6.
He didn’t see him around. Nate went out during the day, to the market with its stalls of vibrant fruits and vegetables, to the beach, to the ruins of the amphitheater at the southern tip of the island, which filled him with awe but which Gracie dismissed, saying it was nothing compared to the one in Rome. He texted pictures to Thea and helped her plan her vacation wardrobe. He had espresso and spritzes with Gracie, ate endless lunches with the aunts and uncles, took thousands of selfies with the villagers, and helped Antonio unpack and assemble furniture for the baby’s room while Mirabella looked on. He even went to church with the Brunettis and, shockingly, didn’t burst into flame. Although maybe he should have, after all the thoughts he was stillhaving about their son.
Sometimes Nate watched him out the window at night, though he knew it was a creepy thing to do. The red tip of Jacopo’s cigarette, the little square of light from his phone. He had a set routine, going out at dusk to feed the cats and then staying there, drinking a glass of wine as the night deepened. Once he went in, Nate would go out, stopping in the courtyard to tighten his laces and stretch before setting off on his nightly run.
Gracie and Mirabella had been right about exercising during the day. It was so much nicer without the syrupy weight of the summer heat bearing down on him, and he didn’t have to douse himself in sunscreen, either. The island was quiet at night. The only lights were the stars and the far-off gleam of Sicily on the horizon, and the breeze coming in off the ocean was cool and almost sweet. Even better, Nate didn’t get tired as easily in cooler temperatures, so he could go further, challenge himself. Tonight he was going to do ten miles, and he was hoping to hit a half-marathon before Thea got here–not that he wanted to think about her being here, really, or how her arrival would signify the six-week mark, the halfway point, and how he had no idea what he’d do with himself when this was all over.
It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but putting one foot in front of the other. Running was just falling forward and catching yourself. Easy. Just falling forward and catching yourself and the moon was high overhead and his head was full of music, nothing else, no thoughts, no brakes, and–
And his foot came down weirdly on the dark road, hitting a rock or a root or something that he couldn’t see, and Nate really was falling forward, but he couldn’t catch himself this time as he careened forward and the ground rushed up to meet him, pain exploding in his palms and his left knee.
“Fuck,” he cursed, the sound echoing out harshly over the cliffside. He pulled himself to his feet, ignoring the way his body was shaking. Nate couldn’t see well enough to tell if his hands were bleeding, but they stung like hell, and his knee was a heavy knot, throbbing in time with his pulse.
Tentatively, he flexed it, and winced. It was already beginning to swell.
Nate felt the familiar fear scratching at the back of his head, the fear that had been there when he’d worked in the warehouse. The fear that this was it, this was the time he’d seriously fucked himself up and he had no health insurance and–
No. It would be fine. He’d just tapped it on a rock and it was no big deal. He had a half-marathon to train for and this wasn’t going to stop him. He’d run it off.
He turned up his music and started to run again–or tried to. His knee was growing stiffer by the second, and he wasn’t able to put much weight on the left leg. Nate gritted his teeth, ignoring the pain radiating red-hot down his calf, the way his kneecap felt like something about to burst. Just fall forward and catch yourself. Do it until it stops hurting. Do it–
His left foot skidded out, his balance off, and he was falling again. Nate at least had the wherewithal to land on his ass this time, but he didn’t stop moving. The loose dirt of the shoulder was liquid beneath him, crumbling away, and he was sliding, sliding out toward the abrupt dropoff at the edge of the cliff. His stomach dropped and his heart seemed to freeze in his chest as he cast a hand out, fingers combing helplessly through the gravel. There was nothing to hold onto and he was still sliding and his foot swung out over nothing, a scream drying up in his throat–
His hand snagged in a clump of dried grass and he lurched to a stop, heart pounding.
Holy shit. Holy shit. Nate licked his lips, not sure if he had spoken aloud. He tasted dust and salt. Gingerly, he scrambled back onto the road, crab-walking as best he could, afraid to stand until he had gotten far enough away that the abyss no longer pulled at him. Nate’s mouth was dry, his hands trembling. His left leg no longer felt like it was a part of him. He couldn’t bend it to walk, could barely hobble.
