Chapter Ten
“I’m just saying, you could have thrown your only brother at least one nice pitch that didn’t sink like it was returning home to the devil.” Marco swirled red wine in his glass.
Nico was floating after the win yesterday—especially after getting Marco out on every at-bat with two strikeouts, a pop-up, and a ground ball.
The reporters after the game had made a big deal of him shutting down Marco’s offense, and he’d tried to be professional.
But he’d been powerless to resist a shit-eating grin that had been captured on the front page of the Saturday paper.
Across the dining table, Valentina laughed. “Good for you, Nic.”
“Oh, I see how it is.” Marco shook his head sadly. “Lucky for me, I’ve got a healthy ego or this family betrayal might send me into a tailspin.”
“If ‘healthy’ means gigantic, then sure.” Val tossed her brown curls over one shoulder and winked at Nico.
He sipped his own wine, more content than he could remember being in ages.
He’d gotten the win and kept his ERA under three, and Dad had seemed proud as he slapped Nico’s back, no heat behind his bluster as he chided him about beating Chicago.
There had been only five criticisms—mostly pitch selection, which had made Nico cringe since Jake called the game. Fortunately Jake hadn’t heard.
As much as being home could stress Nico out, sitting around the glossy walnut dining table with Nonna at one end and Dad at the other, siblings in-between, was reassuringly familiar.
Nearing sixty, Nico’s father still had a head of dark curls, which he slicked back. He also dyed his hair every two weeks, because Alfonso Agresta, Rookie of the Year, MVP, and Hall of Famer, wasn’t about to age gracefully. He’d been tenacious on the field, and he gave no surrender now.
Although if Nico squinted, he could spot the gray in Dad’s bushy eyebrows.
Dad wasn’t as tall as Nico or Marco, but he was still built like a brick house, solid and powerful and as intimidating as ever.
He wore slacks with sharp creases and a blue button-up.
Nico had put on a Polo shirt over khakis since he hadn’t felt like ironing, but was perennially underdressed as far as his father was concerned.
The same paintings of the horses Nico’s mother had loved filled gold frames on the walls in the spacious dining room, some of the silent reminders of her everywhere.
The rich smell of Nonna’s ziti made Nico’s mouth water.
It had always been his favorite, and he liked to think she’d made it especially for him.
Despite his role in his mother’s death, Nonna had always fed him well.
He stole a glance at Jake beside him, feeling thirteen again, hoping their knees would bump under the table. Jake wore a plaid shirt over dark jeans, his sleeves rolled halfway up his muscled forearms, the collar unbuttoned below his throat. Nico wanted to lick the hollow there.
Taking her seat after doling out the ziti, Nonna speared tomato slices with a serving fork and reached to her right to put them on Jake’s plate.
The floral arrangement Jake had brought—roses of different colors—sat in the middle of the table.
He thanked her, and she eyed him speculatively over her half-glasses.
“Still no wife? Why?” She wore a dark, long-sleeved dress with red flowers, her salt-and-pepper hair twisted into a bun, wrinkles etched deeply on her tan face.
Clutching his fork, Nico’s mouth went dry. But Jake just smiled easily and cut into a tomato. “I’m still enjoying being single.” He took a bite. “Mmm. Are these tomatoes from your garden? Delicious.”
“Si. But don’t change the subject.” She clucked her tongue. “Seventeen, I was married. You’ll all be too old!”
Valentina laughed. “Thanks, Nonna. I am getting married in November, just in case you’ve forgotten. I know Ian couldn’t be here tonight, but I hope you haven’t disowned him already.”
Ignoring Valentina, Nonna glared at Marco. “What about you?”
Marco’s eyebrows shot up. “What about me? I was married! You couldn’t stand Leslie.”
Nonna huffed, but it was the truth. As she argued the point, Nico exhaled. Beside him, Jake ate quietly, as if he wasn’t bothered at all. At least the attention seemed to be off them as Valentina declared she was definitely not too old to start having kids at thirty-two.
As Nonna, Dad, Valentina, and Marco talked over each other, Nico tuned out as usual. If his aunts and uncles and cousins had been there, he wouldn’t have even been able to hear himself think. But after a few minutes, he did hear something.
“So these fags walk in, and I’m like—”
Val’s knife clattered to her plate. “Dad, can you not?” She stared daggers at him. “It’s not funny. There’s nothing wrong with being gay.”
Oh Jesus. Oh fuck. Nico’s lungs were being crushed, and he couldn’t bear to look at Jake beside him. He should have known home would turn toxic before they even served dessert.
