❝nothing matters: the importance of nothing. that's what you taught me while i was barely listening.❞

❘❘

NOTHING CAN HURT YOU if you're numb. Nothing matters if you just don't care.

Whispers of the soft summer rain just barely numb the sounds of a party next door. Tendrils of smoke twist within my lungs carelessly. It works like a fucking charm.

"Neva..."

A bass pumping.

"It's the wedding, Neva."

Like a heartbeat, it echoes between my ears. A dull pounding that keeps me from focusing on my own heartbeat—or the voice on the other end of the phone.

Thump. "...miss you..." Thump. "...she'd love it..." Thump. "...away forever..."

Faded lyrics filtering out windows; distant, drunken laughter.

"Neva."

A ragged breath, torn to shreds and left out in the sudden summer storm. I barely feel the words tumble out, "I'm not coming home."

His sigh tastes bitter, so I drag the cigarette up to my lips to replace the aftertaste of that infinite disappointment. When will he give up?

"Hermanita, por favor."

I melt an ounce at the familiar endearment, the soft plea in his voice. My brother knows my weaknesses better than anyone and that pisses me off.

In the wake of his pathetic attempt, I grit my teeth together. "Enzo. No."

"¿Por qué?"

"Because," I pointedly state in English, "I don't want to come home." Damp strands of hair sneak past my vision and I sweep them away impatiently. "This is my home now."

His silence is deafening, despite the unwavering sound of Latin trap bleeding through the air.

Guilt claws through me as I mull over the idea of hanging up again. My eyes drift down through the gentle rain to look at the Newport. Clutched between shaky fingers, dotted dark with rain, burning close to the filter.

I told myself I'd give him as long as it took me to smoke a cigarette.

Because I know that Enzo can't convince me to come back to the fucking sunshine state in a ten-minute conversation.

"It's been two years, Neva."

Exactly. If he couldn't convince me in the past two years, he sure as hell can't convince me with this half-assed plea to come for the wedding.

I almost want to laugh at his resilience. Enzo has always been the more determined one in our sibling rivalry. Sidestepping the disappointment in his tone, I try to make a run for it in a completely opposite direction. "I start school in September."

"I thought you didn't have a place."

"I found something." I gnaw on my bottom lip, wary of telling Enzo that I've moved from Brooklyn to Queens. "In Ridgewood."

"How is it?" His response is meek, but I know that the older brother in him is memorizing the name to look it up later.

I smile at the curve in the conversation and decide to let the ember burn longer. "It's rough," I admit, my eyes sweeping over the new neighborhood.

Buildings climb along the diluted sky, silhouetted against an unexpected crack of lightning. The M train looms over the horizon in a streak of darkness, and it grinds to a halt with a distant screech. In diluted, defeated shades of grey and flickering lights, the city is still alive.

Crippled and crawling, sinking and surrendering, but alive.

Ridgewood is a whole new animal in the concrete jungle, but it's nothing I can't handle. "It's close to the train and the bar," I say. "And it's cheap rent fo—"

A loud shout cuts me off as it slices through the sheets of rain above me. Bemused, I tilt my head to look up at the window diagonal to me. What a fucking party.

From the safety of my doorway, all I can see is a wavering silhouette flickering through the warm, orange glow of their window.

"What the hell is that?"

I laugh. "My neighbor has been throwing a party all night."

"Is that what that sound is?"

That sound is the endless beat of some trap remix, bouncing out of heavy duty speakers on the second floor. A peal of girly giggles, booming laughter and someone abruptly yelling, "Fuck!"

My grin widens. "Yeah."

"It's like, one in the morning."

Laughter bubbles up before I can stop it. Enzo has no idea what he's missing. "Eso no significa nada aquí. I was moving my shit into my apartment an hour ago."

"Well," Enzo sighs, "cuidado, Neva."

"I'm always careful, mano," I tease, casting my burnt cigarette to the wet sidewalk. It rolls, falls to the other side of the curb amidst the soggy trash. And then it's whisked away with the spill off from a broken fire hydrant.

A warm wind caresses my face and my hair billows up around me. Flurries of rain skim along my cheeks to cool them. Even in August, it's too hot in New York City.

I close my eyes to enjoy the feeling, the featherlight drizzle that captures any inch of exposed skin. A million things blend into a soundtrack beneath my eyelids, but I barely hear any of it.

Thump.

"Neva..."

Laughter. Thump. A horn.

"...everyone says..."

The shaking squeal of the M train.

"...anyone got a cigarette?"

