Duke for the Summer

14.

Nate was trying to learn Italian, and he sucked at it. It wasn’t that Jacopo was a bad teacher: in fact, he was a good one, very patient, passionate about the subject, and full of fun asides about Latin word roots. It was Nate who was the problem. Nothing seemed to stick in his head, and he could recite conjugations until his tongue fell out (io sono, lui è, noi siamo) but he still didn’t understand what anything meant, or even really what a verb was. He felt bad, because Jacopo had offered, and Nate knew why he had. Because he’d be leaving soon, and Nate would be on his own.

“I’m hopeless at this,” he said, leaning his head against Jacopo’s shoulder. They were in the library, dust particles suspended in the late afternoon light coming in through the windows, and the weathered spines of the books seemed especially forbidding today. “I’ll have to just rely on Google translate.”

Jacopo made a face. “Google translate cannot capture idioms.”

Nate looked up at the stacks, noticing the clear delineation where Jacopo had stopped organizing. The shelves went from dust-free, orderly rows, to piles of books, jammed together and stuffed with papers. It would never get finished.

“Then just teach me the idioms.” There was more frustration in his voice than he intended, and he squeezed Jacopo’s knee, adding more softly, “That’s your favorite part, anyway, isn’t it? The slang?”

“Nate, learning the slang first is like–having the dessert before dinner.”

“Yeah, but you know I’m bad at delaying gratification.” He let his hand creep up Jacopo’s leg, thumb digging into his inner thigh.

Jacopo chuckled. “No shit,” he said, with perfect inflection.

“Oh my God.” Nate let out a surprised laugh. “See? It’s not fair. You know a bunch of American slang. How do you say ‘no shit’ in Italian?”

Jacopo thought for a moment, tapping his lips with one finger. Nate loved when his face got serious like this, his eyebrows stark and expressive. “I think, grazie al cazzo. It’s about the same. And it’s a little bit rude. Translated literally, it means ‘thanks to the dick.’”

“Thanks to the dick?” Nate sputtered. “I can think of a lot of reasons to say that, but not–”

“We have a lot of slang about dicks,” Jacopo said. “And asses, too, I think.”

“Wow, very homoerotic slang,” Nate said. “Thanks, Romans. So what’s, like, the worst dick-related insult you can say?”

“Oh, the worst thing you can say isn’t about body parts. To really swear in Italian, you’d have to start talking about Santa Maria or the baby Jesus. But you are trying to distract me.” Jacopo’s lips were pressed together, but his eyes were sparkling with amusement. “Get back to work on your grammar.”

“No way, I’m done for the day. I can’t focus anyway.” His hand was still on Jacopo’s thigh, and he dug his fingers in, scooting forward in his chair until their noses were brushing. “Have you ever wanted to do it in a library?”

They did it in the library, getting each other off like teenagers under the forbidding gaze of the portraits on the walls. They tried out the claw-foot tub in Nate’s bathroom, and got carried away while Jacopo was cooking, the pasta water boiling over, Nate bracing himself against the counter. Nate almost felt like he was high, or on a bender. He knew he would have to come up for air at some point, but he didn’t want to, and he stopped paying attention to the date on his phone, stopped paying attention to his phone at all, because it made his stomach grow cold and his palms sweat.

There wasn’t enough time, and there was too much. Not enough time with Jacopo, and too much time to think. During the sleepy, hot lull of midday when Jacopo usually took a nap, Nate was itchy with unspent energy, worries ping-ponging around in his head. He couldn’t focus well enough to draw, or type up Jacopo’s translations–and typing up the translations was its own kind of distress, poring over the polished loops and curves of Jacopo’s handwriting and trying not to think about how soon these papers would be the only trace of him left on the island. How was Nate supposed to give a shit about Sebastiano and Augusto’s ill-fated love affair when he was living out one of his own?

He had been expressly forbidden from going on any more runs, and watching TV did nothing to muffle the soundtrack in his head, so finally, begrudgingly, he laid out a towel in the courtyard, desperate enough to try yoga.

That was how Jacopo found him, bored and sweaty, ass up in the air and Gnocchi threading himself back and forth beneath Nate’s downward-facing dog like a troll under a bridge.

“What’s this?” Even upside-down, Jacopo’s bemused expression was clear.

“Don’t get excited,” Nate grunted, face growing even redder than it already was. “It’s just yoga.” He dropped to his knees, giving up on the pose.

“Isn’t yoga supposed to be relaxing?” Jacopo leaned down, picking up Nate’s phone. “What are you listening to? This isn’t very peaceful music.” He laughed a little, reading the title of the song on the screen. “American Attraction? Is this about you?”

