Chapter 6
CHAPTER 6
NICO
Sunday is the worst day, I think as I lie in bed. No tinkering with an old car, just for fun. No Nonna rolling fresh pasta, no Mama simmering sauce or soup while we’re at church, no Papa and my cousins arguing about whether Bologna’s or Parma’s football team was better. Just food that comes from the microwave and pointless American football.
I get out of bed and wander into the kitchen, then pick up the phone with a sigh. I call my family collect, but we hang up before the charges hit. I just say my name, and they say no, so that my mother knows I am alive, but it depresses the hell out of me to be so close, to hear her voice only a little, but hear no news. I tell her before I leave to send the electronic mail, but I don’t think she trusts it not to get lost somewhere between California and Maranello.
Unless it’s an engine, they don’t think much of technology, and they have to go to the library to check the email; it doesn’t happen much. So I write them letters. A little like the letters I wrote with my neighbor.
I blink awake a little more as we hang up, rubbing at my skin to wake me up, and then I remember with a jolt—I got the key from Giacomo. I’m showing my nerd friend Greg the garage today.
Energy hits me like I just had an espresso, and I hurry to the shower. It’s fairly early, but I’m 100 percent awake now. We are friends now, I think. We had coffee together; that’s friendly, no? And he is shy, a little bit, but he teased me in the café, tried to communicate with me. But I don’t care what he says; he is a big nerd. Cutest nerd. Wonderful nerd.
The nerd of your dreams? my mind prompts, but I ignore that question for now. Too soon.
But there was a strange connection between us like I have never felt before. Not just when I hug him, but also in the way I felt I knew him already, like in a lifetime gone by. I shake my head at myself as I strip and start the water, but I can’t shake the feeling. I have been with other men—I try with women, but it just doesn’t work. Was useless, my dick. He just lies there, doing nothing. I try to encourage him, but he doesn’t listen. So once I accept this, I go out with a few men. Nothing serious, just young people having fun. I don’t bring them home. Not that kind of thing. But I liked them, and they liked me, and they could keep things quiet for those who should not know.
I wonder how many people Greg has been with.
I wonder who his first love was, when he knew he liked men only. Perhaps he does not—that’s okay too.
I wonder if he wanted to touch me when he first saw me. I felt it so strongly, even then; my dick perks up between my legs as I give it a thorough wash, but it wasn’t even that kind of wanting. I wanted to brush the hair off his forehead and give it a kiss. I wanted to hold him, rub my cheek against his. I finish up and get out before my dick can get any more ideas; I’ve got places to be.
I throw on clothes and go in search of food. But when I open the fridge, I’m disappointed—I was so busy thinking about Greg after our date yesterday, I forgot to go shopping. Entenmann’s to the rescue—they make cakes. It says coffee cake, but it is so light, I do not think there could be coffee inside. Maybe to eat with the coffee? Either way, it is food, and I wolf it down as I get ready quickly. It gives me an idea.
I am out of breath when I rush back up the stairs to meet Greg at his apartment; we are going to walk to the garage together, but I had to get my surprise.
“Ta-da!” I say, holding out my gift when he opens the door, and he smiles so big.
“You got me a coffee?” he asks shyly, then takes it. “Another macchiato?”
He’s been practicing that word, I can tell, and it makes my heart swell.
“Sí,” I say, so happy I forget to speak English. He likes gifts. I tuck that information away in my mind. He’s still smiling as we get to the stairs, and he motions for me to go first.
“How was your night?”
“Good, good,” I say. “And you?”
“Pretty good.” I hear him take a sip of the coffee, and he hums. “Cathie made me go to this open mic thing with her.” I glance at him, confused, and he goes on. “It’s like, for artists. They can stand up, read their work. She’s kind of an amateur poet.”
“Cathie?” I ask as we come out onto the street. It’s a beautiful day; kind of cold, even though we both have jackets, and the sun is shining down on us like it’s glad we are together. I’m glad too. In the crystal-blue sky above us, seagulls whirl, looking for scraps.
