18. Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Eighteen

D onvino was seated outside on the stoop, the sun-worshipping cat lying on his bare toes, sound asleep, and a freshly watered tomato plant at his side. I wasn't sure a drink would help the poor tomato plant, but the gesture was a kind one.

He had removed his work togs and was now in a well-washed tank of pale purple and cut-off jeans. I stepped around a long pumpkin-colored tail to sit beside him. The step barely held us. He reached behind him, into the shade, and pulled out a cold bottle of Peroni beer. He handed it to me and then pulled out another, this one half gone.

"I'm having trouble reading you right now," I said as he dug around in his front pocket for a small bottle opener. The beer cap hit the parched pavement, rolling a few feet before being pounced on by the orange cat.

"I'm not happy," he replied and then sighed. "Mad mostly, but…" A shrug followed by a long pull. His cheeks were coated with dark whiskers, his sight on the homes across from us. I took a sip of my beer, shuddering at the bitter taste. I was not a big beer fan, but I could sip one in commiseration. "People are stupid."

"Tourist?" I chanced, figuring it might be someone like me being…well, like me. Or, hopefully, how I was when I first arrived, bitching about the Italian drivers, heat, food, and just about anything else that wasn't American. I'd slowly grown to love the people of this country, their ways and language, and mostly the beautiful, sensitive young men they produced.

"No, no, my cousin. He was making comments about a couple. Two men."

"Oh dear." I wiggled my butt closer and draped an arm around his shoulders. Nothing too intimate, more like a side bro hug, if a flam queer lad like me could pull off bro hugs. "Did you and he get into a fight?"

"We did. I told him many times to stop saying such things, but he kept making the comments. Calling them filthy things, abominations, pedofilo, deviate in the eyes of God. Then he asked why I defend them so much. Did I suck cock too? Maybe I was pervert too. So, I punched him in the face, threw my apron into his bloody face, and quit."

"Oh wow, Donvino, that is…" I was stuck between being shocked and worried that he would be arrested and thrilled that he clocked a hateful ass in the nose. "Did your cousin call the cops?"

"No, no, he wouldn't call polizia on family. He will keep my pay for two weeks and talk to my family badly." His sight lingered on the tan home across the street. I followed his line of sight to find some cloth diapers and baby clothes hanging on the little window clotheslines so many here made use of. "The things he said…I should have hit him harder."

"Did you hurt yourself?" He lifted his right hand, still clutching his beer, to show me a cut knuckle. Probably from a tooth. "Ouch. Did you wash it off?"

"Mm," he grunted with a bob of his head. "So tell me, rainbow dreamer, was I good to do what I did or was I stupid?"

"Well, if you ask me, and you did, I think you were fucking brilliant to sock him in the face." I tapped his bottle with mine. Sweat dripped from the cold bottles to the hot pavement, drying almost instantly. Old orange cat tired of chasing a bottle cap and slipped around us to nap in the shade of the recessed doorway. "I'm sure that couple would thank you if they knew you had stood up for them."

"Yes, I think so too. But now I am without money even more." He exhaled heavily as he drained his beer, his gaze still on those tiny tops. "Do you ever want children?"

I nearly suffered whiplash from the sudden turn in the conversation. "Oh…well, I've not really thought about it. I like kids, older ones. Ones that you can converse with and make them see reason. Babies are cute and all, but they're so needy. And you know I'm a shallow little titmouse who needs all the attention all the time."

That brought a timid smile to his lush lips, his sight moving from the burp rags to me.

"No, you are a rainbow dreamer. Tell me what to dream now, Arlo, for my old dreams seem so far away?"

"Okay, well…" I pulled my arm from around his wide shoulders, wiggled my butt, and sat up straighter, "maybe we can dream a second dream. Like dream plan B."

"Dream plan B?" He looked at me with confusion.

"Mm-hmm. Plan Bs are important. B for backup." I nodded at my own wisdom. "So, what we do is focus on this new opportunity my father has given us."

"You, he gives it to you." He eyed my beer as his was now empty. I handed it over.

"Stop picking nits." I nudged him with my elbow as a couple of old men shuffled past, deep in conversation, both looking at us with some pretty vibrant side-eye. Guess we were too close. Well, fuck them and the sandals they walked by in. "The point is that we can now move from our first dreams, which are sitting tied to a dock and/or lying about my room in bits, and maybe into something new. We have a chance to start over and begin new jobs." He said nothing, just drank my beer, his throat working in that enticing way that made my manly bits tickle. "I'm not sure how it will go. I swore I would not work for my family business, but now here I am thinking about doing just that."

