Page 43 of Duke for the Summer

Papà looked up, his watery gaze disinterested. “Where’ve you been?” he asked. “In the kitchen, with the women?”

“I was upstairs,” Jacopo said. He felt his jaw clench. He hated how small he felt, and how guilty, standing here in his parents’ living room and having to explain himself.

“Huh. I guess Ferragosto doesn’t mean much when you’re on vacation all the time anyway.”

“Papà,” Gracie said, rolling her eyes.

“Your brother-in-law Antonio has been chopping wood for the bonfire all morning,” Papà added, turning back to the TV.

Good for him. Jacopo shrugged, turning to go. “I’m going to–”

He startled, and had to bite his tongue to keep from letting out a cry as someone put a hand on his back. Nate. It was just Nate, he realized, his heart hammering. He’d stayed behind to use the bathroom.

“Oh, God, sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. What’s up?” Nate was looking up at him, eyes friendly and guileless. His lips were a little swollen, face flushed.

“Antonio has been chopping wood all day,” he said, throat tight.

“Oh. Does he need help? I’d love a workout. And I don’t think Nonna wants me anywhere near her biscotti.”

Jacopo stared at him helplessly. He felt sick, as if the thing, the secret, were all balled up inside of his stomach and he had to vomit it up, to exorcize himself of it. A bead of sweat dripped down his neck. “Do you think we could–”

“Jacopo!” His mother popped her head out of the kitchen,and he felt himself shrink, shoulders tensing up. “Where did you disappear off to? It’s time to make the soup.”

*

The soup was the same one they made every year, a fiery stew of chicken and peppers served with breadsticks and spears of Mamma’s airy focaccia. Alessia and Marco had brought a fish dish with fennel and lemons, and Mirabella, saying she could no longer stand long enough to cook anything, had brought the antipasti: fresh melon, hard cheese, pink curls of prosciutto, silver anchovies packed in olive oil. Jacopo couldn’t eat. His head was throbbing, and the mingled smells rising from the table made his stomach clench. He’d had a glass of Zio Beppe’s moonshine earlier, in the kitchen, and he was sipping another one now, but instead of making him feel relaxed, it was just making him feel stupid, sanding away the quickness of his thoughts.

He hadn’t been able to get Nate alone since that morning. The memory of the bedroom was still heavy in his groin, and there was a pain in his chest that wouldn’t go away. He watched him greedily, from afar. Nate was at the head of the table, his hair sunkissed, his cheeks flushed from helping Antonio chop wood. Jacopo knew that he would smell like sweat, crisp and salty and a little sweet. His shirt complemented his eyes, complemented every line of his chest. It was one of the new ones that Thea had made him buy in Palermo, and Jacopo sent a brief thought of thanks her way, wherever she was. Nate looked breathtaking, put-together, an easy, unassuming confidence to him. Jacopo knew that Nate was insecure about his height, but he was the same size as most of the men on the island. He looked like he belonged here.

Jacopo felt his face grow hot, realizing he’d been staring. He shifted his focus to the glass in his hand, his fingers hardlyseeming like his own.

Alessia’s youngest, Bruno, was shrieking about something, and the sound bore into his brain. Jacopo closed his eyes, opening them again when Zio Beppe nudged his shoulder.

“Try some.” He offered him a dish of homemade sausages.

Jacopo shook his head, feeling dizzy. No wonder his family hated him. He couldn’t even do the most basic thing this holiday was meant for and enjoy the food.

Nate, meanwhile, was rapturously trying everything, making delighted noises and complimenting the meal with phrases Jacopo had taught him. Jacopo’s mother was spooning up more soup for him, and Papà was laughing, calling Nate strong and saying that he needed to eat enough for all those muscles.

Jacopo tasted copper, and realized he’d been chewing his lip so much that it had split. He took another drink, the moonshine stinging the cut, making his eyes water.

The meal went on interminably, afternoon fading into dusk. People came and went, family members and villagers stopping by on their way to the beach. Everyone wanted to see Nate, of course. He was the center of attention at all times, and he seemed to be getting along perfectly well without any help, not even glancing Jacopo’s way once.

It was fine. He was used to being forgotten at big gatherings like this.

Jacopo grabbed an open bottle of wine from off the table and wandered out to the edge of the backyard, past his mother’s vegetable garden and fruit trees, where the hillside dropped off into tangled ivy and shrubs that clung precariously to the sheer rock. Down below, the sea was dark, the lights of motorboats studding its surface, and along the pale curve of the beach, people had already begun to light fires, shards of orange light in the evening gloom. He took a drink, thinking about all theother times he had sat out here, the sounds of clinking glassware and conversation at his back, looking at the vague suggestion of Sicily shimmering on the horizon like a mirage, dreaming about getting away. A sense of hopelessness flooded his chest. He lit a cigarette.

I want you to remember me.

In all his imaginings of his life after he left the island, Jacopo had never dared to picture a partner, a boyfriend. The furthest he’d gotten was imagining some faceless man in a bar, and then his mind had shied away from it, as if acknowledging what he wanted would ensure it never happened.

Nate fit in perfectly here, that was what hurt. Nate fit, and Jacopo didn’t. And it was Nate who had set the parameters for this summer fling, after all. There was a time limit, and Jacopo was just fooling himself. Torturing himself by allowing a whisper of hope in.

He snuffed out his cigarette, lit another.

The bottle of wine was empty and it was fully dark by the time he wandered back over to the patio. The string lights cast an eerie, yellowish illumination over everything, washing out the people, making faces flat, moonlike, indistinct. Mamma was clearing off the table, and Jacopo went to help her, but his hands were moving as if he were underwater, and the dishes made an ugly sound as they clattered together.

She looked up. “What’s wrong with you?”

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