“Ha, ha,” Nate said, leaning back on his heels and trying to catch his breath. “No. It’s about, like, the evils of American society.”

“I like my version better,” Jacopo said, sitting down next to him. He thumbed the volume down on the phone and handed it back to Nate. There was a drop of sweat running down Nate’s cheek, and Jacopo wiped it away. “You must be very bored, to do yoga out here with the cats.”

“This is nothing.” Nate grinned at him. “You should see Dave hosting a goat yoga retreat. That’s some real wacky New-Age shit.”

“Goat. Yoga?” Jacopo sounded it out as if he were expecting the words to magically mean something else.

“Yeah. You do yoga, and the goats help. Well, they don’t really help. They just kind of mill around and sniff you and try to take bites of your clothes. But people swear by it as a mindfulness exercise.”

“This is another one of your jokes.”

“No, it’s real,” Nate said. “I can show you pictures.”

Jacopo sighed, the look on his face equal parts fond and exasperated. He stroked Nate’s knee. “I don’t think I’ll ever understand American culture.”

Nate looked down at Jacopo’s hand, the long, fine, fingers and sharp knuckles, the blue-green tracery of veins under the skin. “I wish you’d had more time in the US,” he said. “I could have showed you around.”

“New York?”

Nate laughed. “I was thinking closer to home. Just–it would have been cool to show you more of Oregon. I would have made you hike. No, you’d like it, I promise,” he added, to the grimace Jacopo made. “It’s beautiful there.” He had never really introduced a boyfriend to his old stomping grounds, had felt small and embarrassed about showing off the meager landmarks of his childhood. Nate pictured Jacopo wandering along the McKenzie River, imagined pointing things out to him: this swimming hole where he’d caught frogs, this tree where there had once been a rope swing, the covered bridge that he’d always gone tearing across on his bike at top speed. None of it was a Roman villa, but somehow Nate knew that Jacopo would react with the same quiet, earnest curiosity that he had about everything.

“There’s a fair every summer,” he continued, taking Jacopo’s hand in his. He didn’t look at him, just ran his thumb over the fortune lines on his palm, as if trying to figure out what was written there. “With rides, and livestock, and, like, baking contests. Very small-town Americana. And there’s another fair where people get naked and listen to Bluegrass, if you’re into that. And it doesn’t really snow in the winter, not down in the valley, but you can go up to the mountain and go skiing, or inner tubing.” Nate swallowed.

“It sounds wonderful,” Jacopo said. His voice sounded strange. “I’ve never seen snow.”

“Well.” Nate squeezed his hand. “Maybe you’ll get a chance to visit sometime.”

Jacopo freed himself, standing up. “You must be hungry, after all that yoga. Are you ready for dinner?”

“Oh.” He wasn’t, really; his stomach felt tight and uneasy. “Sure.”

“Good.” Jacopo bent down to kiss the crown of his head. “Go pick out a bottle of wine. And get me some rosemary from the garden.”

That night, they made a fire in the sitting room, though it wasn’t cold enough for one yet, and kissed in front of the flames for what felt like hours, until Nate was dizzy and drunk off of Jacopo’s lips. His shirt had come off at some point, and Jacopo’s hands were strong and confident against his bare skin as he eased Nate off his lap and onto the carpet.

“What are you–”

“The yoga,” said Jacopo. “It gave me an idea. Turn over for me.”

Nate’s cheeks were bright red, fingers clenching in the rough fibers of the carpet as Jacopo undressed him fully and knelt behind him. He couldn’t see his expression, but he could hear him breathing rapidly. Jacopo ran a hand over Nate’s ass, murmuring something. Then he was bending over him, kissing Nate’s shoulder, the nape of his neck, and working his way down Nate’s spine, and Nate’s skin felt molten and his palms were tingling, the soles of his feet on fire, the muscles in his thighs beginning to tremble, and he pressed his heated face against the rug, swallowing an embarrassed little cry as Jacopo started to open him up, with his fingers and his tongue.

He had said he wanted to get railed in front of a roaring fire, and Jacopo did all that and more, nails digging into Nate’s hips, breath fast and choppy against Nate’s neck, and Nate knew his knees were getting rugburned to shit, but he couldn’t care, couldn’t even remember to breathe half the time. The taste of his own sweat was on his lips and Jacopo’s hips were slapping against his ass, the room full of the obscene noise of their movements, and he came as Jacopo’s teeth grazed the shell of his ear, came into his hand and probably all over the centuries-old carpet, his whole body trembling and a breathless moan on his lips.

