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One thing I can see…
Retrieving my cell, I hesitate for just a second before exiting out of my messages and clicking into my photos. Navigating to a locked folder, I pull up the image that I spend more time than I’d like to admit staring at.
Flawless tan skin highlighted by white linens pooled at her waist. Long auburn hair sprawled out across the pillows, hiding her face.
I stare at the picture of the woman lost to me, my eyes mapping the curves that I’ve long since committed to memory. A few more steady breaths and the demons quiet, beginning their retreat into the dark recesses of my mind. The darkness clears, giving way to a vivid stream of memories that flash through my mind like a highlight reel, and I squeeze my eyes shut to dedicate my full attention. The images slow, coming to stop on a pair of wide emerald eyes. The same ones that haunt my dreams every night, taunting me with the reminder that when it comes to indescribable feelings, J is not my only exception to the rule.
“That Jonsie you’re texting?” My eyes snap open at the sound of Rico’s voice. It takes a split second for his question about my sister to register, referencing her by one of her many nicknames. But then the haze lifts, and just like that, I’m back.
I hum in acknowledgement, swiping back to my messages and finishing my text to J even though it’s close to midnight out on the West Coast and she probably won’t answer tonight.
“How’s our girl?”
“She claims she’s fine.” I shrug, rolling my window up while continuing to stare aimlessly out it.
“You don’t think she is?”
Blowing out a breath, I run my hand through my shaggy blond hair. “No, I think she is for the most part, but you know J. She’s not one to make a big deal about things even if she wasn’t. I wish she woulda stayed for New Years. Or I shoulda flown back with her for a few extra days.”
Rico’s large, tatted hand grips my shoulder, giving me a reassuring squeeze before returning to the steering wheel. “Don’t worry, Nick. A few more months and she’ll be back here, safe and sound.”
“Yup. Just in time for me to watch Mav lose his shit over her again.”
“Bishop will be fine. It’s been four years.”
“That dude she’s been seeing applied to NYU Medical School. He’ll be moving here too if he gets in.”
“So, we bury Bishop in the backyard and call it a day.” Rico cackles at his own joke, managing to pull a deep rumbling laugh from me in the process.
Rico Romero and I have been boys forever. We met as kids right before my mom got sick when his father, a former professional soccer player, retired here in the States after a career-ending injury. Rico’s mother had dreams of raising her precious baby boy in America, and since the word “no” doesn’t exist when addressing his beauty queen wife, Mr. Romero had ‘em on the next flight out. They moved into our neighborhood, and my mother was thrilled to finally have someone my age living so close. My schedule was suddenly chock-full of playdates. In hindsight, I can say this is one situation I am genuinely thankful my mother forced me to socialize.
He’s an arrogant fucker, but in all fairness, how can you not be when you’re the child of a professional athlete and former pageant queen? No, seriously, his mom was Miss Brazil and she’s a fucking smokeshow. His parents hit the gene pool lottery, and Rico inherited every last charismatic trait.
We had next to no similar interests, and at the time, our personalities couldn’t have been more different. But he exhibited a patience with me other kids didn’t possess. He never seemed put off by my underwhelming lack of enthusiasm over random bullshit that everyone else hyped up or when I’d say shit others considered rude or insensitive. Like the summer in third grade when Brensen Decker’s parents got divorced and I was branded an asshole because I simply stated it was probably for the best, considering all they did was fucking fight.
Rather than call me a dick, Rico took the time to explain things to me like one would a math problem. For example, in the case of crybaby Brensen Decker, divorce causes a disruption to the child’s life. Disruption to their life is a distress-inducing inconvenience, and societal norms dictate we offer sympathy when others are distressed. One plus one equals two. He even practiced with me by giving me various hypothetical scenarios and quizzing me on appropriate reactions.
Fake it til you make it, he’d tell me.
I’m not gonna lie, it was challenging in the beginning, and I almost said fuck it on more than a few occasions, but after my mom died, I made more of an effort. It’s all she ever wanted—for me to fit in. Rico also taught me to lean into my strengths, seizing opportunities to highlight where I was superior to others rather than shy away to avoid attention.
People were naturally drawn to Rico, but as he ascended the popularity rankings, he dragged me right along with him. Before I knew it, it was as though his personality had bled into the very foundations of my own. I morphed from Daniel Nicholas Conners—rude loner with a knack for dirt bikes—to Nicky C.—smartass, showboating motocross daredevil who never backed down from a challenge.
Somewhere along the line, I passed him in the social hierarchy. He never once showed an ounce of bitterness over it. If anything, it made him proud. Rico Romero is the definition of a ride or die.
Our relationship wasn’t entirely one-sided. He may have taught me how to fight, flirt, and command a room, but I taught him how to ride and work on bikes, as well as tutored him when he struggled in school. Rico had a significant reading disability when we were younger that was a bitch to crack, but once I figured out his learning profile, he made a shit-ton of growth. The day he read a grade-level text for the first time, he cried as he thanked me and told me I had changed his life. My selfish ass let him think that what I did could even be remotely comparable to what he had done for me.
Rico Romero was my first friend. He’s the reason I’m not a twenty-five-year-old recluse hiding away in a room somewhere trolling the dark web. If him thinking me teaching him how to read was an even trade and would ensure I got to keep his friendship, then I’d let him thank my ass all day long.
“So,” he says, pulling me from my thoughts once more, “tell me about him.”
“J’s guy?” I glance over. “I haven’t met him yet.”
“Yeah, but what did his background check turn up?”
“I didn’t background check him.”
Rico side-eyes me, his stare making it abundantly clear that he doesn’t buy that shit for one minute.