“Oh, my roommate. Well, she’s more like a friend. We grew up together; she convinced—uh, talked me into—moving here.”
“Oh,” I say, the light dawning. “When first I see you, I think you are … ” I make a slightly rude gesture with my hands, and my message must be received because his face contorts.
“Me and Cathie? Ugh, no. First of all, she’s a lesbian—she likes women. But also, I know her too well. She’s like a sister.”
“Mm,” I respond casually, even though I am so happy to hear this news. The less competition for my sweet friend, the better. “And you do not like the women?”
Greg shrugs. “I like them fine, just … not to date.”
“Can like both,” I tease, poking my elbow into his ribs a little.
“Oh, I know.” Greg blushes. “I just … don’t.” I think I could make him blush like that so easily with just a little dirty talk, and now I have an assignment for my English learning time with the dictionary.
“Me, I like men. Only men.”
“How do you know?” he asks quietly, and I glance at him. He looks a little vulnerable, a little unsure, and I desperately wish I had the perfect words to tell him my story. But I will try.
“With women, I am … cold. No … ” What was that word they used when the engine wouldn’t turn over last week? “No spark.”
Greg nods slowly, but I see the mischievous gleam in his eye. “I get that.” He pauses, pursing his lips like he’s keeping in a question. I nudge him again, enjoying the teasing between us.
“What? What you say?”
He huffs, and the cold breeze catches his straight blond hair, sending it standing on end in the front. “Just that I feel … a spark with you.” My sweet friend—no, more than a friend now—swallows hard like it was difficult to say, and I reward him with a grin.
“I also am sparking.”
Greg chuckles, cheeks coloring again, and I have never wanted to kiss anyone more. Why is he so attractive? We can barely speak to one another! But I know when the attraction is hot, and this is on fire.
“Good to know.” His hand is in his jacket pocket because of the cold, but I can’t resist: I hold my palm up in invitation, my gaze firmly on his. I want that warm hand clasping mine, driving away the January chill. I want contact with him, to let him know for sure that he is not alone in this feeling. I wish him to know my skin, my body, even in this small way.
Greg glances around, as if nervous, but I don’t reassure him. I just wait. And after a moment, he puts his hand in mine, threading our fingers together, his smile warm and genuine, even though he’s still checking to see who notices. This feeling, I know it too. But people here seem very used to men like us.
We get them wrapped the wrong way at first, and laughing, I readjust us, beaming at him. Based on the softness of his face and the way his gaze keeps going to my lips, I’m not the only one who wants a kiss. Patience, caro. I’m still startled by how the endearment for someone I met yesterday rolls out of my brain when Greg pulls us to a stop.
Is he going to kiss me?
“This is it, right?” He gestures with his head to the shiny showroom, all glass and steel, of Gallo Motors, where I work.
“Yes. Right.” I have not forgotten the kiss, but it is fermenting, I decide, in the way of wine. I pull him toward the side door so we can go directly to the garage, but I haven’t been planning out enough what I will say. The other guys, they use a lot of English, so maybe I have been picking it up, and I will be more okay than I think.
It’s dark inside, but I flip on some lights awkwardly with my other hand, reaching across Greg but still holding on to him. The fluorescents warm up, flickering and blinking on dimly, and he sucks in a breath. So adorable.
“Is that the 328?” He doesn’t drop my hand either, hauling me over to have a better look at the car, shielding the light so he can see inside the window with his other hand. “I love this paint job. God, what a color.”
“308 Quattrovalvole,” I correct, glad I understood what he asked and had an answer. He’s not wrong: instead of a classic red, this car is a deep teal that reminds me of mermaids.
“So it’s got the Bosch K-Jetronic fuel-injection system? No carburetor?”
I’m thankful his eyes are still on the car, because I stare at him, slack-jawed, for a moment before I answer. He was not kidding. He really loves cars.
Some people, they say to me, “oh yes, I like the cars,” but it is something silly like Volkswagen or Toyota. They do not know the Ferrari; they do not breathe, eat, and sleep it like we do in Maranello, painting our town red, raising the logo in honor everywhere you look, following every race in the Formula 1. But Greg, he understands.
