16.
“What was he up to, sulking? Always thinks he’s better than us, this one. Too good to join his family on the holiday.”
Nate had a hopeful smile on his face, and Jacopo knew he hadn’t understood anything but his name. For a moment, he wished he could trade places with him, to be blissfully ignorant in the glow of the fire. He sat down heavily, running a hand over his face.
“Do you want a glass of water?” Nate asked.
“No.” Jacopo clutched his sleeve, so hard his knuckles hurt. “Don’t leave me here.”
“Nate.” Papà pulled a beer from the six-pack at his feet, holding it out to him. “Come on, sit. How do you like the party?”
“Oh.” Nate took the bottle. “Grazie.” He sat, rolling the beer between his hands, not opening it.
“He wants to know how you like the party,” Jacopo translated. His head was swimming, and his mouth tasted like acid. A log popped in the fire, making him flinch.
“Tell him it’s great.” Nate’s smile seemed pasted-on now, and his face was smearing before Jacopo’s eyes. Across the fire, Jacopo’s father was studying him intently, his pupils glassy and dilated.
“Il Duca di Carmosino,” he said. “I asked God every day for us to find you. And he came through! He came through and he brought us a good one, didn’t he, Beppe? This is a good boy.” He gestured with his beer bottle, drops of liquid splashing onto his shirt. Jacopo hated him, how sloppy he was.
“Certo,” Zio Beppe said. “He’s got to take better care of his knees, though.”
“I was worried when I found out he was American, but he’s not like what you see on TV. He’s respectful, and a hard worker. And so strong. And he’s already done more for this island than Jacopo ever did. Right?” His gaze shifted to Jacopo, suddenly, and it was like being in the eyeline of a shark. “Right, Jacopo? Wasting time up there in the castle with your books?”
“Giacomo, come on.” Zio Beppe put a hand on his arm. “Your son, he’s–”
“Good for nothing, that’s what he is.”
“Like I give a fuck,” Jacopo muttered. His ears were ringing, white spots dancing before his eyes.
“Oh, now he talks back. Now he’s got a spine.” Papà laughed mockingly. “Fifteen years up there sitting on your ass. He comes back from the city with all these ideas, with his nose in the air, thinking he’s too fancy for the likes of us. Never coming to dinner. Never speaking to your family, even with everything we’ve done for you. It breaks your mother’s heart, you know it does.”
“What’s he saying?” Nate whispered. Jacopo shook his head, unable to look at him.
“And me. I ruin my body working, just so my only son can go off to college and study poetry and dance in clubs with men and do who knows what.” Jacopo’s father spat on the ground, his mouth twisted in disgust. “I should have had a son like Nate. He’s going to bring in tourists, and money. He’s going to actually help this family, not sit around like some little princess.”
“Basta, Giacomo,” Zio Beppe said, but Jacopo’s father brushed him off. His face was red, a vein standing out in his neck as he took another swig of beer.
“No, it’s not enough. It’s fucking shameful. What a way for the Brunetti line to end. We all know he’s not going to have any sons, right, Beppe? He’s never going to get married, never going to settle down with a girl, because he’s got it in his head that he’s–”
Jacopo stood up, hand over his mouth as bile shot up the back of his throat. He barely made it outside the circle of firelight before he was vomiting, all the drinks he’d had that day erupting out onto the grass as his sinuses burned and tears streamed down his face.
He had thought that the tears were only because he was sick, but they didn’t stop once he’d gotten everything out, and Jacopo cringed when he felt Nate’s hand on his back, rubbing slow circles as he hacked and cried. “Please,” he said. His chest hurt and he couldn’t breathe and he wanted to crawl into a hole, hated crying, hated throwing up, hated himself. “Please, just go.”
“Shh.” Nate led him away from the fire, helping him sit down at the base of one of Beatrice’s fruit trees. Jacopo was shuddering uncontrollably, his teeth beginning to clack together. “I’m not going anywhere.” Nate put his arms around him, nuzzling against his cheek. His lips brushed the corner of Jacopo’s mouth.
Jacopo pulled away in horror. “You can’t kiss me. Please. I’m so disgusting.”
Nate sighed. “I really don’t give a shit. But fine.” He kissed his forehead instead, lips lingering on his feverish skin. Laying his head on Jacopo’s shoulder, he said, “Your dad said something fucked up, didn’t he? Didn’t really need a translation for that.”
“He wishes you were his son instead of me. He said I’m useless, and lazy.”
“Wow, he’s a terrible judge of character.”
“It’s not funny.”
