Chapter 13
CHAPTER 13
GREG
Space? How am I supposed to give him space? I spend about thirty seconds feeling sorry for myself before I start making a plan to get him back. Maybe Nico can’t see a future for us, but I can. I don’t know if or when it ends—maybe it doesn’t. But I know it doesn’t end like this. I know it as sure as I know I need to quit the conservatory.
Cathie comes timidly out of her room. “I’m so sorry?—”
I hold up a hand. “My fault. I didn’t realize it would hurt him. I should’ve.”
“So it’s over?”
“Not if I have anything to say about it.” I’m full of nervous energy, but not like when I couldn’t deliver the letter in the first place. It’s paired with that deep resolve again, in my gut. I don’t think I’ve ever had to fight for anything like this before, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to let something so silly come between us.
She crosses to me and lays an arm around my shoulders. “You know, this isn’t really how people hook up. Shit happens, you can’t?—”
“It is when you’re hooking up with your soulmate.” Her eyes widen as I brush her off, then grab my wallet and keys as I head for the door.
“Where are you going? I thought he wanted space.”
“He does. I’m going for a walk.”
“In this?” Cathie asks, gesturing to the downpour out the front windows.
“Yeah.”
“When will you be back?” Her arms are crossed, and she looks genuinely concerned.
“Before dark.” I don’t know exactly where I’m going, but I know I need to move to think, and I can’t do that here. It’s out there, whatever I need to make this happen. I shove my feet into my shoes and I’m down the stairs in record time, even though I can’t keep myself from looking toward his door. I never even got to see his place.
The rain feels good on my skin—the stinging drops feel like they’re washing away the parts of me I don’t need anymore, bringing something new. The cold wakes me up, bringing my mind into focus: how do I give someone space but also communicate how much I love him?
I don’t have much at my disposal there. My Italian dictionary will definitely be put to good use, crafting an apology letter. But other than that, I’m not sure what my method will be. Could I make something on the computer? I don’t know how I’d get it to him, and I don’t think he wants to come back up to my place. I pass the crappy pizza place, a dry cleaner, a used bookstore … and then a music store. I don’t think I’ve noticed it before. I pause, chuckling at my wet cat appearance before I push the door open. Because it’s not a record store—it’s a music store.
Instruments line the walls, and in the middle, there’s milk crates full of sheet music, scores for symphonies alongside solo and ensemble parts. There must be a thousand of them. Every music store I’ve ever been in is a kind of organized chaos, things tucked into corners and nooks where I’d never think to store things. It’s a little strange that I feel pulled into this place so soon after deciding to quit, but I can still play my horn. I don’t have to give it up completely just because I don’t want it as a career.
I head to the register toward the back with squelching steps, but the college-aged woman seems unfazed. I guess this is San Francisco; she probably sees some weird stuff working here.
“Hey,” I greet her. “Do you have any solo music for brass?”
“Of course,” she says, pointing to the right. “The classical’s over here, and the pop stuff is on the far side.”
“The pop stuff?” That piques my interest. “Like, Madonna?”
She tilts her head. “Might be. Let’s go see.”
Forty-five minutes later, I have five purchases and a plan.
Today seems too soon to start—I’m exhausted and hit the hay right after dinner. On Monday, I have my late class. I stop by the Italian café on my way to school, hoping Nico will be there, getting a coffee, but no such luck. I console myself with the idea that I can enact my plan tomorrow.
The timing is the tricky thing, because I don’t know exactly when he gets home. I end up practicing for a little while, then sitting on my bed, watching out the window until I see a tall, dark, and handsome someone coming up the front steps. Then it’s showtime.
Truth be told, it doesn’t sound much like Hootie and the Blowfish, but I know he knows this song; we’ve discussed the dolphin line. I wait until I hear his footsteps in his bedroom when he goes to change his clothes so he’s got the best chance of hearing me, even though I’m pretty sure he can hear me everywhere in his apartment.