Giggles. The gentle pitter-patter of rain. Soft breathing.

Thump.

"...worried you'll never come back."

I hate that his words make my eyes snap open. Even more, I hate that he's still talking. "Nunca," I clip out. "I'm never going back, Enzo."

Not for them, not for him. When are they going to realize that and stop calling?

He pauses. As if he's contemplating his next attack, Enzo stalls by hissing broken Spanish in my ear. This is why I gave him a time limit. Every conversation ends this way.

Just as I'm about to hiss a hasty goodbye, he finally breathes, "They miss you, Neva."

"I don't care."

"I miss you."

"Then come visit."

And with that, I hang up.

It takes a long moment before it hits me. I stare at the phone and listen to the soothing rhythm of rain and just wait.

For him to call back so I can hit decline. For him to leave another slurring voicemail that I can delete.

The seconds drag painfully slowly as a mist flutters over a black screen.

Enzo doesn't call back.

And as that settles in, something bittersweet rolls through me. The rain picks up, the music surges, the entire sky darkens. Everything and everyone else in the city continues to move, but I stay silent and still, just staring at the blank screen.

Maybe he's finally given up on me. Maybe they've all given up on me.

Good.

Hopefully, he'll stop leaving voicemails now.

The door cracks beside me. "Ay, mami."

Quick and thick beneath the music, the voice stirs me back to the moment.

A grin tugs at my lips. "¿Qué pasa?"

"You got a smoke?"

There's a husky drawl to his words, a smooth, fluent slur that edges me closer to him. This is exactly what I need. A distraction, a quick hook up, a new, sexy neighbor to keep me busy.

My fingers slip into my jacket pocket to trade my phone for the pack of Newports. I glance up to admire his lean figure.

Silhouetted against the sliver of light that escapes from his cracked doorway, he's clad in a dark hoodie, half zipped up and just begging to be torn off. Exactly what I need.

As I hand the cigarette to him, the trace of a grin appears. "You good?"

Am I good? Yeah. I'm fucking fantastic.

"Yeah."

"You got a lighter?"

I don't say anything as I hand it to him, but my thoughts run to a dead stop when our fingers brush. A bolt of electricity rockets down to my toes and my heart hammers at the fleeting glimpse of tattoos along his knuckles as he pulls away.

Licking my lips, I watch him duck into his own doorway. A small smile toys at my lips as he flicks the lighter twice unsuccessfully and curses. "Mierda."

The heat from his body entices me into taking a step closer to him. I cup my hands around his to block the wind and rain, and his lips twitch in amusement, but he doesn't waste any time before the next spark.

As soon as it catches, he takes a long, lazy drag and hands me back my lighter. Wisps of smoke tangle with his hot breath as he exhales, "Thanks."

I only nod, fighting off a grin. There's something raspy in his voice as if he's got smoke in his lungs and gravel in his veins.

It makes me wonder if we'd be good friends—or if he'd be a really good fuck.

Without saying anything else, he flips his hood up over his head and steps back into his doorway.

It's almost unnerving how I can feel it. As the cigarette burns slowly and the rain rolls down in gentle waves, his gaze wanders down. Past the baggy sweatshirt that hangs low, past the denim skirt that stops mid-thigh—all the way down my bare legs.

Every inch of my body hums in appreciation with his up and down, but as soon as his dark eyes fly up to meet mine, he nudges the door open abruptly. Disappointment tugs at my heart, disguising the faint sting of rejection. "I'll see you around, yeah?"

"Yeah, probably," I simply say.

And without a second glance, he slides inside and disappears.

I'm left standing alone in the rain, the slam of his door pounding through my head to the tempo of the music upstairs.

I curse myself silently, shake my head. His muffled footsteps fade on the other side. That motherfucker probably lives on the second floor and he's probably the one throwing the party.

Fuck him for not inviting me.

Rachel is sitting at the table when I go in and smiling at something on her laptop. With a sloppy, strawberry blonde bun on the top of her head and her green eyes sparkling with laughter, my new roommate seems completely oblivious to the faint bass pounding through the wall.

Maybe she's used to it or immune to it. Maybe she just doesn't care.

When the door slams shut behind me, she looks up with furrowed brows. "It's raining pretty hard, huh?"

I flip my hood off and shake out my slightly damp hair, resisting the urge to roll my eyes. I know she's only trying to make polite conversation. "Yeah," I say dryly. "It's raining."

"You didn't move all your stuff in?"

I shrug. "I'll do it tomorrow."

