Page 8 of Duke for the Summer

“I don’t–I don’t like beer. Not the kind they have here. My head still hurts.”

“Ooh. Sorry for making you drink so many IPAs.” Nate patted Jacopo on the arm before he could think better of it. He still didn’t know exactly how old Jacopo was, but he guessed he was far enough on the other side of thirty that the hangovers had really started to hurt. The plane’s engines had begun to hum, and Nate’s pulse was thrumming with them, faster than seemed normal. “Here.” He offered an earbud. “I don’t really like flying, either. It might help to listen to music.”

Jacopo acquiesced, making a little face when Nate’sFuck-you-America-I’m-leavingplaylist started blaring in both their ears, but he leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes, and his hand was clutching Nate’s wrist, too tight, the knuckles turning pale, as the plane leapt off the tarmac and the familiar sight of the Columbia Gorge wound away beneath them.

*

Multiple connections, too many in-flight movies, and several eternities later, the ragged coastline of Sicily emerged between scraps of cloud, the sandy-colored domes of volcanoes looming over red-roofed buildings and a curacao-blue sea. Nate’s heart leapt into his throat; he couldn’t control it. This place was real, and even though he was flying economy, he felt high-class as fuck, looking down at the white curve of the beaches, the sun glinting off the ocean. His head was fuzzy from lack of sleep and too many complimentary mini-bottles of wine, but his body was filled with static, his muscles twitching from underuse. He’d torn multiple paper napkins into scraps throughout the flight and would probably have started on the in-flight safety manual if it hadn’t been coated in plastic.

Jacopo, blinking foggily at the yellow light streaming through the window, didn’t seem to share Nate’s enthusiasm. He’d slept, or appeared to, throughout most of the flights, though his skin looked a little gray and there were bags under his eyes that told Nate he might have been faking it. In any case, he hadn’t wanted to chat. Which was fine. Nate’s life was only changing forever, irrevocably, and it would have been nice to maybe know a little bit more about what to expect once they got off the plane, but–it was fine. Jacopo was obviously exhausted. And no, it hadn’t been awkward sitting next to him for over 16 hours, their arms brushing, Jacopo’s head occasionally resting on Nate’s shoulder.

And no, it still wasn’t awkward that Jacopo didn’t seem to want to talk much as they piled into a bus that took them into the terminal, and into another bus that took them from the airport into downtown Palermo, and from there to the harbor. Nate didn’t even care, really. His face was glued to the window as scenes straight out of a movie flickered by and scraps of Italian floated through the air and the smell of the city filled his nose: sun-warmed brick and exhaust and the ocean.

Jacopo remained mostly silent as they waited for the ferry, except to take a stressful-sounding phone call that he explained was his mother, inviting Nate to dinner. He’d already smoked about half a pack of cigarettes since they’d gotten off the plane, and his shoulders were hunched as he looked out over the sea, boats bobbing on its surface like multicolored beads. Nate didn’t know why he was in such a bad mood; it seemed impossible to have a bad day or to worry about anything in a place as beautiful as this. But maybe the jetlag was just hitting him hard. And anyway, it was hard to focus on Jacopo for long, because now they were getting on the ferry, and out there in the distance was the little island of Carmosino, a star-studdedmonolith rising from the darkened waters of the Mediterranean, the last rays of sunlight sliding across its jagged peaks and hills.

Nate’s excitement increased as the island got closer, his lungs tight, his heart in his throat, and by the time they were stumbling off the narrow gangplank and onto solid ground, he was sure Jacopo could feel him shivering like a chihuahua. Probably that was why he’d barely let his hand skim Nate’s shoulder blades for a moment, helping him off the boat.

A rickety little pickup truck straight out of the 80’s was idling in the little parking lot next to the docks. A man and a woman stood next to it, waving at them. Before Nate could react, he was being wrapped in a hearty hug, the man clapping him on the back. Then it was the woman’s turn, squeezing him harder than her petite frame suggested she could and kissing him on either cheek. She was heavily pregnant, and he could feel her belly squish against him as she spoke a stream of Italian against his cheek.

“This is my sister,” Jacopo translated, “Mirabella. And her husband, Antonio.”

