Chapter Thirty-One Enzo
Chapter Thirty-One
Enzo
Growing up, I was taken to lavish resorts and beautiful mansions to celebrate almost every milestone in life.
Holidays were spent in our Crimson Key mega-mansion, Naples, or Lake Como.
Summers in our Ischia castle. We frequented ski resorts, scenic mountaintop ranches, and whatnot, so it was odd to me that in a nice, but in no way remarkable, lake house was where I formed my happiest moments.
Tomcat and I spent Saturday evening cooking a hearty stew at home, watching cable TV, then taking a walk on the beach like two wholesome pensioners.
Sunday morning started with breakfast in bed, a workout on the back porch, and an unholy amount of sex.
Now we were taking a hike on a forest trail leading up to a mountain overlooking the lake.
Bliss.
It did help that I’d turned off my phone before I arrived, announcing to Luca and Achilles that I was taking a fuck buddy out of town to screw my head back into a better mental state. Not one lie was detected, so I didn’t even feel guilty about the excuse.
The identity of my fuck buddy, though, was something I’d take to my grave.
No matter how obsessed I was with Tom, what we were doing could ruin many lives, not just ours.
Now, we kept a respectable gap between us as we walked. We both had ball caps on, but otherwise I felt pretty calm. Tom held a straw picnic basket, and I was holding on to the last shreds of my self-restraint not to pounce on him for a fourth round today.
Green pines speckling the tall mountain hid us from view, the glittering lake following us in the periphery the entire time. Twigs and stones crunched beneath our shoes.
“The picnic spot is up ahead, about a ten-minute walk,” Tom reassured me, even though I could easily do this for another five hours.
“So, how do you usually celebrate your birthdays?” I babbled. I’d been yammering nonstop since we arrived. I couldn’t help it. Logorrhea was part of who I was. He didn’t seem to mind much anymore, though.
“I don’t.”
“What do you mean?”
“Sometimes I knock back a few beers with Zeke or Sully. Maybe grab a bite with Grams, Iris, and Silas.”
“Parents?”
“They send me a card every Christmas and a gift card every birthday, like we’re strangers. They claim not to be homophobic, but as soon as I came out as bi, our relationship was pretty much over.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“I’m not. If that’s how they feel, I don’t want them in my life, either. I keep to myself, and I like it.”
“Don’t you ever get lonely?”
He considered my question. “Maybe it’s hard to distinguish what loneliness is, since I’ve always, one way or the other, been alone.”
“Do you sometimes regret it?” I asked quietly. “Coming out. I mean, you’re bi, which means you’re also attracted to wom—”
“No,” he cut me off. “I don’t.”
“But you don’t have your family now. Your parents. You could’ve been happier.”
“I couldn’t. You’ll never be happy, Enzo, living a life not yours.”
“It’s not that simple,” I mumbled.
“I think it is,” he retorted calmly. “Being unapologetically yourself always pays off.”
I couldn’t believe he’d chosen to spend his birthday with me, doing something meaningful, when it went against every fiber of his misanthropic being. It made me feel special without him having to declare anything, and for the next few minutes, I simply processed this, speechless.
When we got to the top of the mountain, Tom stopped beneath a ginormous oak tree and took out a red-and-white-checkered picnic blanket, spreading it across the ground.
Following closely were a trillion different cheeses, figs, grapes, crackers, and cold meats.
He’d also brought along a nice bottle of red for me and Gatorade for himself.
It was so much effort on his part, I could no longer postpone the present I’d brought for him.
Even if I died of fucking cringe from bringing it with me in the first place.
The gift was entirely too much, too soon.
Tom settled on the blanket, pouring my wine into a plastic cup and unscrewing the sports drink for himself. I plopped next to him, trying not to hyperventilate. He looked up from his energy drink, scowling. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
I rubbed my nape. “I need to give you your, um, birthday present.”
His shoulders visibly relaxed, and he even looked a little embarrassed at his sharp question. “Oh. Sorry. I thought…” He gestured toward the picnic and the blanket. “I thought this was too much.”
Jesus. The guy had been hitting my prostate with every organ in his body. Now was not the time to talk about hard limits and boundaries.
Gathering courage from shit-knows-where, I dug in my front pocket for the small jewelry box—as I said, BAD FUCKING DECISION—and dropped it between us without offering him eye contact.
What was I thinking?