Rachel bites her lower lip. Looks to the window at the front of our apartment. "Do you have anything expensive in your car?"

Expensive? I don't have anything expensive... at all. I almost snort, but instead, I wait for the punchline.

Her hands wave in a nonchalant gesture, a forced smile plastered on her face. "I'm sure it's fine, it's just that— this neighborhood isn't great. The guys next door ar—"

"The guys next door?" I cut her off with a small smile. "You've met them?"

Surprisingly, her pale cheeks redden. "Only in passing. Both of them are assholes as far as I'm concerned." For emphasis, her gaze flicks to the right side of the room pointedly. "I've tried to talk to them about the noise."

"They live next to us?"

"Yeah, they're on the second floor too."

"Are they always like that?"

Rachel sighs and shuts her laptop gently. "They do this a lot, yeah. I've been here for a year now and it's steady like this. It gets worse in the summer."

"What do they do?" I can't help but wonder what kind of job allows them to party like this on a Monday night.

"I think they deal. Bunch of lowlife pricks," she grumbles, crossing her arms. "We always have sketchy people hanging around outside because of them. The fucking shoes in front of the apartment..."

I'd seen them when I first checked out this place a week ago—the tattered Nike shoes dangling from the tree on the sidewalk.

Rachel seems to mistake my silence for something worrisome because her brows furrow. "It's fine. I don't wanna scare you your first day living here. They don't really bother us if we don't do anything."

Unfortunately, I've never been very good at not doing anything. I've always been the one that couldn't fall asleep, that couldn't sit still, that couldn't stay quiet.

The one that couldn't stop 'ruining her life' with impulsive decisions.

Maybe that's how I end up sprawled along my air mattress in the dark, still fully clothed and listening to the party unravel between the paper thin walls. The heat sneaks up on me in the dead of the night, sticky and sweet and heavy.

When the wall shakes with the force of another slamming door and someone starts to stumble through the room beside me, all those impulsive decisions end up leading me to my window.

With chapped lips and bare legs, I swipe my pack of Newports and climb out onto the rusted fire escape with determination.

Relief floods through me when the fresh, stormy breeze embraces me like an old fucking friend. As the chills erupt along my legs and a veil of wet air sweeps along my bare skin, I tug my skirt back down my legs.

I've always hated warm weather. Maybe that was one of the reasons I left Florida so quickly.

"Fuck," I curse, flicking my lighter as I try to duck under the iron staircase and away from the rain.

"Sorry, are we being too loud?"

I almost jump at the sound of his breathless apology, abandoning my cigarette for the stark silhouetted man on the fire escape beside mine.

No more than three feet away, in the red glow from his open window, all I can make out is the smug smile and a half-burned cigarette as he looks at me.

"No," I say.

"I'm sorry." One side of his lips twitches higher. "We didn't mean to keep you awake."

I brush a loose lock of hair back and face him straight, cocking a hip. I'd thought the rasp in his voice sent a thrill down my spine, but as I take in his sand-like complexion tinted by the warm light, my blood buzzes with appreciation.

My eyes trace down his neck, desperate to glimpse any inch of bare skin. Disappointed that he's still wearing the same hoodie from earlier tonight, I simply say, "I was up."

Only his hands are visible. Scattered with dark ink and holding a cigarette lazily. That's tempting enough to distract me.

"Yeah?" Flickering back up to his expression, my gaze stills on his lilting smirk. A drunken smirk. "You were just up?"

All the signs are there. In the flirty smile and the teasing tone. He suddenly sways closer and I move to the railing with an inviting grin, scolding playfully, "You really shouldn't stumble onto your fire escape drunk."

"Not drunk." He tosses the cigarette over the railing. "High."

"That might be even worse."

The warm bedroom haze exposes a small anchor inked along his knuckle as he crooks his finger to beckon me forward. "Ven acá."

I take a step forward teasingly, my fingers brushing along the cool, wet iron.

He doesn't waste a second before he strides over. The fire escape clanks and shakes with his less than graceful movement, only stilling when he does. Without touching me, he leans over the railing and smiles. "What's your name?"

I don't hesitate to tell him. "Neva."

"Neva," he says, his dark eyes raking down my body, burning with something sensual and threatening in the darkness. "Like snow."

My pulse spikes, but I take a step closer. "Close."

❘❘

**Shitty Decision #1 ✓

Neva is a Spanish name derived from the verb 'nevar' which means 'to snow.' ❄️

Anyway, for Shitty Decision #2, proceed. 😅