Candy Hearts, Vol. 2

Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

NICO

“Why does this damn thing never do what I want it to do?” My boss, Giacomo, is muttering under his breath again, glaring at his computer like it licked his cannoli.

“What’s it doing?” I call in Italian, wiping my hands on my coveralls as I come over to see.

“The screen, it’s black again,” he complains, “but the little light is on. I go away for a few minutes just to get a coffee, and boom, this again!”

“Move the pointer,” I say, motioning to the mouse, but careful that I don’t touch anything with dirty hands. “The mouse. That will wake it up.”

His face crinkles in confusion. “Computers sleep?”

“Yes, to save electricity.”

Giacomo looks skeptical, but he nudges the white mouse, and the screen lights up again.

“This is why I keep young people around,” he says, triumphant at having beaten the machine. I laugh. Little does he know, I’m generally terrible with technology.

“Are you studying English?” he asks, switching languages, and I mutter a curse under my breath.

“A little.” I show him a few centimeters between my fingers. “My friend is helping me. Neighbor who lives in my building.” I feel slightly guilty, referring to Greg like that, but nothing more has been promised to me … yet. “We’re going to study tonight.”

“In English,” he prompts, and I wince.

“Uh, my friend study with me today.”

“I’ll study with my friend tonight,” he corrects, but he seems pleased that I’m making the effort, and I relax a little. “You almost finished with that 365GTB4 for Mr. Howard?”

“Already done. Moved on to the other one. I’ll have it done tomorrow … unless I can stay?”

“No,” Giacomo says sternly, then goes on in Italian. “Study. Learn how to ask for roma tomatoes in the grocery store. Learn how to tell a policeman you didn’t mean to speed. These things are important too.”

I want to tell him it doesn’t matter, that I’m going back to Italia as soon as we have more money … but in truth, I don’t know when that will be. It is as depressing a thought as I’ve ever had. And yet, I am making a friend. It helps, having him. And some of the meccania have asked me out for a beer, but I always said no because … because I want to go home. Because I don’t want this place, not really. And this is hitting me between the eyes as my boss goes back to his computer, jiggling the mouse again to wake it up. It’s not the only one.

I go back to the shop, and Elio looks up, still singing with Hootie and the Blowfish. “But there’s nothing I can dooooo,” he caterwauls, “I only wanna be with youuuu.” The radio never plays anything good, but at least I can learn from the words. I wish they’d find a station with some Madonna.

“Buy me a drink first,” I joke in Italian, and he rolls his eyes. They know I like men. It’s not a big deal, to my surprise. And then, since the opening is there, I keep going. “But if you’re going out this weekend, I want in.”

Elio’s eyebrows go up. “All right, sure. But you buy your own.”

“But what if some very cute man wants to buy it for me?”

Elio just shakes his head and goes back to singing. This song is okay, I guess. I hum along, then straighten.

“Elio?”

“Hmm?”

“What means ‘dolphin’?”

He frowns, then calls across the garage. “Ehi, Massimo!”

“Sì?”

He asks my question, only in Italian.

“Ah, delfino,” Massimo calls back, rolling out from under the car. “Come mai?”

“It’s in the song,” I call back. “He says it makes him cry.”

We stare at each other for a moment, baffled, then laugh.

“Americans,” Elio mutters, going back to his work.

“Song says Italy,” Massimo calls, and as I listen, he’s right. Maybe it’s more than okay.

I feel antsy when I knock on Greg’s door at seven o’clock; I kept peeking out the window all weekend for a glimpse of him coming up the walk, but no. Nothing. I don’t even hear him practice his music on Sunday or Monday; he must be very busy with something. But not too busy to help me study—I hope.

He must be eager to see me too, because I hear his steps approach quickly and he opens the door almost theatrically, his face bright and flushed, and I want to kiss him already.

“Buongiorno, Nico!” he enunciates carefully, clearly so proud of himself, and I can’t completely smother my smirk that he’s wishing me a good morning when it’s after dinnertime.

“Ciao, Greg,” I return, grinning. “Come stai oggi? Cosa hai fatto? Mi è mancato il tuo viso dolce anche se sono passati solo due giorni.” I’m teasing him, of course, but that last part surprises me with its truth. I did miss him. A lot.

“Mascalzone.” Greg whacks me with the back of his hand as I come inside. I cackle with laughter then, surprised yet pleased that he would look up “rascal” in anticipation of my response, pulling him into a hug around his neck, even as he complains. “You were supposed to be impressed!”

“Oh, yes! Good job, Gregory. Good work, sì. I am in press.” I don’t know what it means, but he wanted it, and it’s becoming more and more difficult not to just give him whatever he wants, hoping we want the same thing.

