Page 115 of The Pairing

“That’s good, really good. Keep going, past the first things you taste. What’s back there?”

“It’s. . .meaty, maybe? Leathery?”

Theo clasps their hands together, pleased. “Itis.And do you feel how it’s sort of coating the inside of your mouth, toward the front? Like, holding on to it?”

“Yeah,” I say. “That means it has a lot of tannins, right?”

“Right,” Theo says. “So, this wine is called Aglianico del Taburno. It’s made with Aglianico grapes, which are grown a few miles inland from here, where it’s warm enough for enough of the year that a late-ripening grape like that can thrive, and so theyhave deeper, darker fruit flavors because of the long growing season, and grapes in hotter climatesalsohave thicker skins, which means they let more tannins into the wine, because tannins are in the skin and seeds, so if you like tannic or savory wines or wines with dark fruit flavors you might like warm-climate wines,and— Ifeel like you’re just staring at me now.”

I shake my head, realizing I’ve forgotten my glass entirely. It’s hard to remember anything else when I’m watching Theo light up like this. I can barely remember not to put my hand on their waist.

“No, that makes sense,” I say. “Warm-climate wines. Meaty, leathery, ripe, full, but weirdly—”

“Smooth.”

“Smooth. Kind of sounds like—”

As if on cue, Fabrizio swans by our corner of the table, half-open shirt billowing in the late-afternoon sun, melted-chocolate voice languid with laughter, a hot lick of breeze rippling the curls on his chest.

“—Fabrizio.”

“Well,” Theo says, “they are both from here.”

We’ve finally arrived in Fabrizio’s hometown of Naples, nestled along the coast at the shin of Italy’s boot, and Fabrizio is in his element. He is making passionate love to his element. He’s overflowing with compliments and kisses and historical morsels, continuously conjuring paper parcels of street food and reciting relevant stanzas of Neapolitan poems. He loves this city and its weathered streets with an irresistible intensity. The more we soak in his presence, the more I love Naples. And the more I love Naples, the more Fabrizio seems like her favorite child.

Naples has existed uninterrupted for nearly thirty centuries, and it exists somuch.Shops and trattorias cram the ancient streets around Centro Storico, festooned with strings of flags and lights and drying laundry, ivy and satellite cables curtaining craggy stone facades. Every inch has something to look at, streaksof graffiti on yellow stucco or lintels with sculpted leaves or old bricks revealed by chipping plaster. Storefronts overflow with tables of puppets and figurines, hand-painted tambourines, paper flowers and cheap sunglasses. Yeast and oil permeate the air, carried by a million sounds all at once—scooters revving, arguments, laughter, old men coughing out cigar smoke, an accordion on the next street. It’s a gritty, glorious feast of overstimulation.

Already, we’ve toured three separate astonishing churches and been whisked down Via dei Tribunali, where Fabrizio taught us the exacting legal requirements of Neapolitan pizza: that the dough must only be stretched by hand, the mandated temperature for fermentation, the clockwise spreading of crushed tomatoes, approved local sources for cheese. We’ve taken forks and knives to bloody red marinara and basil-flecked margherita with soupy middles, and we’ve stood at windows for pizza folded up with butcher paper, a portafoglio.

Which brings us here, to the terrazzo of a wine bar, all of us drunk on overindulgence. The muchness of Naples has caught up to us. Even Orla is boneless on her stool.

Today isn’t only special for Fabrizio; it’s also Orla’s last day. Tomorrow we’ll take the ferry to Palermo, and Orla will drive the bus back to its station in London. We’re all devastated to see her go, and to thank her for hauling us around, we’ve coaxed her out to spend the day with us.

“What do you usually do while we’re out?” Dakota asks her, tipping more wine into Orla’s glass.

She shrugs. “Go hiking. Get a massage. Phone my wife. Read pornographic romance novels.”

“I think I love you, Orla,” Theo says. Orla raises her glass and winks.

In the thick of it all, I’ve barely been alone with Theo for more than a few seconds, but now that they’re beside me, throwing around four-letter words and telling me how to use my mouth, I’m back on the ledge.

I could touch them. I want to touch them. Slip my hand across the back of their neck, press my knee against their thigh. They wouldlikeit, even. But everything I shouldn’t say is right under the surface of my skin, and I’ll sweat it out if we get too close.

I pull myself a few inches farther from Theo, tucking my hand under my thigh before I forget myself. The movement doesn’t escape their notice.

“Hey,” Theo says quietly. “You okay? You look like you’re worried you forgot something.”

Yes, my heart in California and my cock in a fifth-story apartment in Rome.

“Just—thinking we haven’t had any Napoli pastry yet.” I drain my glass and call out, “Fabrizio!”

Fabrizio tosses his handsome head toward me. “Sì, Professore?”

“Where can I try sfogliatelle?”

And so, Fabrizio wilds me away from Theo toward a pasticceria down the block, where I can busy myself with papery pastry layers and offload some sexual frustration onto him. It’s always so easy, flirting with Fabrizio. He takes it so well and gives back even better, winks and raises his eyebrows and thumbs the edge of my jaw. I like him so much. It almost helps.

For dinner, Fabrizio takes us to a little osteria in the Spanish Quarter with walls covered in painted majolica tiles. An older woman bursts out of the kitchen to greet us in a white-collared red dress, her dark, wavy hair cropped close to her face and her eyes keen under strong, mobile brows. She is glorious, commanding the room with the brash, unflappable air of a woman who must have been mind-bendingly hot in her prime. Fabrizio lets her kiss him twice on each cheek and introduces her as his mother.

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