15.
It was Ferragosto, and the already-sleepy little town had completely shut down as people closed their businesses and got together with family for a day of relaxation and food. It had never been one of Jacopo’s favorite holidays, focused as it was on quality time. There wasn’t really anything to do except talk to people, something that had always made him feel anxious and out-of-place. In past years, as the day went on and the larger family group separated off into different conversations, he’d always found himself never quite fitting into any of them, and he’d often ended up alone, tucked away somewhere with a book and his cigarettes. But this year Nate was here, and everything was different. Nate, the only person he actually wanted to spend time with. It was torture, being here at his side, surrounded by everyone else.
They had come over early to help prepare the biscotti–two kinds, Nonna’s recipe and Mamma’s–and emotions were high in the kitchen as the two women tossed back and forth subtle barbs and pointed gestures about whose variation was better. Another holiday tradition that made Jacopo anxious. His head hurt; he’d had three espressos already, and the smells of almond and sugar in the kitchen were overwhelming, cloying on his palate. He looked around for Nate, just wanting to meet his eyes, knowing his smile of encouragement would make some of the tension fade from Jacopo’s shoulders. He wasn’t in the kitchen anymore. Nonna had given him the job of grating orange peels, but apparently he hadn’t been doing it expertly enough for her, because she had taken over, and Nate was nowhere to be seen. He really knew nothing about cooking, Jacopo thought, with a rush of fondness. His heart clenched, wondering how Nate would feed himself after Jacopo was gone. They’d have to convince him to hire a chef. Or maybe Jacopo could stay longer, and teach him–
But that was impossible. His obligation to Lucia grew heavier and heavier in his mind as September approached. He hoped it wouldn’t be too late, that she would still want to hear from him.
Jacopo went out into the living room, where Gracie was curled up on the sofa, scrolling on her phone, the TV on in the background, showing the Pope’s address for the Ascension of the Virgin Mary.
“He went upstairs,” she said, not looking up. “If you’re looking for Nate.”
“Thanks.”
“How’s it going in there?”
“Brutal, as always.”
“Yeah. I don’t know why you always try to help.”
Jacopo grunted. It was easy for her. Gracie could hang out on the couch all day, go off to school, never get married, and she’d still be everybody’s favorite. He massaged the back of his neck, not liking the dark cloud building in his chest. Family holidays always got to him. He turned, heading up the stairs.
He found Nate in the hallway upstairs, looking at the family portraits along the wall. Jacopo knew most of them by heart: the stern, posed, black-and-white photos of generations of Brunettis, the glamor shots of his mother in her wedding dress, her hair gigantic and her shoulder pads even bigger, the faded Kodak prints of him and his sisters playing on the beach.
“Did you get bored?” Jacopo asked.
Nate chuckled. “You know me too well. I was trying to watch that thing on TV, with the Pope? Gracie said it’s about the Virgin Mary’s body getting, like, hauled up to Heaven. Sounds a little creepy.”
“A lot of Catholicism is a little creepy.” There was a smear of flour on his cheek, and Jacopo brushed it away.
“I haven’t seen these before,” Nate said, running a finger along one of the frames. “Or I don’t remember seeing them. The only time I’ve been up here was that first night, and I was so overwhelmed that I didn’t really look at anything. How old were you, in this one?”
Jacopo looked over his shoulder, the back of his neck prickling. He felt exposed suddenly, and his voice was rough as he said, “Thirteen, I think. Maybe fourteen.”
“This is your dad, right? He was a good-looking guy, before–you know.” Nate tapped the glass. “But I think you look more like your mom. And you’re already taller than him in this picture.”
“Yes.” He was taller than everyone, a gawky, miserable teenager standing out like a sore thumb among his smiling sisters. “Nate,” he said, putting a hand on the small of his back. “Let’s–”
But Nate wasn’t listening. “You grew up in this house, didn’t you? Which room was yours?” He looked down the hall, at the series of closed doors.
“That one.” Jacopo gestured to it. “But we need to–”
But he was already opening the door and going inside, and Jacopo’s stomach flipped as they went back in time, the room almost exactly as he remembered it. The bookshelves were bare, and there were boxes stacked along one wall, so his mother had obviously been using the room for storage, but the cracks in the ceiling were all there, the posters on the walls, now faded and peeling at the edges. The desk where he’d written terrible adolescent poetry. The tile floor that had been so cold under his feet in the mornings, the narrow bed where he’d spent so many nights alone, praying not to be different. And when prayers had failed and he’d given in, so many nights immersed in his fantasies. God, teenaged Jacopo would have given his left arm–his entire soul–to have a man as beautiful as Nate here, in his room, smiling up at him. The thought made his heart thud painfully in his chest.
