Twenty-Two Noah
twenty-two
Noah
You sleep okay?” Angela asked across the aisle as their coach sped back to Milan.
“Hm?” Noah shook himself. “Yeah. Why?”
“You seem a little out of it.”
“Sorry. Just enjoying the view.”
That wasn’t true. Noah hadn’t taken in a single mile of the drive.
He was too preoccupied with the tacky feeling in his shorts, where Ramin’s saliva had dried all over his skin. Too distracted by the full-body tingles that kept sweeping over him, like he was still back in that bed. Too overwhelmed by the glow in his heart.
“It’s gorgeous, huh?”
Noah nodded, but that wasn’t why he couldn’t stop smiling.
He’d kissed Ramin.
Ramin had kissed him back.
Ramin had touched him.
He wanted to run through the streets. He wanted to shout it from the rooftops! He wanted…
He didn’t know what.
The truth was, though Noah was bisexual, this was still new to him.
He’d been with guys before, but both times had played out more or less the same way.
A guy who was fascinated by Noah’s size, but didn’t see him as a person beyond what he had in his pants.
A one-time thing, no kissing, no chance for Noah to even reciprocate.
He hated that he hadn’t gotten to touch Ramin back. Hated that they’d been interrupted.
But kissing Ramin? That had been magical.
Noah’s lips still burned with the memory of it. He traced them with his fingertips. Were they swollen? They’d kissed hard but they hadn’t been kissing for very long when Jake interrupted them. Had Angela noticed anything while they ate a quick breakfast and ran for the bus?
She hadn’t said anything.
Noah pulled his phone out to see if Ramin had sent anything, but it was dead.
Crap. It must’ve died during the night. His charger was back in Milan, and he hadn’t thought to borrow Ramin’s last night. He’d have to wait till they got back.
At least he’d finally managed to get Ramin’s number yesterday, while they took a break from rolling out ravioli.
When would Ramin get back to Milan? When could Noah see him again?
Did Ramin even want that? Noah thought he did, but maybe he was reading the situation wrong. Maybe he was just projecting his own hopes and wishes. Maybe—
“Dad?”
Noah shook himself. “Yeah, buddy?”
“What does ‘good pasta hands’ mean?”
Noah nearly choked. Ramin’s hands had been good for more than pasta.
“Uh. I think Nonna meant that Ramin was good at making the ravioli.”
“Oh.” Jake frowned thoughtfully. “How come he has dimples and I don’t?”
“Well, that’s just the way he was born,” Noah said. “Like how you were born with brown eyes.”
“Aw, man.” Jake poked at his cheeks, like he was trying to give himself dimples, though all he really did was make himself look like an evil chipmunk. Noah chuckled and ruffled Jake’s hair.
“Hey!”
“You like Ramin, huh?”
“He’s cool,” Jake said, glancing out the window. But then he looked back at Noah. “Are you sure I can’t get a tattoo yet?”
“Your mom and I are both sure,” Noah said.
Jake sighed. “Ramin said he got another tattoo. He said he couldn’t show me because it was still healing. I bet it’s cool.”
“He didn’t show me either,” Noah said as heat crept up his neck. They hadn’t had the chance, this morning, to really see each other.
“Do you think he’ll show me next time?”
“Maybe, buddy.” If there was a next time. What was this to him? A one-time hookup? A rebound from his breakup? Curiosity?
Or was it the start of something like a relationship? Did Ramin want that?
Did Noah? Could he want that? Should he even be worrying about that now, when they were trying to figure out their family’s future?
Should he tell Angela what happened? Would she be happy or mad?
She kept saying she was worried Noah was lonely.
But she also wanted him to focus on their family this trip.
But what if this thing between him and Ramin was real?
Twenty years ago, Noah had had a crush on Ramin. He just hadn’t known what it was. He wouldn’t figure out he was bi for another few years. At the time, he just… liked being around Ramin.
He still liked being around Ramin.
“Dad?”
“Huh? Sorry, buddy. I was thinking.”
Jake shrugged. “Can we get gelato when we get back?”
Noah laughed. “If it’s in your mom’s schedule, sure.”
Unfortunately for Jake, gelato wasn’t on the route for The Death March of Fun: Part III. (Or was it Part IV? Noah couldn’t decide if yesterday counted, since while they’d definitely done some marching, they’d also spent hours with Nonna and Nonno.)
Angela gave them just enough time at the hotel to change clothes. Noah grabbed a quick shower, though he hated the thought of washing Ramin’s smell off him. He consoled himself by sniffing Ramin’s pink T-shirt. It smelled like the both of them, like sweat and lemons and sugar and lust.
It smelled like heaven.
But then Jake knocked on the bathroom door and he nearly dropped the shirt into the open toilet. He hung it carefully and told Jake he’d be done in a few minutes.
“Hey, is your battery pack charged?” Noah asked Angela once he’d gotten dressed. “My phone is dead.”
Thankfully, iPhone and Android had finally started using the same connectors.
Nothing in the divorce had felt so final as when Angela had switched from iPhone to Android, turning her and Noah’s years-long text chain green.
Angela shook her head. “Sorry. But my phone is charged. We’ll be okay if you need to leave yours here.”
Noah didn’t want to leave his phone. He wanted to text Ramin, be ready to get a response.