“Can I get you something to drink?” He gestures toward the fridge, but I wave a hand. College is expensive, I know. He can keep his money. But I seat myself in the middle of his big couch so he’ll have to sit next to me, wherever he sits. His raised eyebrow says he knows what I’m doing, and I grin as we get comfortable. Greg opens up a small book.

“Okay, here’s the manual,” he says, speaking slowly, but not patronizingly, which I appreciate. “This first page is just a letter that reminds you that people die when they don’t drive safely, which I think you know.”

“Yes.”

“This page is how to make an appointment for your test, which I can help you with.”

“Okay.” This one-word business is getting old already, and we’ve only just started. You are Nico, funny, good with cars, with a good brain in your head. You can do this.

“Uh, paperwork requirements, citizenship, driving schools, blah blah blah,” he says, flipping rapidly through, and I watch his face as he skims, so serious. His glasses make him look smart, but I still want to take them off carefully … before I give him some serious kisses.

“Okay, here’s something. Red light means … ”

“Stop.” I bring my hands together in a “that’s all” motion, thankful to know one answer.

“Correct. And when can you turn right on red?”

“Easy. You cannot.” Greg pushes his glasses up his nose as he considers me, and I swoon a little.

“Yes, you can. Unless there’s a sign.”

“What?” My voice is loud, because I am outraged. “What if someone come?”

“Well, that’s the exception,” Greg says, still serene, crossing his ankle over his knee. “You have to look for people walking, pedestrians, as well as cars coming from the left. Or if there’s a sign that says you can’t. But if you stop first, you can turn right when the light is red.”

“How you not hit everyone like this?” I say, throwing up my hands, and Greg chuckles.

“I don’t know. We just make it work. We’re careful.”

“Yeah, careful, careful,” I say, rolling my eyes. “ You are careful. Other people, maybe not.”

He’s gazing at me, my Greg, and I gently tap the book to focus him again.

“Right. Solid red arrow means … ” He shows me a picture, covering up the words so I can’t cheat—as if I’d be able to read them.

“Turn right?”

“No, it means stop. Only stop. You can go when it turns green.”

“Why they have a arrow, then?”

“To say that you can turn later. When it’s green.”

“Caro, this no make sense.”

“What does that mean, ‘caro’?” He’s blushing a little. “I tried to look it up, but … ”

For a moment, I think he is calling me caro, and my heart trembles. But it settles again when I realize what he meant.

“Caro? Is like friend. But good friend,” I clarify when his face falls. “What is word … close friend.” I don’t say intimate—it sounds like the word we use, but I think it means something else here.

“But not ‘ragazzo’?”

“Well,” I sputter, “I cannot say ‘mio ragazzo’ until more time pass, sí? You and me is only … new.”

“Of course,” he says quickly, going back to the book, but I think I have made a mistake. I let him go on so he can become comfortable again, but I inch closer until our legs are pressed together. He glances down but doesn’t comment, and we keep practicing, talking about four-way stops (so complicated) and roundabouts (this I know) and how much space to leave between cars.

“Why is this question?” I scoff. “You leave just enough not to … ” I smash my hands together and his eyes grow wide.

“No, you need more than that. Especially on the freeway. The faster you go, the more space you need.”

I shake my head and laugh. “Why so much?”

“Three, four car lengths,” he insists.

“No!” I laugh harder. “Is too much. You never get anywhere. Just—” I hunch my shoulders and pantomime driving down the road slowly, squinting to see the car ahead of me.

“I don’t know if we should give you a license,” Greg says, his doubts clear.

“Who, me?” I say, innocently. “No accident! Very good driver.”

“Uh-huh,” he says, but with obvious skepticism. “Maybe we’ll rent a car instead of using Cathie’s.”

“Okay, okay,” I say, still chuckling. “I leave space.” Then, to drive home my point, I lean in toward his ear and hear his breath catch. “Between cars.”

If he turns his head, we’ll be nearly kissing. I know he can feel my breath caressing his neck, and he reaches over to twine our hands together, as if centering himself.

The apartment is warm—my heat coming up through the floor, I’m sure—but here, next to Greg, it feels almost too much. I don’t know why I want to wait for him to turn toward me, want to see if he will, my shy guy. But when he does, those blue eyes flashing behind his glasses, his fingers squeezing mine, it is worth the wait to see the want and fear marbled in his beautiful eyes.

He’s just leaning toward me, so slowly, his gaze skipping around my face as if asking if this is all right, when we hear the key in the lock. Before I can blink, he’s up off the couch and across the room.

“You said you wanted a drink, right? Let me get you something—we’ve got soda, water, milk … ”

His roommate comes in the door, glancing at us with a knowing smile. Greg’s cheeks are so flushed, he looks like he just came from a hot bath, and I decide to make it a little easier on him.

