17.
Nate was drunk by sunset.
He hadn’t meant to be, but Jacopo had disappeared after they’d gotten back to the castle, saying he was going to take a nap, and Nate had been left to his own devices. Which turned out to be an overstuffed chair in the sitting room and the dustiest, most expensive-looking bottle of–whatever–that he could find in the castle cellar. Grappa, maybe. It tasted awful and it was very strong, and he forced himself to drink it out of spite, and because it was officially his now, just like the chair and the carpet and the sassy owl statues and all the grim, googly-eyed animals cavorting mirthlessly all over the walls.
He really hated the way they were looking at him right now.
Nate flicked at one of the ornate leaves embroidered on the upholstery, noticing how the gold thread had long ago grown tarnished. Jesus, what the fuck was he going to do with a castle? Pay astronomical taxes on it, probably. And what was he going to do about the town, all the people depending on him to bring in money? What was he going to do about the Brunettis? Just smile and grit his teeth and pretend that, yeah, that guy who used to take care of the castle, their wayward son, was an acquaintance and nothing more? That he didn’t hate the way they’d treated Jacopo, that they weren’t the reason he was leaving? Was he supposed to pretend that Jacopo hadn’t fucked him on this carpet, or kissed him out in the courtyard, or laughed with him in the big ornate canopy bed, that every room in this building–every inch of this whole stupid island–wasn’t full of his memory somehow?
Nate had said he was going to travel, but he didn’t really want to. Didn’t want to stand in the Louvre alone, with nobody to talk to about the art. Didn’t want to bob around in a gondola by himself like some dumbass. He didn’t really want to be a duke, either, if it meant just living up here in isolation, keeping secrets, keeping his distance.
It hurt to think of Jacopo fading away, his presence slowly seeping out of the castle, his scent no longer in Nate’s sheets. It hurt even more to think that Nate wouldn’t be allowed to miss him.
Nate felt jittery, trapped inside his own skin, and suddenly the musty smell of the chair was cloying, the frescoes on the walls too crowded. He got up. At the back of the closet in his bedroom, his workout clothes lay wadded up, and he yanked them on, fingers unsteady, the synthetic fabric like the touch of an old friend. For the first time in a long time, he jammed his earbuds into his ears, and turned up the music on his phone until it was loud enough to burn away his thoughts, until he could no longer hear the beat of his own heart.
He was on his third circuit of the stairs when he felt a hand on his shoulder.
Nate yelped, and his shuddering thighs gave out, his balance already shot from all the alcohol in his brain. He was falling backward, and before he could feel any fear about it, or anything but a vague sense of amazement, he was enveloped in Jacopo’s arms, trembling and breathing him in as if he’d been drowning. He felt Jacopo’s heart beat against his back, felt his chest rumble as he spoke. He couldn’t hear anything he was saying.
Nate took out his earbuds, registering that his hands were unsteady, his hair dripping with sweat. Now that he had stopped moving, he felt like he might be sick, little specks of light dancing in front of his eyes.
“You didn’t come to dinner,” Jacopo said. His voice was tight. “What on earth are you doing?”
“Ex-exercise.” Nate’s mouth was gummy and dry. He licked his lips.
“Drunk exercise?” Jacopo muttered against his scalp. He still hadn’t let go of him, and Nate wanted to cuddle up like a cat and live here in his embrace. “Nate. You smell like grappa. And the stairs are so slippery.”
“I’m stupid, I know. I’ll probably fall off a rampart or something without you around.”
“Don’t joke about that.” Jacopo was leading him down the steps now, to the nearest landing. Nate let himself slide down the wall, the cool marble a relief against his back. He ran a hand over his shirtfront, registering that it was soaked through. His heart was jackhammering against his ribs, feeling ready to burst. He definitely wasn’t in as good of shape as he had been, and that, on top of everything else, sent his mind reeling into despair.
“I’m sorry,” he said, pushing hair out of his face. “I’m sorry I’m so fucking dumb, and I’m sorry I’m so gross.”