God, he needed to call someone. Nate looked up at the terraced hills he’d come down, all the switchbacks, the last isolated lights in the few houses where people were still awake. There was no way he could make it back up there, not without hurting himself worse or actually falling off the cliff for real, no take-backs this time. He was shivering, though it wasn’t cold, his fingers almost too numb to pull up his contacts list, but as soon as he had, he let out a resigned sort of laugh.
Who would he call? He hadn’t bothered to get anyone’s number, hadn’t needed to in a town where everyone saw each other every day. In fact, the only Italian number he had was–
Jacopo’s. Because they’d exchanged numbers in Eugene, just in case they got separated.
Nate looked up the hill again. He could just barely make out the castle, a distant silhouette against the stars. Sighing, he pressed a thumb to Jacopo’s name on the screen.
It could only have been about twenty minutes before Nate heard the familiar whine of the vespa, though it had seemed like hours. The night was a lot spookier without music in his ears, with the knowledge of the dropoff pulling at him. Then Jacopo was braking, in a spray of gravel, and running to Nate where he sat illuminated in the vespa’s front headlight.
“Can you stand up?” Jacopo’s voice was hoarse, his hair mussed. There were dark circles under his eyes, and Nate could tell he had just woken up.
“I, yeah. Like, I’m fine, really. It’s just my stupid knee.” He tried to keep the tremor out of his voice.
“I can see that.” Jacopo crouched down next to him. In the stark brightness of the headlight, the injury was obvious. Nate’s left knee was twice the size of his right, the skin around it shiny and red. Jacopo cursed. “Nate.” He took his hand, examining the scrapes on his palm. “You’re shaking. Are you sure you can get on the motorbike? I–I didn’t think, I should have called Mamma, or someone else who has a car–”
“It’s fine, I promise. I just need to put ice on it.”
Jacopo looked at him, lips pressed together, eyes dilated. “Why were you out here?” he asked. “All alone, without any lights? You could have died, Nate. I–” He took in a shuddering breath, saying nothing more. Nate squirmed, feeling pinned by his gaze, his wrist trapped in Jacopo’s warm, deft fingers.
“I wanted to go for a run,” he said weakly.
Jacopo shook his head, eyes still glued to Nate’s face. Wordlessly, he helped him up, leading him over to the parked vespa. Nate tried not to limp too badly, but he could tell by the tight line of Jacopo’s mouth that he was–what? Disappointed? Angry?
“You’ll have to climb on behind me. You’re sure you can?”
“Yeah.” Nate brushed at an itchy spot on his neck. His skin was too hot all of a sudden. “Yeah, no worries.”
He felt like he was made of nothing but worries, his nerves vibrating and over-sensitive. Heat bloomed in his groin and his heart knocked against his ribs and he looped his arms around Jacopo’s waist, feeling the man’s abdomen tense beneath his hands. He couldn’t control it. He told himself to shut it down, but his body wasn’t listening. Jacopo smelled sweet and sleep-rumpled and like lemons and tobacco, and Nate could hear his heart, as he nestled up behind him on the seat, his cheek against Jacopo’s shoulder. It was beating just as fast as Nate’s own.
He barely registered the ride up the hill, just the darkness and Jacopo’s warmth. His knee was throbbing, sure, but his dick was throbbing, too, desire running pins and needles up and down his legs, and Nate could do nothing to control it. He was in such a heightened state of confusion by the time they arrived at the castle that he was shaking again, shaking from exhaustion and pain but also from want, and as Jacopo helped him off the vespa, Nate’s muscles went liquid and he fell against him, hands clutching his shirt. Dimly, Nate realized that it was a t-shirt. He’d never seen Jacopo wear one before.
“Nate.”
He tensed, ready for Jacopo to push him away, to leave him there at the threshold of the castle. It didn’t happen. Jacopo was looking down at him in the moonlight, eyebrows drawn together as if he were in pain, or deep in thought. He said Nate’s name again, slowly, as if tasting it.