He wanted to tell him, then. The thing no else knew, the thing Jacopo hadn’t known until Lucia had emailed him out of the blue three years ago. It would be a relief to say it.
He watched Nate’s eyes travel over the posters on the walls, chewing his lip.
“Whitney Houston, huh?” There was a delighted grin on Nate’s face. “You’re always surprising me.”
“I know it’s not your kind of music.”
“Whitney Houston is everyone’s kind of music. And who’s this blonde lady? She looks fabulous.”
“Lorella Cuccarini. It was–it’s my mother’s music. But I liked it too, as a child.” He remembered helping her cook, when Gracie was just a baby and Alessia was in school, the two of them dancing in the kitchen to Queen of the Night or La Notte Vola. He pinched the bridge of his nose, surprised to find tears in his eyes.
“And your parents, like, never suspected you weren’t straight?”
Jacopo sat down on the bed, not knowing what to say. A cloud of dust rose up from the blankets as he disturbed them.
“Sorry,” Nate said, sitting next to him. “Is that a sore spot for you? I was joking.”
“I know.” Jacopo traced a thumb down the side of his face, across his lips. “Nate, I–” the words stalled at the end of his tongue. Nate’s pupils were wide, a dusting of red across his cheeks, and desire and something like dread skittered around in Jacopo’s chest.
“What is it?”
“Nothing. It’s just–having you here, in my room…” He trailed off. An urgency close to panic was bubbling under his skin, and he gasped as Nate’s fingers slid lazily down his chest, coming to a stop on his belt buckle. Jacopo was getting hard despite himself. He was dimly aware of the sound of pots clanking in the kitchen below, the TV whispering up through the floor.
“Yeah?” Nate smiled. “Never thought you’d have a guy in here, did you?”
“I–” I have something to tell you. Why couldn’t he say it? Jacopo licked his lips, and then Nate’s mouth was on his, and he couldn’t tell him now, it would ruin this, ruin everything. Nate’s hair was soft under his hands and he smelled like oranges and almond extract, from the kitchen, and Jacopo clung to him, breathing him in.
“I want you,” Nate said against his ear, and it was like sheet lightning across Jacopo’s brain, scorching everything else away. “I want–” he was kissing Jacopo’s neck now, his chest, through his shirt. “I want to be the only one in this bed. I want you to remember me.” Nate’s teeth scraped over one of Jacopo’s nipples through the fabric, making sparks dance behind his eyes.
“I will.” Wasn’t it obvious? It could never be like this with anyone else. Jacopo was ruined. “God, Nate, I will.”
“Good,” he said, and slid to his knees at the side of the bed.
Jacopo closed his eyes, letting out a strangled sob as Nate took him in his mouth. His hands were trembling, and he cradled Nate’s skull like it was something precious. He realized he was pleading, low in the back of his throat, pleading for something he couldn’t articulate as Nate’s lips slid around his cock, warm and gentle at first and then deeper, tighter, until he was fucking into Nate’s throat and Nate was squeezing his thigh, nails digging in hard enough to leave a mark. His other hand, fingers wet with saliva, crept up behind Jacopo’s balls, fingers playing over his ass, and Jacopo hissed, “Yes,” yes, he had never been touched there before but he wanted it, wanted Nate to be the one to do it. He angled his hips up as best he could, a heady sense of danger, of freedom filling him, to be taken like this in broad daylight, with the house below full of people who didn’t know. He felt Nate suck in his breath as his finger slipped into Jacopo’s body, and Jacopo heard himself make some kind of noise, a strangled, wanting noise. It stung and it was strange and unimaginably good, all at once, and he could barely even catalog how he was feeling because his thoughts were burning up and flying away, like sparks in the wind.
It was quick then, uncontrollable. Jacopo was toppling over a cliff, and he relished the fall. Nate’s fingers had found a spot that made his body light up like a power grid, every pleasure point a burning sun, and he was coming down Nate’s throat, coming as Nate let out a little moan, and if he hadn’t been lost already, that noise would have tipped him over, the sweetness of it. Jacopo wanted all of his sounds, all of his moments.
He stroked the line of Nate’s jaw as Nate tucked him back into his underwear, kissing his abdomen, his inner thigh. Nate looked up at him. His eyes were hooded, his smile a little shy now that everything was over. There was a tear track on his cheek, and Jacopo brushed it away with his thumb.
He had to tell him.