But he couldn’t tell Angela that; she’d ask too many questions, extract a confession from him.
He’d been relieved to see her warm up to Ramin a little yesterday—if making awkward small talk about her lesbian sister counted as warming up—but still, he didn’t want Angela thinking he was distracted.
So he plugged his phone in next to his bed, waited for it to power on, and shot off a quick message. Well, messages.
Noah
Made it back to Milan!
When do you get back?
Thanks for everything last night.
And this morning.
Noah stared at his phone. Was that too forward? Or not forward enough?
How were you supposed to text someone you’d had sex with? Especially if you wanted to have sex with them again, but not only have sex, because you wanted to kiss them too, and talk with them, and go on dates, and just spend time together.
Noah was so out of practice at this.
He held his breath, waiting for Ramin to answer, but Angela popped her head through the open door connecting their rooms. “You ready? We’ve gotta go!”
“Yeah.” He started typing out a message to let Ramin know he’d be without his phone, but before he finished, Jake ran into the room.
“Dad! Have you seen my Spider-Man socks?”
“We’ll find them, buddy.”
He set his phone on the nightstand and went to help his son.
The whole time they’d planned the trip, there was only one thing Noah truly wanted to do: He wanted to see The Last Supper .
To her credit, Angela had made sure to get them tickets, scheduling the Death March of Fun around their entrance time.
The church of Santa Maria delle Grazie had a redbrick facade, a steepled roof, and a green arch over the entrance. Beyond, the apse of the church rose several stories, with more intricate white and yellow stonework and arches supporting the exterior.
Before they could go in, though, they had to show their IDs and pick up their tickets, then wait in the small piazza for their group to get called. A group of Swiss tourists huddled on one side, all wearing matching lanyards.
Jake stalked around the piazza like a disgruntled pelican, scowling at the ground. Noah hoped it was just the lingering aftereffects of being sick yesterday, but still, it didn’t make dealing with Jake’s mood any easier.
“Do we have to see this?” he muttered. “It sounds boring.”
“I really want to,” Noah said. “It’s one of the most famous paintings in the world.”
“Painting is dumb.”
“Jake,” Noah warned. They didn’t use that word.
Noah tried hard not to police Jake’s words, but some were off-limits. The ones that could be used to hurt other people, for instance.
“What? It is. Why do we have to be here?”
“Because we all got to pick things to do,” Noah said, keeping his voice as even as he could.
How had he ended up here, arguing with a nine-year-old, when just this morning he’d woken up in Ramin’s arms? Well, that was his life now, wasn’t it? He would always be a dad first. A dad with a son who was mad at him for no reason he could figure out.
“You picked the San Siro.” Jake had been excited to see a soccer—well, football, here—match at Italy’s largest stadium. “I picked this.”
“Well, you picked a dumb thing,” Jake muttered.
Before Noah could say anything, Angela jumped in.
“Jake. That’s not how we talk to people.”
Noah was ready for Jake to argue. For them to have to step away from the line and deal with a meltdown. But to his surprise, Jake muttered, “Sorry, Dad.” He kicked at the ground and then tucked himself in the shadow of a wall, studying his hands.
Noah had never seen Angela handle him so masterfully. When had that happened?
“Sorry about that,” Angela said. “I don’t know what’s gotten into him.”
“Don’t be.” Noah shoved down his pride. He was supposed to be the one that was good with Jake. “You handled that well.”
Angela shrugged. “I just do what you do, to be honest.”
Then why didn’t it work when he did it?
When their group was finally called, they passed through a modern-looking lobby with tile floors and metal detectors and plexiglass barriers, and then a windowed hallway looking out into the convent’s inner courtyard, and then finally, finally, they were let into the refectory.
The vaulted room was dimly lit. High, narrow windows let in filtered daylight. A few strategically placed spotlights illuminated the murals.
To their left, a huge mural depicted the crucifixion. Noah took a moment to feel bad for the painter who had to share a room with Leonardo da Vinci. But not that bad, because to the right: Wow.
Goosebumps spread up Noah’s arms, crept along the angles of his neck muscles. Euphoria pooled in his belly.
It felt like when Ramin had touched him.
But no one was touching him. No one except a long-dead artist, who’d painted his soul up on a dry stretch of cracked wall.
The Last Supper was gorgeous. Breathtaking. Perfectly imperfect—faded paint, cracked wall, and all. Its age only made it more beautiful.
Noah didn’t remember making his way to one of the benches sitting a few yards back from the barricade that stopped people from getting too close, but suddenly he was seated, and staring, rubbing his cross.
Angela sat next to him and leaned to bump his shoulder.
It felt like old times.
“What do you think?” she muttered. It was quiet in the refectory, a reverent quiet, some unspoken agreement keeping their voices down.
“It’s breathtaking.”
Sitting here, staring at Leonardo’s work, Noah felt the whispered awe of everyone else who’d ever come through here. Every art lover. Every historian. Every penitent. Everyone who wanted to feel connected to something bigger than themselves.
Angela leaned her head against his shoulder. He wrapped an arm around her and sighed.
He could stay here for days.
“This is pretty cool.”
Then he pulled out his sketchbook and began drawing, the scratch of his pen echoing in the silence.