"Working for family is sometimes bad," he mumbled and held out his hand to show off his swollen knuckles. "I don't think you should punch signora."

"Gods no, I'd knock her into the Arno. Although she's tougher than she looks. She might be able to take me in hand-to-cane combat." He coughed out a short laugh. That made me feel good. "I get what you're saying though, and yes, family can be trying. But I did enjoy spending time with the workers, making their lives a little better. And to be frank, the only way to really implement change for the people doing the hot, hard work is to be part of the company."

"True." He mulled over my words. "Do you know how to manage a large farm such as 20?"

"Fuck no. Haven't got one clue, which is why I was so shocked my father offered me such an important job. The only thing I can think is that 20 is running so well that it mostly runs itself. Those under the senior manager probably do most of the work. I'd probs just be doing paperwork."

"Hmm, yes, that is how it is most times. The top man sits in the shade enjoying a beer while the tiny people slave under him."

"Well, I hope to not make anyone slave. I'd rather be a nice boss. Also, I'm not thrilled about displacing Signor Piravino at all. He seems rather tightly bound. But my father assures me transfers happen all the time, so maybe that's just part of the business world?"

"Perhaps. So, if you take this job then you move to Valle Sicuro? That is a far drive for a man with only a lawnmower job to make."

"I'd give you a job on the farm." I turned to face him, tucking my legs under me slightly. The sun was baking down on us. A smart man would have moved into the shade, but the old cat had claimed that as his. I hated to disturb a sleeping cat. Donvino pulled a sour face. "It's not like that."

"But it is like that. I am fucking you. You give me a job. That is just like that." He finished off my beer and burped so loudly that the napping cat behind us mewled at being awoken so rudely. I rolled my eyes. "Scusa."

"You're excused. For the burp. Not for the presumptuous remark about you being on the farm only because you and I are lovers. You have a good work ethic. I've seen it in person. And you're good with people. Well, decent people and not people who are hateful bigots. No one should be good with those sorts." He bobbed his head. "So, given all that, I think you would make a glorious liaison between management and the union."

"But what would I do other than talk? I like to be busy with my hands," he explained, holding his big mitts out and turning them.

"Yes, I know you like to be busy with your hands," I purred and got a small chortle in reply. "We'll find something. I'm sure some positions straddle both sides. A hands-on position with good pay, benefits, and a small home."

"Oh see, yes, this is another bad point. One house for you. I cannot live there, Arlo. People would talk."

Yes, they would, and since he wasn't out yet…

"Perhaps there's a tiny home in the village to rent. If you take this job, your pay will be much higher."

"This job that does not exist," he pointed out.

"Does not exist— yet . I'll search through the openings at the farm. Surely there's a place for you. Once we have that settled, then we'll move and begin working on dream plan B while we also try to reignite dream plan A. I know we can make this work, Donvino. Give me six months. And if you're not happy in Valle Sicuro come spring, then you can move back here to Florence."

"You are so sure. Calling you the rainbow dreamer was true."

I stole a fast peck on his scruffy cheek. His eyes closed as my lips brushed his face, a sigh of pure pleasure escaping him. Plan B had to work. It just had to. Once we had our dream plan running along smoothly, we could return to our dream plan A. Things would smooth out. We'd be together, and the world could kiss our sweet backsides if it didn't like our love.

"I think you're a rainbow dreamer as well. You just need to molt and grow into your vibrancy," I whispered, letting my head drop to his shoulder for a brief moment.

"Molting is ugly," he reminded me.

Yes, it was, but oh, the plumage that grew in would be resplendent!

***

The villa was experiencing a bit of a kerfuffle when we arrived, me in my car and Donvino pushing his motorbike behind me.

"There you are," my aunt sniped as Alessio placed a large suitcase into the Bentley. She was dressed in muted tones, leaning heavily on her cane, her face pinched. "Truly, what is the point of you children having cell phones if you turn them off?"

"We turn them off to ensure our mental health isn't taxed when we need a break," I countered, stepping out of my car and then dashing up to take my aunt's elbow.

"Pah, mental health. In my day, if you had a bad time of things, you pushed through it and did not hide from the world. Your generation is weak." She shook off my offer of assistance. I threw a look at Donvino, who had left his Suzuki on the far side of the drive to help his grandfather with the suitcases. "I have been trying to call you for over two hours."