I nod, delight welling up in me and stealing my words, so I mutely pop the hood. I have to let go of his hand, but something even more important connects us now: love. For these cars, I mean.
We spend the next hour lurching our way through conversation about the vehicles in the shop, and I show him some things I think he’ll enjoy—and he does. But his eyes go wide when I open the door to the showroom.
“Should we be in here?” he whispers, and I chuckle.
“You will steal?”
Greg pokes me in retaliation, and the contact zings through me. “No,” he whispers again. “But I don’t want to get you in trouble.” Feeling bold, I reach out and gently turn his face toward me by his chin.
“I like trouble.” I think it’s the first perfectly correct sentence I’ve said to him, and it seems to have the effect I meant it to when he shivers a little. That need to kiss him comes back strong, but I just rub my thumb over his smooth jawline a little before I let my hand drop, opting to grab his hand again instead so I can drag him farther into this paradise. I can tell he’s still nervous, but I make him sit in the driver’s seat of the 250GT, and the awe on his face is well worth the effort.
He likes the 288GTO also, I can tell, but I can’t convince him even to touch it. Such a good boy, Greg. We argue in stilted terms about the 365GTB4 Daytona—it is so ugly! But he likes the seats—until he checks his watch.
“Wow, it’s late.” We’ve talked right through lunch; it’s nearly two o’clock. “Come on,” he says with a grin. “I know a great place you’ll love.”
Then he’s seeking out my hand again, pulling me back out the way we came. I barely remember to stop and lock up; I’d follow him anywhere. Anywhere … except the absolutely atrocious pizza place he stops in front of.
“Oh, no,” I say before I can stop the words, and Greg’s brow wrinkles in confusion.
“Have you tried it? It’s so good!”
“No, caro. Not good,” I say, taking his sweet face in both hands this time, patting his cheek. “Garbage.”
“What?” Greg looks aghast. “This is, like, the best pizza I’ve ever had! Cathie and I get it at least once a week. We love it.”
“I will cry. We eat here? Crying.” I mime crying my eyes out, and he shoves my shoulder.
“Come on, you’ll hurt their feelings. Don’t do that.” He’s laughing softly though. We’re still out on the sidewalk, but it’s clouded over and it’s getting colder now. His face felt freezing in my hands; I want to get him inside somewhere, but I cannot subject my stomach to this slop.
“Fine,” he says with a sigh, throwing his hands in the air. “Let’s get sandwiches and go to my place. We can study there.”
I cock my head, trying to understand. Greg also looks confused again, and his shyness is coming back.
“You wanted to study for your driver’s license, right?”
“Oh, yes!” A wave of fatigue hits me that feels at odds with the excitement I feel to see Greg’s apartment, like when the wake of two boats crosses in the bay, making all the water choppy. I want to talk more, be together in his space, but I am tired … and my empty fridge still needs to be filled. “I would like, but my head is not … uh … ” I swear, it’s like the past four hours of interacting has drained all the words out, and when I try to finish the sentence, my brain just shrugs at me. I look at him helplessly, and Greg nods, understanding.
“Let’s just get some food and call it a day, then. You should rest before you have to work tomorrow. We could always meet up on Tuesday.”
Tuesday? What’s wrong with Monday? My disappointment must show on my face, because amusement lights in his eyes.
“I have a class that goes until eight o’clock on Mondays, and then I still have to take the bus home.”
“No car?”
He takes my hand again, towing me down to the crosswalk. Americans. They love their traffic laws, except for stopping, but I think maybe this is Californians only. They roll right through the big, red stop signs.
“It’s Cathie’s car, but she lets me use it. We can use that when you take your test.”
I smile. “No test in 250GT?”
Greg cracks up laughing, and I have to admit, it’s a funny picture: me, pulling up in the little old race car to practice the signaling and parallel parking and whatever else may be, the examiner shoehorned into the front seat. Two men pass us, and they smile at us meaningfully, and that’s when I know—we look like a couple. We look like we’re in love.