I sing along the lyrics in my head as I play, enjoying the mention of how we come from different worlds. I hold back a chuckle at the extra portion of irony for me never wanting to look at them. But the chorus is what I’m hoping he’ll take to heart: Well, there’s nothing I can do / I only wanna be with you.
I play it through twice, then put my horn away. I don’t expect any response this time—he’s probably still mad. So I just work on my letter while I eat the leftover pasta pomodoro from the other night. Was that only a few days ago? Feels more like a lifetime. But having something he made me, something we shared, is a comfort. A little piece of his home and his heart. I get some sauce on the table and on the paper, but that’s okay—I’ll probably need more than one draft anyway.
Then I get on the computer and spend the rest of the evening looking at computer programming majors in the area. I don’t want to move, but … I may have to. I don’t think UCSF has the program I’m looking for, but I don’t have the confidence to just try to teach myself everything I need to know from books. The rain’s gone today, so I open my window and go to sleep with the sounds of the city for company, just to feel less alone.
Wednesday night, I serenade him with I’ll Stand by You by the Pretenders, which he was singing along with at the bar, so I think he knows this one too. I’m out of pasta, so I take myself out for dinner, even though I’m nervous that he’ll come up while I’m out. He probably won’t. I’m going to keep trying, though, until he tells me to stop. Until he tells me we’re done. He may be out of reach, but my heart’s aching for him, and I know he’s missing me too when I see a shadow on his window as I cross the street in front of our building. That’s something, anyway.
I get a sandwich at the Italian café, greeting Enzo warmly—he is indeed proudly wearing a rainbow pin on his tan apron, and when I compliment him on it, he grins.
“Where’s your boyfriend?” he asks, giving me my change.
“Oh, we had a little falling out, but I think he’ll be back soon.” He seems concerned, which is sweet, but I just give him a reassuring wink as I go find a table.
I think my letter is almost done—it’s just missing a big finish. Writing in another language is really hard—even with the books and the tapes, I feel like a toddler who’s been given a pot of language paste and is just making a mess for the hell of it. It gives me more empathy for how difficult it must have been for him, trying to communicate at work and with me all day long. I’m tired after just an hour.
Thursday night, I pull out the big guns: Madonna. I thought about saving her for Friday to cap off the week, but I can’t wait anymore. I know he loves her, and I do too. Again, I can’t help but sing along the words in my head about how he’ll feel it when we kiss, that everything is new with him. The pounding knock on my front door startles me so badly that I nearly drop my horn.
I open my bedroom door and peek out, not sure what I’ll find. Cathie is doing the same.
“I think it’s for you,” she whispers.
The pounding comes again. I must have pissed someone off with my playing; I don’t usually play at this time of day, but I wanted to be sure he’d be home from work …
“Amore! Open this door!” Nico’s voice booms out in the hall, and I rush to comply. When I fling open the door, he’s standing there in a black sweatshirt and blue jeans, his hair damp, thick arms crossed over his chest. “Shoes,” he growls, and I get the impression that we’re going somewhere.
I snatch a jacket off the rack as I toe into my Nikes, and to my surprise, he holds out his hand. Let me be clear: he still looks ticked, but I put my hand in his and he pulls me down the hall to the stairs. To my surprise, we don’t stop at his floor, but he keeps going down, down, down and out the front doors of our building. It’s a cool evening, but it’s clear except for a few high, wispy clouds, moving fast. Nico’s hand is warm in mine as he basically drags me down the street, but I can’t help but grin.
“Where are we going?” I ask, but he ignores me. I don’t care. I’m happy. But I admit, I’m a little perplexed when he veers suddenly into the café where we first met.
“Ciao, Flora. Enzo è qui?” he asks the dark-haired woman behind the counter, and she points upstairs. They have a short conversation in Italian, and she seems a little baffled, but he’s still holding my hand, so I’m good. Apparently, we’ve been granted permission to use the back office, because he pulls me down a narrow hallway and points to a chair by a desk piled high with papers and books.