Nate’s brain was screaming that he wanted, needed, to be kissed, his chest full of bubbles and his nerves on fire and his lips craving contact, and he tilted his head up, offering everything, anything–
But Jacopo didn’t kiss him. He pulled Nate against his chest, his hand cradling his head and his face pressed against Nate’s hair, and it was somehow more intimate.
“I haven’t been kind to you,” he murmured at last. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” Nate said, mouth dry.
“It isn’t. I know I’m not good with people, but I should have–” He pulled back to look at him, his hand lingering on the nape of Nate’s neck. “I’ll call the doctor first thing in the morning.”
“You don’t need to, I just have to ice it.” He never wanted Jacopo to stop touching him. He needed Jacopo to stop touching him, so he could form a coherent thought.
“I’ll call the doctor,” Jacopo said. He brushed something off Nate’s cheek. “Dirt,” he said apologetically.
“Yeah, I’m–I must be filthy. I need to get cleaned up, and then I’ll put an ice pack on it, and you’ll see, it’ll be fine in the morning.”
Jacopo shook his head. “I’m not leaving you alone. And the castle has too many stairs. You can’t make it back up to your room, not like this. You’ll have to stay with me.”
*
He deserved this, Jacopo thought as the vespa puttered down Nonna Stella’s winding driveway. It was torture having Nate in his space, in his bed, but he deserved it. If he had taken better care of him to begin with, if he hadn’t driven him away, then he wouldn’t have gotten hurt. So yes, this was his punishment.
Jacopo climbed off the bike, feeling a little unsteady on his feet. His head was foggy, the skin beneath his eyes feeling puffy and swollen. He had been sleeping worse than usual–if you could really call it sleeping, sitting upright in a chair at Nate’s bedside. It seemed like every time he closed his eyes, he saw Nate there, huddled on the side of the road, his face drained of color and his body trembling. And then he heard his father’s voice in the back of his mind, and his chest flooded with guilt. Selfish, as usual. Good for nothing.
He shouldn’t be here. He should be at home, watching over Nate. Making sure he didn’t do anything else stupid. What he really should be doing was dragging Nate to the mainland to get x-rays and a second opinion, despite his refusal. Nate had been happy to accept the village physician’s assessment that nothing was broken, and even now, leg propped up on a pillow, clearly unable to walk, he insisted that his knee would be better in a few days. Jacopo didn’t believe it.
If Nate wouldn’t go to the hospital, there wasn’t much he could do. But he’d needed to get out of the house, away from the closeness of Nate and his aimless chatter and the way he always seemed to be in motion somehow, even when he was supposed to stay in bed. Away from the smell of him and the way his sandy hair spilled across Jacopo’s pillows. And as he’d driven around the island, Jacopo had thought of the foul packets of slippery elm tea his mother had made him drink when he’d been sick as a child, and the ointment his grandmother swore by for her arthritic hands, and he’d taken a turn off the main road, and down the path to Nonna Stella’s house.
Now he was standing nervously in her front yard, rubbing his hands together. Jacopo forced himself to take a deep breath, the sea air scalding his throat. A duck paused to investigate him, pecking at his shoelace, and he shooed it away, thinking momentarily of Nate’s football team and the surreality of a duck doing push-ups. He shouldn’t have worn his nice shoes. The sparse grass in front of the little stone hut was littered with feathers and chalky-white smears of duck shit.
“Jacopo Brunetti, is that you?” Before he had a chance to knock on the door, Nonna Stella had opened it and was coming out into the yard, wiping her hands on her ratty pair of overalls. Her hair was a pile of black and silver on top of her head, and her face was chapped by the sun and crisscrossed with wrinkles. He had no idea how old she was; she’d been old when he was a boy. “Look at you, still so skinny. You need to eat more.”
She embraced him, kissing him on either cheek. “Tch. You smell like cigarettes. That’s going to kill you someday, you know.”
“Ciao, Nonna Stella.”
“I could make you something for the cravings. A poultice to chew, with St. John’s wort and valerian.”
Jacopo didn’t really care about the state of his lungs. In particularly melodramatic moments of self-pity, he’d liked the fact that his lungs were probably as black as his soul. “I’m not here for me,” he said.