“Please don’t say that.”
“I mean it. I’m disgusting. I probably got sweat all over you.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time.” Jacopo sat down next to him. There was a tender little smile on his face, and he ran a hand up Nate’s thigh, playing with the hem of his shorts.
A shiver of lust went through him, unexpected and uninvited. God, he was so confused, and everything hurt. “Jacopo–”
“I walked in on you once, doing your exercises,” Jacopo said. “Do you remember that? You were wearing one of these little things that aren’t really a shirt,” he traced the collar of Nate’s tank top, “and it–it haunted me.” He hooked a finger into the material, pulling Nate closer. “It was stuck to you, and I could see everything, every single line, and I kept thinking how much I wanted to–”
Nate slammed his mouth into Jacopo’s, kissing him with every breath he had left, kissing him like his lips were the antidote to whatever sad, jagged little thing was lodged in Nate’s chest. Jacopo’s mouth was velvet and soft warmth, and his hands were everywhere, wrestling Nate out of his shirt, nails running over his back, the ladder of his ribs, digging into his ass as he pulled Nate on top of him. They rolled over, and Nate’s teeth clacked as Jacopo pinned him to the floor, the cold stone sending a shock down his spine. Jacopo’s mouth was on his throat, teeth scraping over his pulse, and Nate’s heart was pounding for a different reason now, his blood feeling electric, and Jacopo was kissing his way across his chest, his nipples, his abdomen, harsh, sucking kisses that turned into bites, until the line between pleasure and pain became a blur and Nate’s synapses were on fire and his skin was made out of stars and all he could think was that he wanted the marks Jacopo was making, wanted them to last, because soon they would be all that was left–
He heard himself let out a sob, and clapped a hand over his mouth. But it was too late. His belly was shuddering, and tears were in his eyes, and he scrambled back against the wall as Jacopo withdrew, looking at him in surprise.
“Did I hurt you?”
“No.” Nate found his shirt and tried to drape it over himself, hands shaking. Jacopo was right; it really was a flimsy thing, and he felt too exposed all of a sudden. “I’m fine, I–” he wasn’t fine. Tears were spilling down his cheeks, and he had started to hiccup, and he was furious at himself. “Who’s going to water your plants?” Nate asked. “I’ll fuck it up, I know I will. And who’s going to feed the cats? They don’t trust anybody else. And–and the library’s not done, so you can’t–you can’t leave.”
“Nate,” Jacopo sighed.
“I don’t understand.” Nate couldn’t look at him; it was too embarrassing. He stared at his own hand, splayed on the floor. Watched a tear fall onto it, leaving a perfect circle. “I know your parents are awful, but Gracie would be on your side. And I would, too. I can–I can be your family, even if they won’t.” Something felt lodged in his throat, and Nate forced himself to swallow. “I don’t want to just forget about you, Jacopo. You’re the only guy who’s ever made me feel worthwhile.”
“Don’t.” The rawness in his voice made Nate look up. Jacopo’s eyes were glittering, his brow creased as if in pain. “I can’t stay, Nate. There’s something–”
“What? What’s so bad that you won’t even try? Is it me? I get it, if you don’t–”
“It isn’t you. I would love–” he reached out as if to touch Nate’s knee, then pulled his hand away, clenching it into a fist. “I’m not right for you.”
“Bullshit.” Nate wiped his eyes so hard that it hurt. He couldn’t breathe. “Try again.”
“You’ll hate me,” Jacopo said.
“I won’t. Why would I ever hate you?” Unease snaked through Nate’s belly, and for a second he thought about running away. His limbs felt fuzzy, frantic, like they weren’t quite his own. He had a feeling that something was going to happen that he couldn’t take back, that he was about to trip over a ledge and that it was too late to catch himself.
“Please.” Jacopo’s voice was thick. “Let’s not ruin this. We don’t have much time left. Can we just–”
“No.” Nate crossed his arms, hoping Jacopo couldn’t see how he was trembling. “I’m not letting you go without knowing why.”