For one excruciating moment he didn’t even pick up the box. Just stared at it like it might explode. Then, slowly—reluctantly?—he picked it up and popped it open.
And stared.
And then stared some more.
“This bracelet is a family heirloom,” I coughed out while he plucked it from the box.
The simple black lava stone bracelet with a golden charm dangled from his fingers.
“It’s not very old—it’s not even very valuable, monetarily speaking—but my grandfather gave it to me before he passed, and it holds meaning in Neapolitan folklore.
See this charm?” I pointed at the pendant.
Tom nodded, his throat bobbing.
“It’s called O’Scartellato. With a curved back.
People believe that touching a hunchback’s hump brings good luck.
They used to literally do it, sometimes, when they came across one.
Which is…well, you know, fucked-up. It’s…
a…Presepe.” I cleared my too-tight throat again. “Very big during Christmas and stuff.”
I could’ve bought him a nice jacket. A designer scarf. A fucking car. But I’d wanted him to have something I would actually miss. A part of me I could never have back, and that he could own.
“So this symbolizes good luck?” Tom was trying really hard to catch my gaze, which was currently stuck on an invisible spot on the blanket.
Nice try, pal. I’m never gonna look at you again.
“It brings luck, good fortune, and is supposed to protect you.” I snatched it from his hand, slipping it onto his wrist.
“You gave me a family heirloom, Enzo?” His voice was drenched with disbelief.
“As I said, it’s not that old, and not worth a lot…” I muttered, leaning back on my elbows, squinting at the sun.
“You don’t care about money,” he said matter-of-factly. “Not much, anyway. But you do care about family. I could write a thesis about you, Ferrante.”
I licked my lips, choosing to answer him with silence. I didn’t trust my voice. Not to mention other parts of me.
The quiet between us grew, pulsating, pressing against my rib cage in a way that made it hard to breathe.
“What’s the meaning of you giving this to me, Enzo?” Tom asked gently. “Tell me.”
But I couldn’t. Not with words, anyway. I could kiss him, but for the first time, I didn’t want to do that, either. I was horrified by how fast I’d let this forbidden fling turn into something more. An entity that threatened to tear my life apart. Like a hungry beast lurking behind shadowed woods.
Tom sat straighter, still staring at me as I glared at the slinking sun.
“Fine. Don’t tell me. You don’t have to.
” But what he really meant was that he already knew.
How could he not? Every time I looked at him, the longing took my breath away.
He grabbed my hand, running gentle fingers over my wrist. “If I could ask for one thing for my birthday, it would be for you to tell me the story of these scars, Butterfly.”
Maybe it was because I’d rather do anything than examine why I gave Tom the bracelet, or maybe I’d just gotten tired of hiding the ugly parts of myself from him, hoping he’d like me, but I could no longer find enough fight in me to gatekeep my condition.
I let his thumb roll over my disfigured skin—I didn’t currently have a flare-up, but the battle scars remained—and wet my lips.
“Three years ago, my father called me into his office and told me he knew that I was gay.”
Tom froze, before resuming his gentle, circular strokes over my scars, coaxing me with his touch, not words.
“I was too shocked to deny it. He didn’t have concrete proof, just a gut feeling. He confronted me, and told me if I ever consummated my attraction, he’d kill both me and my lover.”
Tom’s expression hardened, but he kept stroking my flesh.
“He knew what he was doing, because while I’m willing to risk my life for certain things, I’d never put an innocent life in danger. So it was an unspoken pact that, as long as he had breath in him, I could never be who I truly am.”
I grabbed the plastic cup of wine and tossed it down my throat with a wince.
“As if his warning wasn’t enough, I noticed that he sent some of our…
associates to check on me. Not people I was friends with.
Men of interest, let’s call them. Meanwhile, I was falling apart and had no one to talk to.
I didn’t know what hurt me more—the confirmation my father would never accept me for who I was, or the realization I could never have a real relationship, or be in love, while he was still alive.
“One day I woke up with a mystery rash on my hands and arms. It itched like a motherfucker. I thought it was eczema or something. I scratched until I bled. Until pink, raw skin replaced the layer with the rash, and moved on with my life. I literally ripped myself to shreds, then acted as though nothing happened. But then the next month, it happened again. And the next one, again. Each time, I tore a little harder at my skin, hoping to get rid of whatever was afflicting me.”
I closed my eyes and drew in a breath. I remembered thinking my body was a metaphor for my desires; I wanted to get rid of it to find peace.