Dad sneered. “Oh, I’m sorry we’re not PC enough for you.”
“It’s not about being ‘PC,’ Dad.” Valentina exhaled forcefully. “Come on. What does it matter who someone has sex with? Who someone loves?” As Nonna crossed herself and muttered in Italian, Val pressed her lips in a thin line. “You two are ridiculous.”
“Us two?” Laughing, because it was all just a big joke to him, Dad’s thick eyebrows shot up. “Marco, you’re good with queers now?”
Marco held up his hands. “Hey, leave me out of it.” He scooped a mouthful of cheesy ziti into his mouth.
“How about you, Nic?” his father asked. “Are you all politically correct like young morons these days?”
Staring at his barely touched plate, there was a good chance Nico was actually going to vomit all over it. From the corner of his eye, he could see that Jake was motionless beside him, gripping his knife and fork.
“We have a guest,” Valentina said sharply. “Let’s change the subject.”
As if nothing at all had happened, Marco asked, “Hey, did you hear Seattle traded for Nalasco? Never thought New York would give him up.”
“Nalasco’s not all he’s cracked up to be if you ask me.” Dad stabbed a piece of pasta with his fork. “His ERA’s sky high this season. I think his best days are behind him.”
As baseball took over the conversation, it wasn’t until dessert Nico could really breathe freely again. He drained his wine glass too many times and didn’t dare to glance at Jake, who contributed a few quiet comments when Dad asked for his opinion.
When dinner was over, Dad retreated to the living room, turning on ESPN with the volume loud enough to wake the dead. The rest of them pushed in their chairs, and Nonna disappeared into the kitchen with an armful of dishes, Jake insisting on following with more.
Valentina whispered to Marco, “I can’t believe you.”
Nico froze where he was stacking tacky old placemats his mom had loved depicting Rome landmarks, the Colosseum gripped in his hands.
Marco rolled his eyes. “Relax, Val. Dad’s just being Dad. You can’t let it get under your skin.”
“So you don’t agree with his views on the LGBT community?”
Marco huffed. “Of course not. But there’s no point in arguing with him. Or Nonna, for that matter. She’s eighty-three. She’s not going to change her mind now.”
“Of course there’s a point!” Valentina hissed, slamming a serving spoon into a dish, where it spun and rattled. She looked at Nico then, her expression softening, pity clear in her green eyes so much like their mother’s.
She knows.
Still holding the placemat, Nico realized he should have known—maybe years ago. Because shrewd Val had probably guessed before he’d even figured it out himself.
“Look, if you want to pick fights with Dad, be my guest,” Marco muttered. “But I’ve learned there’s something to be said for the path of least resistance. He’s not going to change.”
Val opened her mouth, then snapped it shut as Jake returned. He smiled without teeth. “Nonna wants the salad bowl.”
They cleared the rest of the table in silence until Marco said, “Nic, go through that school stuff from the basement and see if you want anything. It’s mostly notebooks and crappy essays. Val left the boxes in your room.”
Glad of the excuse, Nico escaped upstairs, his father’s braying laugh echoing as he told an empty living room what a bad pitcher Thompson was and how he’d be sent back down to the minors by the end of the month, mark his words. Nico shoved the door shut behind him, but it bounced back.
“Ouch.” Jake filled the doorway, rubbing his nose.
“Shit, sorry. Come in.” Head buzzing from the merlot, Nico stuffed his hands in his pockets.
Jake closed the door, muffling the roar of the too-loud TV and Dad’s rumblings to a distant murmur. He watched Nico carefully. “So that was…surprising. And awful. It took everything I had not to lunge across the table and punch him. I don’t remember him talking like that back in the day.”
His shoulders hunched, Nico shrugged. “Guess you got lucky. He’s said shit like that as long as I can remember. Not all the time or anything. But enough. And Nonna acts like Satan just cartwheeled through the room whenever the subject comes up.”
“I’m so sorry. That must be terrible for you. I had no idea.” He reached for Nico, but Nico sidestepped, knocking into the boxes.
“It’s a mess in here. Sorry.” He had no idea what he was saying, but he was going to start fucking crying if they didn’t talk about something else.
Fortunately, Jake rolled with it, glancing around. “It’s like you never left, huh?”
Nico’s ears got hot as he saw his room through Jake’s eyes.
Despite the grandeur of the house, he’d always had a normal-sized room and simple twin bed that was way too small for him now.
It jutted out from the right, a cluttered and dusty desk filling the exterior wall between two wide windows, a bulletin board over it.