Jacopo chewed his lip. “I made a mistake, years ago,” he said finally. He tipped his head back, looking at the ceiling. “With my friend from university. Lucia. I–I was so confused, and I’d just learned about Papà’s accident, and I–we–” he cursed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I have a daughter. I’ve never met her.”
Nate felt like a stack of plates that had been dropped on the floor. Somewhere far away, Jacopo was still talking.
“I only found out a few years ago. I wish–I wish I could tell you something different, but that’s the truth, Nate. I wanted to leave, to go find her, but I–I’m a coward, and I couldn’t.”
“I’m sorry,” he heard himself say. “What the fuck?”
God, Nate really must be stupid. He’d thought he was the only one Jacopo had ever slept with, thought he was special, but it turned out that he was just the only man Jacopo had ever slept with, fucking semantics, and somewhere out there was a little girl who had never met her dad–
Jacopo shook his head. “I knew you’d hate me.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Like I said, I’m a coward.” Jacopo wouldn’t look at him. He took a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, tapping it against his palm.
“Can you fucking stop with that.” Nate grabbed the box out of his hands, crushing it in his fist. It felt good to crush something. He flung it down the stairs.
Jacopo said nothing, just kept looking at him. Nate turned away.
“You said you’ve known about this for years?”
“Three years. I hoped once you took ownership of the castle, I could–” he shook his head. “I don’t know. Things got so complicated. I’m sorry, Nate. I’m so sorry.”
“No.” Nate ran a hand over his face. His ears were ringing, a sour brew sloshing around in his stomach. He hiccuped again, and it tasted like grappa, and bile. He almost thought he would start laughing; that was how stupid this all was. Hiccupping in a stairwell with his shirt off and hickeys all over his chest, and Jacopo was staring at him like his entire world was falling apart, as if he had any right to look that sad, after lying to Nate for three months. And somehow, in spite of the lying, in spite of the whole illegitimate child thing, Nate was still–what, in love with him? Christ, the Schafer taste in men had definitely struck again.
“No, I’m the one who’s sorry,” he said. “I don’t think I can deal with this right now.”
“Yes.” Nate heard the scuff of Jacopo’s shoes as he stood up. “I understand.” And then his steps were fading away as he went back down the stairs, and outside.
Nate’s earbuds had fallen out of his pocket, two discarded shells on the marble. A low whine of music trickled up from them. He hadn’t even remembered to shut off his phone.
Well, fuck it. Fuck this, fuck the world, fuck everything. He crammed them back into his ears and started up the stairs again.
*
Thea: It’s all happeninggggggggggg
Thea: [a gif of Britney Spears]
Thea: Ya better duke, bitch
Seriously tho, how does it feel to be official?
Nate?????
Omg wake up it’s like noon over there already. Did you party too hard last night?
Nate groaned and set his phone back down. His muscles felt like lead, and even lifting his head up made his lower back spasm in a worrying way. Fifty circuits. He’d tried to do fifty circuits of stair climbs. He wasn’t sure how far he’d gotten, just that he had puked at some point, and that it had seemed like it good idea to rinse his mouth out with more grappa, and that things had gone downhill from there, and Jacopo was definitely going to scold him, because–
Oh, God. Jacopo.
Nate pulled himself up into a sitting position, his body flooding with dread.
He didn’t want to remember the night before, almost wished he had been drunk enough to scrub it from his mind. It wasn’t any easier to deal with in the light of day. Nate wanted to be angry, wanted to be furious at Jacopo, because then he could just write this off, get the hell out of here and never look back. Everybody leaves, and it would be better to be the one to do the leaving.
If only he didn’t feel so sick.
Nate had never wanted kids–and this wasn’t even a kid. If Jacopo had been in college then that meant she was a teenager, just existing somewhere out there, not knowing that her dad was gay, or that he was tall and handsome and loved words, or that he was so locked inside himself that he had never dared to contact her.