“I know.” Nate nuzzled against his neck. “But it is stupid. He doesn’t know me. Or you, it seems like. And I bet he wouldn’t be such a fan if he found out that I’m a big homo.”
“Nate.” The old coldness seeped into Jacopo’s chest, and he felt so heavy suddenly, and so tired. He closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the tree trunk. He thought of that day in the kitchen, the cold light coming in through the window, the patterned tiles above the sink. “They know,” he said, voice flat and far away. “I told them once, when I was a teenager. That I wasn’t like everyone else, that I was–gay.” He could feel Nate tense up against him. He seemed to be holding his breath. Jacopo’s eyes were wet again, and he couldn’t keep his voice from breaking as he continued, “Papà said–he said I was just confused. And Mamma–” his best friend, his hero, the person he had always looked up to, the person he’d looked up to then, across the kitchen, his heart beating out of his chest and his soul spilled out all over the table for her to see–
“She didn’t say anything at all.” She had pressed her lips together, and gone back to washing dishes.
Nate squeezed his arm, making a little noise.
“And I never brought it up again,” Jacopo said. He closed his eyes, seeing behind them the stiff, jerky movements of his mother’s hands in the sink, the sharp ridges of her shoulder blades. “And they pretend it’s not true. Except when he’s angry, or drunk. Then he remembers, and I can tell he hates me for it.”
“Fuck them,” Nate said, his voice thick with anger. He took Jacopo’s hand, clasping it between both of his, squeezing until Jacopo’s fingers no longer shook. “Seriously. Do you want me to tell them I’m gay, too? I’ll shout it from the rooftops. I’ll tell everyone at this whole damn party that your dick was in my mouth, like, five hours ago.”
“Nate.”
“I will.” Nate pressed Jacopo’s hand against his chest. Jacopo could feel his heartbeat, warm and solid.
“I don’t think that would be useful.”
“No. But I bet it would make for a very memorable Ferragosto.”
Jacopo felt a smile teasing at the corners of his lips despite himself. He was still extremely drunk, and part of him wanted to dissolve into giggles, or cry again, or scream. But all he said was, “I’m tired.”
Nate was silent for a moment, his fingers playing over Jacopo’s. Jacopo closed his eyes, trying to get his breathing back to normal.
“You never found any records of my dad, did you?” Nate said finally. “With the DNA test, I mean.”
Jacopo felt a chill despite Nate’s closeness. “No. You were the only relative that showed up.”
“I figured. I used to hope I would find him someday. If only to punch him in the face.” Nate laughed a little, humorlessly. “But he’s probably dead in a ditch somewhere.”
“Nate, I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be. He wasn’t a real dad, anyway.” Nate turned to him, his expression stark and earnest. “And yours isn’t, either. Dads should be there for their kids no matter what, not make fun of them or call them useless. You’re anything but, Jacopo. You’re so smart, and sweet, and hot as hell, and I–” he bit his lip. Sparks from the bonfire danced in his pupils. “I’m really glad I met you.”
Nausea shifted in Jacopo’s stomach, his mouth tasting sour. His heart thudded in his chest like a stone, like an anchor, weighing him down.
Dads should be there for their kids.
He couldn’t tell him, after all. He could never say anything.
*
September was there before Nate could even blink, the end of summer barreling up at him like a brick wall. His body was fizzy and numb as they boarded the ferry, and even though the deck was solid beneath his feet and the guardrail was cold under his palms, Nate felt adrift, like he himself was the boat, a boat without anyone manning it, floating aimlessly into a future he couldn’t see. He hadn’t been able to sleep the night before, had pushed Jacopo down into the sheets and ridden him with a kind of desperate futility, and even after they had both come, Nate had felt itchy, and incomplete, lying there with his heart pounding as Jacopo pretended to sleep beside him.
He watched now as Jacopo flicked the butt of his cigarette into the water. His back was to Nate, his posture a locked door. Nate had had beautiful dreams of their last few weeks together, picturing golden days and longing looks and lying tangled in each other’s arms, exchanging kisses full of unspoken promises. He’d even let himself imagine for a second that Jacopo would decide to stay, that he’d come out to his family–again–with Nate by his side this time. A grand gesture, a soaring soundtrack, fireworks and kissing under the full moon.
But none of that had happened. The silence in the castle had turned stale, almost clinical, and although Jacopo had been nothing but kind to Nate, it was a kindness without depth. Something had changed since Ferragosto. Nate had said too much, maybe, or Jacopo had been embarrassed. Or maybe he was just done with Nate, having already written him into the past. It was a stupid thing, anyway, vain and self-important and delusional, to expect that he would take up real estate in Jacopo’s head. To think that he was somehow special enough to change his mind.