“Well I had a feeling you’d be coming to see me. Come in, I have something for you.” She led him up the front walkway, ducks scattering in her wake. Their excited squawks sounded like laughter, and Jacopo was sure it was directed at him.
Inside, Nonna Stella’s hut was hopelessly cluttered, green and amber glass bottles crammed haphazardly onto the shelves and overflowing onto tables and counters, knotted ropes of garlic and peppers hanging from the ceiling along with sprays of lavender, rosemary, and other things he didn’t recognize. A copper crucible of some kind was perched on an armchair, its belly black with soot. The fireplace had no logs in it, but there was a basket full of duck eggs sitting on the extinguished hearth. A mortar and pestle sat on one of the bookshelves, next to a stone bookend shaped like a rabbit and an old cup of espresso, brown sludge stuck to the rim. Jacopo’s fingers twitched, wanting a rag to wipe up the dust–or maybe a fire hose would be more appropriate. How she found anything or got anything done in here, he didn’t know.
“How’s your family?” Nonna Stella asked, rummaging through a stack of books. “Everyone healthy? And Mirabella? Is she eating plenty of oranges? And using the bath salts I gave her to soak her feet in?”
“She’s fine,” Jacopo said. He swallowed, and his heart lurched a little. He didn’t want to think of his littlest sister having a baby of her own. He didn’t want to think about babies, or children in general.
“What about your uncle? I need to get another bushel of mushrooms from him.”
Beppe wasn’t technically an uncle, more of a second cousin of some kind, but he’d always been close to the family. And close to Nonna Stella, if you believed the rumors. Apparently they’d had a torrid, foraging-based romance going on for years. He wondered if it was nice, being so eccentric that you didn’t care what other people thought. Doing whatever you wanted. “He’s the same.”
“And how’s your mother? Still putting up with your father somehow, I guess.”
“Somehow.” He scratched the back of his neck, glancing out the window. His parents had lived in different worlds for as long as he could remember. It was a mystery to him why his mother stayed. Out of obligation, maybe, or tradition. Or guilt. The same reason he’d stuck around for so long.
“Sit, sit,” Nonna Stella said. “I can make espresso. Would you like a biscotto?”
“I’m so sorry. I’m in a hurry.” He wasn’t sure there was even a surface to sit on, and he shuddered to imagine what would be in her biscotti. Probably duck dander and valerian root.
“Well, I was thinking of you and your trip to America,” Nonna Stella said, “and I did a reading–ah, here it is. La Ruota della Fortuna.” She pulled a Tarot card from between the pages of an almanac, showing it to him.
Jacopo took the card reluctantly. It was a little sticky.
“Big changes are coming for you,” Nonna Stella said, poking him in the chest with one finger.
No shit, as Nate would say. “I see,” he said. “Nonna Stella, I came here for Nate. The duke? He hurt his knee, and I was wondering if you had some kind of medicine that would help with the swelling.”
“Oh, why didn’t you say so?” She threw up her hands. “Of course! Let me see, I have just the thing.” There was a clatter as she began to paw through the bottles and jars lining the shelves. Jacopo winced. “You know, I should do a reading for him, too. I don’t think he takes care of himself, that boy. I saw him out running during the day, can you believe it? He’ll get heatsick!”
“He doesn’t take care of himself,” Jacopo agreed darkly. He slid the Tarot card under a potted plant, not wanting to look at it any longer.
“Well, you’ll just have to do it for him,” Nonna Stella said, placing a little tub of ointment in his hand. “The Brunettis have always looked after the dukes of Carmosino. It’s your duty.”
She was right; it was his duty, and he’d already messed it up once. But he would be strong from here on out. He would make sure Nate was comfortable and healthy, and treat him with respect, and tamp down any stupid feelings that arose. September would be here soon enough, and Jacopo had everything under control.
Everything, that was, except Nate, who was very much out of bed when Jacopo got back home, doing sit-ups in the middle of the floor, his injured leg stretched out in front of him and his skin glistening with sweat.