"I don't really like phone calls," I explained, walking at her side just in case she had a spell and tipped over. Not that that happened much—or ever to my knowledge—but it seemed the polite thing to do. I didn't go into detail about the hour plus Donvino and I had spent in his bed after our talk. She'd blow a gasket for sure if she knew I'd turned off my phone to give and receive a blowjob.

"Then why have a phone?!"

"To text people." The string of Italian was so fast and furious I only caught a few words, none of them complimentary. "What's wrong? Are you going on a trip? Are you sick?"

"Vittoria is not feeling well. I shall be spending time with her and those dogs of hers. Please keep an eye on the villa in my absence. Also make sure that Giada cleans the guest rooms thoroughly and that Donvino sprays the roses for aphids."

"Yep, will do. Dusting and aphids. Got it." I opened the rear door for her, easing closer as she gingerly seated herself in the back, hands on her lap like a duchess just settled in her carriage. I leaned in to find the seatbelt and got a slap on the hand for my efforts. Man, she was in a mood. When I'd first arrived, I would have credited her sharpness to her being a brittle old bat, but now that I knew her better, I could see that her bite was due to worry. "Tell her that I hope she's feeling better soon. In Italian, of course. Say it with a nice accent, then explain it was from me. She'll like that."

Dark brown eyes studied me, and then the faintest hint of a smile tugged at her freshly lipsticked mouth.

"Yes, she will. She adores you."

"Well, I am rather adorable." I took the belt, snapped it, and pressed a kiss to her cheek.

She nodded, just once, and directed me to close the door so they could leave. I gave my vest a sharp tug, saluted, and jumped to it. As soon as the Bentley was on its way, I spun and almost collided with Giada. She threw me that look that people who served wore when they were upset with those above them but unable to really glower. Not exactly a scowl but sour enough to let me know she was displeased with me.

"Donvino! Vieni con me." She barked and stormed off.

Or she could be mad at her grandson. I glanced back at him standing in the drive. A man being led to the gallows might appear happier.

"Go, I'll push your bike into the shed," I whispered and got a nod from him. He disappeared inside the villa, leaving the front door open as the main gate closed with a soft creak. I kicked the stand up, sighed heavily, and rolled the bike along until it was parked in the gardener's shed next to the old push mower. A rake rested in the corner, and the smell of rodents was strong. I opted to leave the door cracked for Lucia. Maybe she would start mousing instead of harassing the songbirds.

Once inside, I paused in the hallway and listened but heard nothing from the kitchen. Chiding myself for being nosy, I went to my room, eager to search for job openings on farm 20, so that dream plan B could launch. As I entered my room, I spied the patio doors open and a sleepy gray cat stretched out in the late afternoon sun. Just a thin ray shone on Lucia, but it was enough to make her fur glow like highly buffed aluminum. I took a step inside, toed off my shoes, then flopped on the bed. I purposefully ignored the steamer trunk wreckage on the floor. Within seconds, a lithe feline leapt to the mattress, her purrs announcing her arrival. She padded around my head, bumping my face with hers, until she decided to rest on my chest. I scrolled through the Bonetti database, searching through the openings for farm 20. I had just found one that might be promising when loud voices floated into my room.

Lucia mewled when I moved her, grabbing hold of my vest with her claws. I worked to free myself, slid from under the disgruntled cat, and snuck to the patio door. Giada and Donvino were down by the pergola, both facing each other stiffly like two rams about to charge. I hid behind the flowy yellow sheers, eavesdropping even though I knew it was rude. My Italian was passable at this point, mostly, but they were speaking so quickly and so heated that I managed to only pick up bits and pieces.

What I did hear was upsetting. It seemed that the disturbance in Cousin Bigot's eatery had reached the ears of the rest of the family. Giada was horrifically appalled at her grandson for hitting his cousin. Donvino tried to explain but his grandmother cut him off time and again, citing that she was worried about him and his new friend. I sucked in a breath. Did she mean me? Donvino snapped back, loudly, that he would be friends with whom he wished to which his grandmother asked if he knew what kind of man I truly was. Okay, yep, it was me. He said he did. She then said she and Alessio worried I would lead him down a dark path of sin. Wow, and here I thought she liked me.