Last night, like an idiot, he had been ready to burn every relationship he’d built on this island to the ground, if it just meant Jacopo would stay. And God, he still wanted that. Even with all the weirdness with Jacopo’s family and, yes, even the fact that he had a daughter. Nate thought of Jacopo’s expression on the beach at night, how alive he’d seemed out there under the moon. He thought of him laughing uncontrollably in the sitting room, untethered from anything that worried him. Numbly, he typed out a text to Thea, although he kind of already knew the answer.
What’s the two of cups in tarot?
She replied back almost immediately. Wtf?
And then, it’s usually the love and relationships card. Why??
do you have something to tell meeeeeeee???
Yeah, I do, thought Nate. I have massively, massively fucked up.
Thea was still texting, but he stuffed his phone in his pocket and forced himself out of bed. He was limping a little as he hurried down the stairs, but the aches in his body were nothing compared to the fist clenched around his heart. Nate needed to see Jacopo, needed to hold him and feel his solidness and breathe in the smell of him. It was the only thing that would fix the well of unease in his belly, make his heart stop pounding.
But when he got to the cottage, he found it empty.
Nate sat at the table for hours, hoping, even though part of him realized it was stupid to hope. The vespa wouldn’t come puttering up the hill, and Jacopo’s tall, lanky frame wouldn’t fill the doorway. There were gaps on the bookshelf. He hadn’t taken much, but he’d taken his favorite books, and when Nate tried calling, his phone went straight to voicemail. A generic message in Italian, not even Jacopo’s voice. Nate would probably never hear his voice again.
Nate curled up silently in Jacopo’s bed, pressing the blankets to his face. He stayed there as the day wound down and the room began to get dark.
*
Jacopo had only been in London for twenty-four hours, and he hated it. The huge, bustling city that had seemed so romantic from afar was overwhelming, sprawling out endlessly, connected by the arterial lines of the Underground, which he’d already gotten lost on twice. He had never seen so many people, so many lives crammed into one place, and he felt like he was suffocating as he tried to make his way through the mass of tourists with phones upheld, busy families pushing prams, revelers spilling out of pubs. He had wanted to get dinner, to sit in a restaurant and have a glass of wine, to establish that he was here, in this place he’d dreamed of for years, but when he tried to ask for a table, he found himself stumbling over his words, all the English bleached out of his brain by anxiety.
He bought a strange, tasteless sandwich from a convenience store, and sat eating it in his sterile little hotel room.
His phone was full of missed calls, but just like he hadn’t been able to get his tongue to form words at the restaurant, he couldn’t will his fingers to check the notifications, to see if any of them were from Nate. It wouldn’t matter if they were, anyway. Nate obviously wanted nothing to do with him.
It was all wrong. He’d imagined that he would come to London and reinvent himself, become someone that his daughter wouldn’t be ashamed of, someone she’d be excited to meet. Not some stammering nobody in a restaurant. Not some coward who ran away from the man he loved–yes, there was no other word for it, and he shouldn’t kid himself. He was in love with Nate. Even before he’d fallen, he’d known it was inevitable. Since that moment on the balcony, or maybe on the airplane, when Nate had comforted him with music about the evils of American society. He was in love with him, and he had left him, because he couldn’t stand the look of bewildered disappointment on his face. Jacopo had failed at so many things in his life, and now he was failing at his one grand dream, and he had no plans and was running out of money and if one of those jaunty double-decker buses swerved just right and knocked him into the Thames, he’d probably be thankful for it.
He stared down at his phone, not really seeing the screen. He could forget Lucia’s number, stay out of her life. His daughter would probably be better off without him, anyway. He could stay out of Nate’s life, too. He could crawl back to Italy and disappear, living a nondescript life somewhere in a nondescript town, and everything would be the same as it had always been and he would still be trapped.
He had Lucia’s phone number memorized from that long-ago email. He’d tapped it into his phone too many times, never having the courage to actually press call.
This time, the floor seeming to drop away beneath his feet, he did.