They didn’t talk much on the ferry, or once they got to the mainland, and Nate was reminded too much of the trip here, the first time he’d seen Carmosino rising from the Mediterranean. Three months of sunshine bracketed by this chilly awkwardness, by Jacopo’s closed mouth and his endless cigarettes.
The city was golden in the morning light, the sun bleaching all of night’s shadows away and making everything look clean and brand-new. The scent of espresso rose as shops opened up, people sitting outside sipping their coffee. Nate wondered what they were thinking and where they were going, all these separate lives that he was only seeing a snapshot of. He didn’t feel quite real. He was an illustration, a doodle of a dumb little guy just doing dumb little guy shit, his head empty and his feet falling forward. Nonna Stella had given him a Tarot card with cups on it, but Nate had learned enough from watching Barb do readings to know that if any card applied to him, it was the Fool, blithely about to fall off a cliff.
They stopped at some kind of government building, where Nate signed paper after paper under the eye of a lawyer or notary or something, his signature unraveling more and more as his hand got tired, a childish scrawl that didn’t belong on any of these official documents. Then they went to a bank, where Nate sat for an interminable time in the waiting room, watching a fever dream of Italian infomercials, until Jacopo finally emerged with a bank card and checkbook that had Nate’s name on them.
There was a ringing in his ears as he stared at the account balance, tongue feeling glued to the roof of his mouth. It was absurd, really, and terrifying, how quickly everything had happened.
“Well,” he said, handling the checkbook as gingerly as he would a gun, “can I buy you lunch, at least?”
They went to the fanciest restaurant Nate could find, and sat in silence on a rooftop patio with the city laid out before them, terracotta roof tiles and wrought-iron balconies and the windows winking in the sun. The food, when it came, was almost artificially pretty, the colors vibrant, the portions small, things cut up into whimsical shapes and disguised as other things. Nate stuffed down four courses and half a loaf of bread before realizing he hadn’t tasted anything.
His head hurt. Everything was too bright, the light reflecting off the sea, the perfect blue of the sky, even the half-moon that shimmered, low on the horizon, between chimneys and cathedral spires and minarets. The sun was scalding his eyes and his shirt was sticking to his back and Jacopo wouldn’t stop fucking smoking, the stink of it invading his sinuses and making the heavy meal sit uneasily in his stomach.
He forced himself to take a sip of water. “How is it?” he asked.
Jacopo had been gazing off into the distance, his eyes unfocused. He looked at Nate. A smile crossed his face, not reaching his eyes. “Good.”
“You’ve barely tried anything.”
“I’m sorry. I’m not very hungry.”
“Maybe if you’d actually put your cigarettes away for once–” he stopped, gritting his teeth, not understanding why he was suddenly so angry. A hot wind blew up from the street, smelling of exhaust.
Jacopo frowned. “I didn’t know it bothered you.”
“Of course it bothers me. It’s terrible for you. And there’s already heart issues in your family. So it’s–it’s pretty fucking dumb to keep doing it, Jacopo.” Nate looked out over the balcony, his heart pounding. Somewhere out there in that maze of streets, Jacopo had pressed him up against a wall, and kissed him like the stars were falling.
“I’m sorry,” Jacopo said again. “But you really shouldn’t worry about me.”
“No, of course not.” Nate folded his napkin up into tiny squares. Jacopo would find someone else to kiss. Someone taller, who actually knew what a verb was. Someone who could support him, stand up for him against his parents, instead of just smiling like an idiot and making stupid jokes. “I bet London is beautiful in the fall,” he said.
“Maybe. I don’t know.” Jacopo put out his cigarette in the ashtray. He didn’t light another. His hands lingered uncertainly on the surface of the table, fingers long and tan. He had such beautiful hands, and Nate felt a rush of desire before forcing himself to look away.
“Well anyway, it’ll be nice for you. To get away from all this heat.”
“I could stay a little longer.”
“No, I know. You want to see the baby. You’ll have to–” he forced airiness into his voice, forced himself to believe he was like Thea, untouchable, floating along and never getting weighed down. “You’ll have to say congratulations for me. If I’m not here.”
“If you’re not here? Nate–”
“Yeah.” Nate shrugged. “Why would I be? I’ve got a shitton of money now. And like you said, there’s so much to see in Europe. I’ll probably–I’ll probably head out soon. Go on vacation. Less awkward that way, right?”
“Sure.” He could hear Jacopo take a deep breath.
“Great. Well.” Nate pushed his chair away from the table, standing up. “Let’s go. Looks like we’re both done, anyway.”