Jacopo pressed kisses to his shoulder after he had pulled out, hand still cupping him, their bodies glued together. “It’s so good with you, Nate,” he whispered. “It’s always so good.”

“Yeah.” Nate cuddled back into his embrace. His heart was hammering, and he felt a little giddy. “Thanks to the dick.”

He felt Jacopo’s abdomen begin to quiver. Jacopo let out a snort, and then he had rolled over onto his back and was laughing out loud, full, uncontrollable laughs that shook his entire frame. Nate had never seen him like this, and he couldn’t help but laugh too, giggles tearing their way up out of his throat, his diaphragm tight and his abs hurting, clinging to Jacopo as they both shook, even though somewhere in the back of his head, he kind of wanted to cry.

*

They had gone to Nonna Rosina’s to help process tomatoes for sauce, plucking the last of the summer from the vine and putting it into jars. She lived just down the road from Jacopo’s parents, with her unmarried daughter, Jacopo’s aunt Grazia. It was a bigger production than Nate had expected, but at this point he shouldn’t have been surprised. Everything on the island seemed to revolve around food and getting together to gossip, and sauce-making involved both.

There was a fire going in the pit in the backyard, a giant metal pot–probably at least chest-high on Nate and wider around than he could reach–balanced over the flames. Tables had been set up nearby, and there were already baskets and baskets of roma tomatoes spilling onto them, their glossy red skin glowing in the sun. Jacopo’s sisters, mom, and aunt stood side-by-side, chatting, little paring knives flashing in their hands as they trimmed stems and imperfections off the tomatoes with lightning speed. Nonna Rosina was stirring the pot over the fire with some kind of big, wooden dowel, a shower cap covering her hair and a red-splattered apron protecting her clothes. Nate watched, in awe of her shoulder muscles. The pot was taller than she was.

“Wow,” he said to Jacopo, nodding toward the firepit. “Nonna Rosina is jacked.”

“I guess so. She’s been doing this since before I was born.” He smiled grimly. “I bet my father still has nightmares about that big stick she’s using.”

“Oh, did she used to whack him with it?” It wasn’t funny; honestly it was a little sad, but Nate squeezed Jacopo’s arm and said, “He probably deserved it.”

Jacopo’s dad wasn’t there, so Nate didn’t have to feel bad for shit-talking him. In fact, the only other man who had shown up was Zio Beppe, a vaguely piratical character who Nate only knew of as the mushroom guy. He was friendly, greeting them with a big smile and kissing Jacopo on either cheek, a glass of some clear liquid sloshing around in his hand. Nate could smell it from here, even though the air was thick with the scent of tomatoes and smoke. Anise, and something like gasoline.

“He needs help unloading his truck,” Jacopo explained. “Is it okay if I go?” His hand was on Nate’s shoulder, and Nate looked up at him, thinking how easy, how natural it would be to kiss him goodbye. He stammered, words getting stuck in his throat.

“Sure. What should I do?”

Jacopo looked around. “I think you can help Gracie crush the cooked tomatoes.” She was at a table by herself, hip cocked as she snuck glances at her phone, some kind of food mill sitting in front of her. Another huge pot was on the ground nearby, steam still coming off of it.

“You think so?” Nate tried to smile. “You trust me not to mess it up?”

“I believe in you.” Jacopo’s eyes lingered on his face, and he squeezed his shoulder. “I’ll be back soon.”

“So how do we do this?” Nate asked Gracie, approaching her at the table. She startled, looking up guiltily from her phone, then smiled as she realized it was him.

“Nate! Oh my God, it’s so inefficient. We only have one of these–” she gestured to the food mill, “and gallons and gallons of tomatoes.” She rolled her shoulders, letting out a groan. “I don’t even want to be here, but Mamma made me come. I’m missing Prince Thibault’s big fat Bollywood wedding.” Gracie swept a thumb across her phone. “Thea and I were going to stream it together, and she keeps texting me. See?”

She held up the phone. Thea had sent, LET’S FUCKING GOOOOOOOO, and then a series of gifs: Prince Thibault of Archimbault salsa dancing, Prince Thibault winking at the camera, with heart and sparkle animations added. Prince Thibault and his assistant-turned-boyfriend sunbathing on a yacht somewhere, #couplegoals flashing across the bottom of the picture.

“Oh,” Nate said. “I didn’t realize that was today.” He sighed, running a hand through his hair. Prince Thibault had never really done it for him, but he and his new husband were cute together, and he was the only openly gay royal that Nate knew of. And this was the first gay royal wedding in–ever. He should probably be watching it, too, if only out of solidarity.

