Page 45 of Duke for the Summer

“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 toofancyfor 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, nevergoing 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 itisstupid. 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.”

“Iwill.” 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 memorableFerragosto.”

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.”

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