*
Jacopo’s hands were still shaking as he came down the stairs, and he shoved them into his pockets, seeing that Papà had joined Gracie in the living room, hunched over in his favorite armchair with the graying upholstery that reeked of smoke. Jacopo studied him from the doorway, this man who had once hauled fishing nets and been able to wring a goat’s neck with his bare hands. There wasn’t much left of him now, his shoulders thin and bony, his yellowed fingers clenched around a cigarette. There were age spots on his scalp and arms that Jacopo hadn’t noticed before.
Papà looked up, his watery gaze disinterested. “Where’ve you been?” he asked. “In the kitchen, with the women?”
“I was upstairs,” Jacopo said. He felt his jaw clench. He hated how small he felt, and how guilty, standing here in his parents’ living room and having to explain himself.
“Huh. I guess Ferragosto doesn’t mean much when you’re on vacation all the time anyway.”
“Papà,” Gracie said, rolling her eyes.
“Your brother-in-law Antonio has been chopping wood for the bonfire all morning,” Papà added, turning back to the TV.
Good for him. Jacopo shrugged, turning to go. “I’m going to–”
He startled, and had to bite his tongue to keep from letting out a cry as someone put a hand on his back. Nate. It was just Nate, he realized, his heart hammering. He’d stayed behind to use the bathroom.
“Oh, God, sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. What’s up?” Nate was looking up at him, eyes friendly and guileless. His lips were a little swollen, face flushed.
“Antonio has been chopping wood all day,” he said, throat tight.
“Oh. Does he need help? I’d love a workout. And I don’t think Nonna wants me anywhere near her biscotti.”
Jacopo stared at him helplessly. He felt sick, as if the thing, the secret, were all balled up inside of his stomach and he had to vomit it up, to exorcize himself of it. A bead of sweat dripped down his neck. “Do you think we could–”
“Jacopo!” His mother popped her head out of the kitchen, and he felt himself shrink, shoulders tensing up. “Where did you disappear off to? It’s time to make the soup.”
*
The soup was the same one they made every year, a fiery stew of chicken and peppers served with breadsticks and spears of Mamma’s airy focaccia. Alessia and Marco had brought a fish dish with fennel and lemons, and Mirabella, saying she could no longer stand long enough to cook anything, had brought the antipasti: fresh melon, hard cheese, pink curls of prosciutto, silver anchovies packed in olive oil. Jacopo couldn’t eat. His head was throbbing, and the mingled smells rising from the table made his stomach clench. He’d had a glass of Zio Beppe’s moonshine earlier, in the kitchen, and he was sipping another one now, but instead of making him feel relaxed, it was just making him feel stupid, sanding away the quickness of his thoughts.
He hadn’t been able to get Nate alone since that morning. The memory of the bedroom was still heavy in his groin, and there was a pain in his chest that wouldn’t go away. He watched him greedily, from afar. Nate was at the head of the table, his hair sunkissed, his cheeks flushed from helping Antonio chop wood. Jacopo knew that he would smell like sweat, crisp and salty and a little sweet. His shirt complemented his eyes, complemented every line of his chest. It was one of the new ones that Thea had made him buy in Palermo, and Jacopo sent a brief thought of thanks her way, wherever she was. Nate looked breathtaking, put-together, an easy, unassuming confidence to him. Jacopo knew that Nate was insecure about his height, but he was the same size as most of the men on the island. He looked like he belonged here.
Jacopo felt his face grow hot, realizing he’d been staring. He shifted his focus to the glass in his hand, his fingers hardly seeming like his own.
Alessia’s youngest, Bruno, was shrieking about something, and the sound bore into his brain. Jacopo closed his eyes, opening them again when Zio Beppe nudged his shoulder.
“Try some.” He offered him a dish of homemade sausages.
Jacopo shook his head, feeling dizzy. No wonder his family hated him. He couldn’t even do the most basic thing this holiday was meant for and enjoy the food.
Nate, meanwhile, was rapturously trying everything, making delighted noises and complimenting the meal with phrases Jacopo had taught him. Jacopo’s mother was spooning up more soup for him, and Papà was laughing, calling Nate strong and saying that he needed to eat enough for all those muscles.
Jacopo tasted copper, and realized he’d been chewing his lip so much that it had split. He took another drink, the moonshine stinging the cut, making his eyes water.
The meal went on interminably, afternoon fading into dusk. People came and went, family members and villagers stopping by on their way to the beach. Everyone wanted to see Nate, of course. He was the center of attention at all times, and he seemed to be getting along perfectly well without any help, not even glancing Jacopo’s way once.