But the thought of watching a big, sparkly, over-the-top celebration of gay love made his stomach clench a little, and a dark thorn of envy lodged itself in his chest. He flicked the crank on the food mill, looking away from Gracie’s phone.

“I’m sure it’ll be posted on YouTube,” Nate said. “Come on, show me how this thing works.”

But Gracie wasn’t done, giving him live updates on the outfits and the food and the guest list as her phone buzzed with more and more texts from Thea. Nate cranked the food mill, grinding cooked tomatoes into a pulp and kind of wishing he could grind up his thoughts and feelings along with them. Gracie obviously wouldn’t mind that her brother was gay. She probably wouldn’t even mind that he and Nate were together, although it might be a little weird for her at first.

But they weren’t together, not really. And Jacopo didn’t seem like he ever wanted to come out. Nate wondered what his plan was. They hadn’t talked about it. Was he just going to disappear, to go live his authentic life in London, or wherever? To find someone else there who could be his actual boyfriend?

Nate felt sick, the sweet, ketchupy smell of cooked tomatoes lingering in his sinuses. His pulse was thudding behind his eyes, and his hand had started to hurt. An ugly metallic sound came from the food mill as the gears ground together.

“Oh, Nate, it’s empty,” Gracie said. “Here, let’s add more.”

“Shit.” He flexed his hand, massaging the palm. “Sorry.” Jacopo had come around the corner of the house, carrying a pallet of mason jars. He smiled as he saw Nate looking at him, but his expression changed to one of concern as he got closer.

“Something wrong?” he asked, setting the jars down on the table. He studied Nate’s face. “Sorry I was gone so long. Zio Beppe insisted that I try his new batch of moonshine.”

“Moonshine?” Nate forced himself to smile. “You’ve been holding out on me. Come on, I want to try some, too. It might even make me brave enough to practice some of the Italian I’ve learned.”

It did, even though it also set Nate’s stomach on fire and scorched the back of his throat. After a few shots, Nate was a regular conversationalist in Italian, confidently telling Beatrice, I like tomatoes, and saying Wow, so big, to Nonna Rosina about the sauce pot. He even told uncle Beppe that the moonshine was molto delizioso, which was a blatant lie, since it tasted like something that probably wasn’t safe for human consumption. Jacopo’s family responded to his linguistic efforts with the same indulgent delight they’d show a dog who had just learned to roll over, ruffling his hair and exclaiming that he was very smart.

“Jacopo teach good,” Nate replied in Italian, pretty sure he was butchering it. He glanced across the yard at him. Jacopo had stepped away to smoke, but he looked up, a cigarette dangling from his lips, and caught Nate’s eye, and for a moment there was so much pride, and heat, and naked affection in his face that Nate’s heart stuttered and his cheeks, already bright red, felt like the surface of the sun.

He wondered how to say, I like you, in Italian. Or, stay with me.

“I more work,” he told Beatrice, miming grinding up tomatoes, and fled back over to where Gracie was, in the shade, away from the heat of the fire.

As the afternoon stretched on, Nate’s muscles turned liquid, and his brain started to calm, a pleasant fog settling over everything. He hadn’t actually done anything physical in so long, and the repetitive tasks felt good, simple and enjoyably mindless. Putting the tomatoes through the food mill, pouring the sauce into jars, stacking the jars and labeling them. Jacopo was at his side on and off, sometimes leaving to help Nonna or his mom with another job. They didn’t talk much, but Nate tried to soak up as much of his nearness as he could. He really didn’t want to think about what would happen next month. It wasn’t worth it to torture himself, and he tried to push away the sourness he had felt earlier, to ignore it like he’d ignore an ache during a workout. Something remained, though, as he tracked Jacopo across the yard. A taste in the back of his throat, a tightness in his lungs.

“He seems happy,” Gracie said. She yawned, rubbing a hand over her face. There was tomato sauce in one of her eyebrows.

Nate started, coming back to the present. “Who?” he asked.

“Jacopo, silly. It’s nice to see him have a friend. Maybe you can keep in touch, just like Thea and me.”

A friend. Right. Nate swallowed. He thought of the alleyway in Palermo, outside the club. How Jacopo had kissed him like he didn’t care who could see, their lips sticky-sweet with liquor. “I don’t think so. He wants to get out of here, like you said.”

Gracie shrugged. “That doesn’t mean you can’t stay friends.”

Nate didn’t want to allow himself to hope, so he just reached for another jar, screwing on the lid, his heart pounding.