Target on Our Backs
Page 36

He almost looks confused.
"You know, we didn't really dress like that in the eighties," he tells her… same thing he once told me. "I don't know where you girls got that idea from."
Melody looks down at her outfit, her black lacy leggings and what looks like a neon pink sports bra with matching tutu. She's even got on a pair of jelly sandals… something else we found today at the store.
She said she wouldn't be caught dead in a pair any other time.
They shouldn't make them for anyone over the age of nine.
"Really?" she says. "What did you wear?"
"Acid-wash jeans," I chime in. "The also really liked shoulder pads for some reason."
Melody pretends to gag. "Even I'm not crazy enough to go down that path."
Naz shakes his head, like he disagrees, and turns back to me without commenting. Melody disappears again after grabbing her bag full of make-up, as usual the last to ever be ready.
"Do I, what?" I ask, running my hands over my hair. It's poufy from being crimped. Another thing we stumbled upon at the store—a hair crimper. I didn't even hesitate before grabbing that one.
"Excuse me?"
"When you walked in," I say. "You were asking something."
"I was wondering if you had any plans tonight," he says, glancing around. "Sort of already answered my question."
"Oh, yeah… Melody wanted to go to Timbers, and I mean, I didn't think it was a good idea… I still don't know, but I figured, well… no harm, right?"
I'm babbling, because I'm not sure how to explain it or what I'm supposed to say, if I'm supposed to ask how he feels about me going out. I'm barely twenty, and this is prime ‘going out' age, but we're married now.
I've never exactly seen an example of how normal married life is supposed to be.
"Right," he says. "You don't need my permission. If you want to go dancing, by all means, go dancing. I'm not going to tell you no."
"Are you going to follow me, though?"
A slow smile spreads across his face.
Of course he is.
I'm not surprised, and it's not like I planned to do anything he wouldn't approve of, but still, I roll my eyes. Now that is old Naz. As much as I might hate it, I've got to admit—it's good to see him being himself again.
"I would," he says, "but I have a few other things I need to do tonight."
"Like?"
"Like," he says, stepping closer, so close our toes touch, as he leans down slightly toward me. "Things."
He leans in to kiss me, closing the distance, but I turn my head, trying to contain my smile when he groans because of my rejection. I glance at him in the mirror. "Promise me something."
"What?"
"Just… something."
"You want me to promise something without knowing what the something is?"
"Yes."
"It doesn't work like that," he says. "I can promise to always try my damnedest to come home to you at night… I can promise to love you for the rest of my life… but I can't promise whatever this something is without knowing more about it."
"Why?"
"Because I don't break promises," he says. "I have to know it's something I can keep."
I glare at his reflection. "If you follow me tonight, after you're done with your things, promise me you'll at least come in."
"You want me to come inside the club?"
"Yes," I say. "If you follow me."
He hesitates. I can tell by his conflicted expression that he wants to say no. Timbers is hardly his kind of scene. It's loud, and crowded, filled with drunken college kids. I know he used to go to that place called The Cobalt Room to drink, but I'm pretty sure that place was like a nursing home compared to the nursery room of Timbers.
"Fine," he concedes, his voice strained, like he had to force the word for his lips. "If I show up tonight, I'll come in."
"Promise."
"I promise," he says, grabbing my hips and turning my body, forcing me to look at him and not his reflection. "But I need you to promise me some things. No drugs, no drinking, no flirting, no fighting, and for god's sake, no fucking."
"Uh, no fun," Melody says, appearing in the doorway. "Way to be a spoil-sport."
He ignores her, staring at me, his expression dead serious. He's waiting for my promise. He already knows he has nothing to worry about with the last few, and I'm certainly not one to do any drugs, but drinking?
Ugh.
"One drink."
"None."
"Just a sip."
"No."
Ugh. Ugh. Ugh.
Compromise sucks.
"Fine," I mutter. "I promise."
He kisses me then. This time I don't turn my head. It's soft, and sweet, and way too brief.
"What about me?" Melody chimes in.
"You can do whatever you want," Naz says, turning toward her. "As long as you don't get my wife caught up in it, that is."
Melody playfully salutes him. "Got it, boss."
Naz walks out. I can hear his footsteps on the stairs, and then he's just gone. I'm not sure where he's off to, what sort of the things he has planned tonight, but I'm hoping he's safe, wherever he is, and not doing anything that can get him hurt.
"I swear, the two of you…" Melody says, shaking her head. "I still can't get over it. You're both just so cool about everything, like, whatever about it all."
I know what she means. It's hard to explain, but I guess when you jump over a hurdle like the murder of your parents, everything else sort of just pales in comparison. It's been a while since we've fought about anything, since I've been genuinely angry with him. He's frustrating, sure, but I understand him.
And I like to think, after everything, he understands me.
"Are you ready?" I ask, looking at Melody. It's well after dark, and we've still got to make the trek to Manhattan.
"Ugh, just like, five more minutes," she says, swinging around to jet out of the bedroom. "I'm almost done."
Five minutes turn to ten, which turn to twenty. Half an hour later, she's finally done. We take the subway back into the city, and Melody seems to enjoy the attention she gets on it, wearing her ridiculous outfit. The eighties are back, yeah, but I guess most of New York hasn't gotten the memo yet. She stands in front of me, clutching the bar, while I slink down on a bench beside two seat-hogging businessmen.
The line outside of Timbers is long when we arrive, but it only takes us a few minutes to make it inside. I hand my driver's license to the guy working the door, a beefy guy that looks like he's carrying a pack of hot dogs on the back of his neck, and scowl when he draws a big black ‘x' in permanent marker on the back of my hand.
Melody, as usual, gets her lime green wristband complimentary of the fake ID she carries. Pretty soon, she won't need it. She'll be twenty-one in just a few weeks. The bouncer glowers at it, though, bending it and studying it, like he knows the thing isn't real.