It was fine. He was used to being forgotten at big gatherings like this.
Jacopo grabbed an open bottle of wine from off the table and wandered out to the edge of the backyard, past his mother’s vegetable garden and fruit trees, where the hillside dropped off into tangled ivy and shrubs that clung precariously to the sheer rock. Down below, the sea was dark, the lights of motorboats studding its surface, and along the pale curve of the beach, people had already begun to light fires, shards of orange light in the evening gloom. He took a drink, thinking about all the other times he had sat out here, the sounds of clinking glassware and conversation at his back, looking at the vague suggestion of Sicily shimmering on the horizon like a mirage, dreaming about getting away. A sense of hopelessness flooded his chest. He lit a cigarette.
I want you to remember me.
In all his imaginings of his life after he left the island, Jacopo had never dared to picture a partner, a boyfriend. The furthest he’d gotten was imagining some faceless man in a bar, and then his mind had shied away from it, as if acknowledging what he wanted would ensure it never happened.
Nate fit in perfectly here, that was what hurt. Nate fit, and Jacopo didn’t. And it was Nate who had set the parameters for this summer fling, after all. There was a time limit, and Jacopo was just fooling himself. Torturing himself by allowing a whisper of hope in.
He snuffed out his cigarette, lit another.
The bottle of wine was empty and it was fully dark by the time he wandered back over to the patio. The string lights cast an eerie, yellowish illumination over everything, washing out the people, making faces flat, moonlike, indistinct. Mamma was clearing off the table, and Jacopo went to help her, but his hands were moving as if he were underwater, and the dishes made an ugly sound as they clattered together.
She looked up. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Just trying to help.”
She shook her head. “Go sit down.”
He sighed, sinking into a chair, and pulled the pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, tipping one into his hand. They were almost gone.
“Jacopo,” his mother said. “Really? At the table?”
“No one’s here.” God, he was awful. A grown man, but right now he sounded like the brattiest child. “And you let Papà smoke wherever he wants.”
She slammed another plate down onto the stack in front of her, too loud. “I pray every day that you won’t turn out like that man.”
“Don’t worry,” Jacopo said flatly. He tipped ash into an empty wine glass.
He must have lost focus for a moment, because the next thing he knew, his mother was gone, and he was alone at the empty table, watching vague shapes move across the yard, backlit by the bonfire. One of them resolved itself, coming toward him. It was Nate, firelight caught in his hair, an easy smile on his face. Jacopo’s heart soared, and his stomach seemed to shrink in on itself.
“There you are.” Nate pulled up a chair, sitting next to him. “Oh my God, I’m about to explode from all that food. Did you try the duck carpaccio? Nonna Stella brought it. And she gave me a Tarot card, too, the something of cups, I think? I’ll have to ask my mom what it–” he paused, looking at him. “Are you alright?” Nate put a hand on his, where it lay on the table. Jacopo watched Nate’s thumb tracing over his skin, and swallowed.
“I’m fine. What time is it? We should–” he tried to stand, but his limbs were too loose and he lurched forward, catching himself on the table. “Fireworks,” Jacopo said. “There will be fireworks on the beach. I can take you.”
Nate stood, a hand on his back. “I don’t think you should take me anywhere. Too much moonshine, huh?” He smiled, but it faded as he watched Jacopo’s face. Jacopo wondered what expression he was making. He didn’t seem to have a lot of control over his body right now, or his thoughts. “You’re not having a good time. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have left you alone.”
“No.” Jacopo waved a hand in the air. “It doesn’t matter. This is–it’s your first time, having Ferragosto. So you are what matters. And you can’t miss the fireworks.”
“I’ve seen fireworks before, babe.” He brushed Jacopo’s hair out of his face, and Jacopo flinched. From the touch, or the endearment, he wasn’t sure. “And I might be here next year, who knows. I’m not worried about it. Come on.” Nate looped an arm through his. “Come sit by the fire with me. I’ll get you some water.”
He didn’t want to be by the fire, where the remaining members of the party had gathered, but he also didn’t want to be without Nate, so he allowed himself to be led across the grass and into the circle of voices and heat. His heart knocked against his ribs as he heard his father’s voice rising above the rest. Papà was drunk, the loud, insistent type of drunk he only got once or twice a year, his mouth wide open in laughter, his teeth jagged and yellow.
Jacopo’s stomach curdled. He felt Nate squeeze his hand.
“Ah, there he is,” Papà called in Italian, nudging Zio Beppe with his elbow. “Nate, you found my worthless son.”