“Buonasera,Nate,” Mirabella said. She was tiny and adorable, and her husband wasn’t much larger, a handsome young man with a stocky build and muscles obviously made on a farm and not in a gym. Jacopo loomed over them like a reed. Mirabella made a gesture, scrunching up her face. “Welcome… a Carmosino,” she added haltingly. “Sorry. English is no good.” She slapped her brother’s arm playfully and added something in Italian.

Jacopo sighed. “She says I need to teach her more.”

“Sempre impegnato,” she said dismissively.

“That’s okay.” Nate could feel sweat gathering under his collar, and he hoped the back of his shirt hadn’t been wet when Antonio and Mirabella had hugged him. He’d tried to learn some Italian on the plane, but all the DuoLingo owl had managed todrill into his head was the completely useless phrase, “The boy has an apple,” and he wasn’t sure how well that went down at parties. “I don’t know any Italian, either. Maybe Jacopo needs to teach me, too.”

He felt his face turning red as he said it, because the thought of Jacopoteachinghim things did something squirmy to his insides. Nate chewed his lip, trying to re-focus on the conversation as Antonio drove them up into the hills.

Mirabella, in the front, had turned to face them, her elbows propped on the headrest, and was asking questions a mile a minute, without a worry in the world about being a pregnant lady with no seatbelt on. Jacopo translated as well as he could, and Nate tried to answer, telling her about where he lived and his job and what his family was like.

“Oregon. I live in Oregon. It’s the state north of California?”

“Ooh, California!Che figata!Hollywood?”

“A nord della California,” Jacopo tried, but Mirabella seemed to prefer the narrative where Nate lived shoulder-to-shoulder with celebrities. “She says you look like a movie star.”

At least somebody thinks so. Nate had washed his face and armpits, changed his shirt, and attempted to do something with his hair in the bathroom on the ferry, but the wind off the ocean had made a mess of it again, and he could feel the sweat at his temples and ringing his neck. He hardly ever wore a button-up. Like Jacopo, Mirabella and Antonio were wearing clothes that, although a little outdated, looked nice, and there was an effortless put-togetherness about them that seemed undeniably European. Nate felt like an impostor in comparison, sticky and awkward in his overly-stiff shirt.

Something had happened to the conversation while Nate’s mind had wandered. To his ears, Italian was one of those languages where it was impossible to tell if somebody was upsetor just excited, but it seemed from the tense set of Jacopo’s shoulders and the way his hand was gripping the seat that he wasn’t happy. His voice was full of irritation as he spoke. Mirabella made an exasperated gesture and said something back. Rolling her eyes at Nate, she added, “He don’t like party.”

“Party?”

Jacopo groaned. “I told Mamma you would be tired. I told her to have a small dinner.” He muttered something that sounded like a curse, and, as they crested the hill, Nate could see why: a short driveway branched off of the main road, and at the end of it was a big two-story farmhouse, its windows blazing with lights, and the sound of voices and music filtered out into the night air along with the distinct, mouth-watering smell of barbecue. The front yard was lit up with Christmas lights, and Nate could see tables set up and people bustling back and forth as if preparing for a wedding. He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry.

“This is–?”

“For you, yes,” Jacopo said. “She’s invited the whole village.”

*

The second he got out of the truck, Nate was engulfed by women. A group of them, most his mom’s age or older, converged on him from the lawn, and before he knew what was happening, he was being hugged, kissed on either cheek, and generally manhandled in a sea of perfume, delicious cooking smells, and rapid, excited Italian. All he could really make out was his name, and a lot of things that sounded like questions. Nate smiled and nodded, reeling. Where was Jacopo? Had he abandoned him to the horde of nonnas that was slowly pulling him toward the door? Someone had already put a plate of cheese and cold cuts in his hands and his left cheek was sticky withlipstick.

“Nate.” Oh thank God, there he was, carrying the suitcases. “This is my mother, Beatrice.”

One woman stood about a foot above the rest, her mouth set in a stern line, her striking profile similar to Jacopo’s. Her long reddish-blond hair was streaked with gray, and her coloring was lighter than her son’s. Put her in a renaissance gown and she could have been some Milanese dowager countess who had poisoned seven husbands. Even here, in a sauce-splattered apron and her hair in a messy updo, she was intimidating.

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