“Grazie, Flora,” I call to the older woman as she retreats, and I sit down, still grinning, but I try to tone it down when he glares at me fiercely. Enzo appears a moment later in a white T-shirt and khakis, like he hadn’t changed yet after work, and Nico asks him something in Italian, which prompts wary agreement from Enzo. The kid turns to me.
“Nico would like me to translate so you can have a real conversation without the language barrier. Do you agree?”
I have a feeling Nico’s about to lay into me, but I nod anyway; Enzo likely plays for our team, so hopefully, it won’t be too awkward. I rub my hands over my thighs nervously as Nico starts. Enzo asks some kind of clarifying question and Nico answers shortly. But he’s staring at me. He’s talking to me.
“Do you think you can just charm your way out of this? What’s with the music?” Enzo’s tone isn’t half as agitated as Nico’s was. I look at Nico and speak to him, not sure if Enzo’s going to translate for me too.
“I’m not trying to charm you, it’s just the way I feel. You can ask Cathie—I have no game.”
Enzo snorts, and Nico asks him a brief question, to which Enzo nods curtly in reply, and Nico lets loose another volley in Italian.
“Do you think playing me love songs through the ceiling is going to make what you did okay?” Enzo translates.
“No, I don’t think that,” I say in a rush, my stomach churning. “I just missed you. I never meant to hide anything from you. The first letter was an accident, but I wrote one special for you this time … ” I pull the folded paper out of my pocket and hold it out to Nico. His expression softens when he unfolds it and sees the Italian written there. I must have done something right, because when Enzo peeks over his shoulder, he breaks into a grin. He mumbles something to Nico, and I think I hear the word “adorabile,” which feels like a good sign.
“Um,” I say, the back of my neck heating, “maybe don’t let Enzo read the last paragraph. It’s a little bit R-rated.” I still never gave it the big romantic finish I wanted, and Nico’s still frowning a little, but I think he’s weakening, because he folds the paper carefully and puts it in his pocket.
“You still lie to me,” Nico says in English, and I nod.
“I know. I didn’t mean to. I never will again.”
He puts his hands on his hips, staring down at the thin brown carpet. “You scare me,” Nico says quietly. I’m not sure I heard him right, so I lean forward.
“I what?”
With a huff, he goes back to Italian, and Enzo translates.
“You scared the shit out of me, Greg. All I could think about these past few days was, ‘what if someone else had gotten this letter? Would he have this connection with them?’” I’m shaking my head already, but he goes on talking. “What if someone else was his first kiss? His first boyfriend? His first … ” Enzo trails off, and I can only assume Nico did the same, knowing I’d understand. Nico’s still not looking at me, so I get to my feet and shuffle closer to him.
“If someone else had gotten that letter, and they’d been fool enough to say yes, I probably would’ve gone to coffee with them and had a fine time, then we would’ve gone our separate ways.” I glance at Enzo, who dutifully translates for me. “Then, one day, in the hallway, I’d have finally noticed this tall, handsome Italian guy with big hands and laughing brown eyes.”
I lift a palm to his cheek and he turns into it, like he needed the contact. “And he’d have asked me out, since we both know I’m chickenshit, and I’d have said yes, and we’d still be right here. Because me without you? That’s impossibile.”
I pause while Enzo translates, looking around the office, my gaze landing on the “Best of the Bay Area” award from a few years ago that’s on the wall. “Well, not here here. You know what I mean.”
Nico chuckles finally, and then he’s wrapping me in his arms.
“Does this mean you forgive me?” I murmur, and he nods, pressing his face into my neck and placing a tender kiss on my skin. I kiss him back, because I can’t help it, and Nico grunts.
“Grazie, Enzo,” he says, fishing around in his pocket for a second before he pulls out a twenty and holds it out to the kid.
“You’re mine,” I whisper as he pushes the office door shut on his friend’s grinning face and pops the lock. “Ti amo, Nicodemus.”
“I love you too,” he echoes in English, turning to pin me against the door as he takes my lips in a searing kiss that conveys perfectly how very much he missed me. All I can do is give in and hope that Flora doesn’t need a calculator any time soon.