Nicco

Ch. 4: Naughty Dreams

ARIA

Around 6:30 pm, a fog of exhaustion weighs on me as I finally drag my ass out of the Jackson & James building. I've been working for almost ten hours straight. The blisters on my feet—from scuttling back and forth, nonstop, to the restroom—are killing me. I change out of my heels and into some comfier trainers as I take the Tube back to Appa's flat in Peckham.

My dad and I are having dinner tonight. Even though we both live in London, I haven't seen him in weeks. He's been busier than me at work, and that's saying a lot. He also slaves away at one of the Big Four in the finance industry. Not at Jackson & James, though. He's been at one of Jackson & James' main competitors, J.M. Weiss, for years, and I'm pretty sure that I inherited all of my workaholic tendencies from him.

The train is packed, as always, with passengers. It feels claustrophobic. I can barely hear myself think. Keeping an eye out for pickpockets and perverts, I hold on tightly to my tote bag and try to inch away from a middle-aged creep who keeps leering at my ass.

Relief washes over me when we finally arrive at my stop. I leave the Underground behind and make my way to the surface streets. From there, I head toward Appa's flat on foot, passing by rows of small storefronts: An eel and pie shop. A specialty adult bookstore that curates some of the spiciest books I've ever read in my life. My favorite place for Nigerian suya. The smoky, aromatic scent of grilled meat drifts outside the restaurant. It fills my nostrils, calling to me, making my stomach rumble with hunger.

Without a doubt, good food and smutty romances are my kryptonite. They are always my happy place whenever life gets to be a bit too much for me to handle.

Fifteen minutes later, I arrive at Appa's doorstep. The moment I step in the front door, I see Appa puttering around in the kitchen. My dad glances away from the stove, and a big smile spreads across his face.

Not wasting any time, he asks about work. Outside of my career, he never shows much interest in any other aspect of my personal life. "So... how are things going at Jackson & James? Have you spoken to Robert about opportunities for a promotion?"

"He actually called me into his office the other day."

"Why?"

Smiling, I put a slant on the truth, "To discuss my future at Jackson & James. It was promising. I have my eye on making senior."

"Make sure to squeeze them for all they're worth when negotiating your new contract."

I continue to play along, "Will do."

He laughs. I laugh, too. Our happiness feels hollow, though, because it's based on lies. I can never tell Appa the truth. He'll lose his ever-loving mind if he finds out that I've been temporarily demoted to a personal assistant.

In easy, breezy tones, I proceed to share the productive parts of my day while purposely leaving out my problematic run-ins with Ted Manning and Nicco Vitale.

Appa is all too happy to eat up my all too upbeat narrative.

What can I say?

I'm a master of spin when it comes to either of my parents. Māma is Chinese-American. Appa is British Sri Lankan. I was often stuck between their expectations. Trapped—between two feuding exes who were disappointed by anything short of perfection. They divorced when I was seven. Māma stayed in San Francisco. Appa returned to London once their divorce was finalized.

It always felt impossible to open up to either of them. I've become something of an expert at reframing negatives into positives. Sometimes, I feel guilty for not being honest with my family, but, most of the time, it's simply easier not to tell them about the crazy, stupid, painful shit I've gotten into over the years. And, trust me, there has been some crazy, stupid, painful shit.