“Ciao,” I say, rising from the couch with my hand extended. “I am Nico. I live down the stairs.”

“It’s very nice to meet you,” she says, shaking my hand firmly, her smile only growing. “I’m Cathie. I live here.”

Greg is still making himself busy over there, his back to us now, probably trying to hide his face. “You want some food, Cath? Did you have dinner?”

“Oh, I grabbed something on my way home,” she says, heading across the room to what must be her bedroom. “I don’t want to … interrupt.” Oh, she likes mischief, this one. I am trying so hard to be good, but the smirk on my lips is irrepressible, and she and I share another look of understanding before the door closes.

“We’re not doing anything. We’re just studying,” Greg calls, but then his shoulders slump and he leans against the counter on his palms. I cross the room to him and put a stabilizing hand on his back, rubbing his shoulders with the other one. Just fucking adorable.

“Do you think she knows?” he whispers urgently, and I am very good and do not laugh at him.

“Yes,” I say, my voice serious. “So kiss me.”

When his head lifts, he looks like he’s torn between laughter and mortification. “How will that help?” he asks, slightly desperate. “Won’t we just be doing what she thought we were doing?”

I shrug. “Yes.” Then I take his face in my hands like I did on the street, turning him so his back is against the counter. I take a moment to appreciate his face; I wonder if he can even grow a beard. His skin feels like a razor’s never touched it. We’re nearly the same height, but I am a little taller, even without my shoes.

“I wanted to,” he whispers, lifting his hand to brush my afternoon stubble with the back of his fingers, and the contact thrills me. I pull him forward a little, watching his eyes for any resistance, but there is none. They flutter shut as our lips meet, but I keep it sweet, just pressing our lips together gently. I think he lacks some experience, and if I am his first kiss, I must make it romantic. You only get one first.

Honest to God, that is the intention of my heart until his tongue sweeps against my lips a little, and then my mouth falls open like it has a mind of its own, and he’s inside. Okay—so my shy guy is not so shy with kissing. I swear, he’s going for it like someone is grading him, like a judge will come out from behind the curtain when we finish and hold up the scorecard. I slow him down a little, and he follows my lead so beautifully, it sends a little shiver down my spine. Handsome and a fast learner.

We’re explorers now, our hands joining the fun, but never straying too far beyond what I think he would mind Cathie seeing if she came out. But his mouth—my God. The long, drugging kisses of him, the way he’s playing with the back of my neck, pressing his hips and his growing hardness into mine shamelessly, and we’ve barely gotten started. I want to move him back to the couch, stretch him out and show him how to take our time, make him warm and squirming with desire. Well, I want to move him to the bed, but it’s too soon for that. For him, anyway.

To my surprise, he pulls back first. “Wait, I want to show you something.”

I hope it’s something in his bedroom.

He’s pressing our foreheads together, like he doesn’t want to lose contact, and I smile. “Show me,” I prompt gently, pushing on his hips, and he grabs my hand and leads me across the room to … a computer?

“I wrote something for you. Well, made something is more accurate.” The machine is already on, and when he moves the mouse to wake it, I see a program is loaded. “Here, sit down.” He offers me the chair, and I do … but not without some fears creeping in.

“Not good at computer,” I warn him, but he just shakes his head.

“No, this is easy. It’s a study program. Here, look.” He highlights the first part. “See, these are the questions based on our studying, and if a word is blue, you can click on it and see the Italian translation.”

It’s jarring, going from making out against the kitchen counter to trying to call all my blood back to my brain instead of my dick, but he seems excited about this. He’s talking too fast for me to understand, touching his glasses a lot, pushing them up his nose, and he drags a chair from the breakfast table over to sit next to me. I read the first question under my breath, clicking on the blue word like he said, and what do you know—it says “roundabout” means rotatoria. I think I could have figured that out, but the smile on his face when I try out the feature is bright, and it becomes incandescent when I answer correctly.

“You make this?” I’m astounded. Truly. This looks almost professional to me. Greg shrugs, and the shyness is back.

“It wasn’t that hard.”

“For you, maybe not. For me? Impossibile.”

“Oh, hey, that’s almost like us. We say ‘impossible.’” He reaches over me to advance to the next question, and all I can do is stare, amazed. He really thinks this is nothing, even though it means everything to me. “Will you teach me some Italian?”

I wish my brain was not so tired after this long day. I wish I could tell him the big things in my heart, how much I appreciate his devotion, the way he’s taking care of me. Instead, I kiss him again, tenderly, sweetly.

“Sì, of course,” I murmur. “We start soon.”