex one hand then switch my grip on my keys and flex the other. I step completely from my car, shutting the door, then walk up to the end of the driveway where Nico is standing with his hands in his pockets, a light-gray shirt on, and a thin black tie loosened around the neck.
I open my mouth to try to fix my first impression, but then quickly realize that this is more like my hundredth impression, and none of it is going to matter if he doesn’t like the idea I’m about to throw out there on a prayer.
I exhale quickly and the rapid passage of air flaps my lips which makes the little girl still standing with Nico’s mom giggle. Nico turns to look at her, and when he faces me again, his smile is less sympathetic and more amused.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t really expect to find you, I guess,” I say, shaking my hands before folding my arms over my chest.
“Mijo, we’ll be inside. You talk to your friend, okay?” the woman says, leading the little girl through the front door, which she leaves open behind the screen. I laugh lightly at my thought about it, but shake it off quickly and step closer to the car trunk, which has several bags of produce inside.
“There’s a farmer’s market once a month, after church. My mom…she goes kind of nuts,” Nico says. I catch how he runs his hand through his hair and his cheek reddens as if a trunkful of groceries is something to be ashamed of. I can’t remember the last time my mom or dad brought a bag of any kind of food into the house that wasn’t from a fast-food joint.
“She must cook a lot, huh?” I say, bending in and lifting a bag.
“She does, and you don’t have to carry that. I’ve got them,” he says. I hold up a hand quickly though and cock my brow.
“Don’t make me argue with you over this, too,” I say.
He breathes out a short laugh, then gives in, lifting two bags to my one before guiding me up the driveway into his house.
The difference between our two worlds is impossible not to notice the second my feet step onto the bare concrete floors of Nico’s home. I look down to confirm, my eyes scanning the deep-gray floor still marred with marks from where carpet probably once stuck to the edges. This isn’t some designer feature Nico’s family decided to try after watching one of those home shows on cable. This is just what it is—a bare floor, cold and cracked, but swept immaculately clean.
I’m caught sliding my foot over one of the foundation cracks when Nico clears his throat, reaching for the bag in my arms.
“Oh, sorry,” I say.
His smile is modest, maybe a little embarrassed.
“Makes it easy to clean. I can literally hose it off if I want,” he says. I pinch my brow pretending not to follow, but he rolls his eyes. “I know you were wondering about the floor.”
“Oh…yeah, it’s just…different,” I say.
“It’s shit poor, but whatever,” he says, walking past me and back through the front door to the car. His bluntness stuns me, so I fall a few paces behind.
I open my mouth once or twice, trying to find the words to make it better, but when Nico lifts the last bag from the car and shuts the trunk, I decide I should just let him have the last word on this topic. I jog back to the front door and hold the screen open for him and follow him back into his kitchen, where his mom is unloading the bags into the refrigerator.