I felt Lucia move past me, her long tail tickling my knee as she returned to the patio only to find the sun had moved on. With a shout that made the cat dart off in fear, Donvino exploded on his grandmother. I held up the sheer curtain to cover the lower half of my face, eyes wide, as he shouted about the only sin he worried about was the hate his family rolled in like pigs. Suini. Pig. Yes, I was pretty sure that was the word. That was when his grandmother slapped him across the face. I gasped into the curtain. Donvino took it stoically, murmured something to his grandmother, and left. Posture rigid as a soldier, he exited the back garden. Giada began to weep into her hands before moving to a small corner of the garden, kneeling in front of the small shrine to the Virgin Mary settled in amidst some bougainvillea shrubs of deepest red.

"Holy shit," I mouthed into the sheer before darting to the bed to grab my phone. Sitting down, legs in a lotus, I texted away just as his bike screamed out of the drive. Yikes, good thing my aunt was gone or he would have had two old women sniping at him. Since he was driving, I knew he wouldn't respond, so I sent a text to Bianca letting her know what had just happened. Then I sat there, chewing the corner of my mouth, unsure of what to do now. Obviously, Giada suspected something was up between Donvino and me. I mean, the woman was praying for divine help as I worried my inner cheek. My phone buzzed, startling me out of my fret.

Bianca. Thank the gods. She knew that the family was aware of some strange behavior on Donvino's part. She would keep an eye out for him. I thanked her, glad to know that he had at least one person in his fam who would support him. Christ on a cracker. This day was just getting worse and worse. First Se?orina Capello falling ill, then the upset at the eatery, and now this nasty storm of familial angst. Closing my eyes, I listened to the wind rustling through the leaves on the lemon trees as I tried to re-center. There was nothing for me to do right now to aid Donvino. He was out there somewhere, hurtling down small dirt roads at breakneck speed. I hoped he had taken the time to put on his helmet. The thought of him wrecking and being hurt made my tummy sour.

"Right, do not borrow trouble as Franco used to say." I rolled to my belly and brought up the page on the Bonetti home page that I'd been poking about on. The job for a maintenance assistant manager was still there for mill 20. It sounded like something he could do. It would be hands-on work, and he had a good grasp of motors and things. The listing said he would need to focus on ensuring things were well-stocked for spare parts and supplies. Working with two full-time mechanics to install new farm equipment, make and keep work records, assist with welding when required, and head up preventive and breakdown work on tractors, harvesters, sprayers, skirters, and more.

Also, he would be asked to report to the grove manager once a month with the maintenance supervisor to go over reports, employee records, and the like. The grove manager would be me. God, that felt so weird. Me. The manager of a grove. I didn't even really care for olives all that much. I'd tried one once when I was eight and nearly gagged. Perhaps I should try them again. Just because they say tastebuds change every seven years.

I read over the job description a few more times and then sent the link to a still silent Donvino. Blowing out a breath, I crept from the bed to the patio, stepped out all brazen-like, and glanced down at the shrine. Giada must have returned to the villa, for the only thing paying homage to the lady was a brown wren of some sort that was trying to steal some dead flower petals from an offering at the Virgin's feet.

My phone rang. I bolted back to the bed, pouncing on it like a hungry jackal, and stared at the incoming call from my father. Holy shit, this had to be some sort of miracle. Maybe Giada had prayed for me to be called back to America. Not likely. That realization brought me up short. How had my opinion of this country changed so swiftly? I was pretty sure a certain young man with big doe eyes had a large hand in that.

"Hey, Dad," I said in greeting, padding back to the patio and taking a seat on the cool cement. I breathed in a rich blend of aromas. Some not so pleasing as the wind carried the smell of the river into the house. The Arno was not pleasant at all now. Thankfully, a subtle shift in the breeze picked up the richness of jasmine and honeysuckle. "This is two calls in the same month. What is going on here?"

He chuckled. "Seems we're turning into chatterboxes." I smiled at the setting sun, the sound of his pleased voice making my inner little Arlo incredibly happy. "I just wanted to touch base with you about the job offer. I know I said to take your time, and I still want you to do that, but I wanted to let you know that I spoke with Maximo about a transfer and he seemed quite willing to train you for a few weeks before he moves on. I know that it seems like a lot to take on all at once, which is why I'm going to loan you Lowell for a month or so."

"Oh. What does Lowell say about that?" I wasn't all that sure that my father's PA wanted to babysit me as I fumbled about trying to run a mill as large and productive as farm 20.

"Lowell works for me, Arlo, and he'll do as I ask. But he's always happy to spend time in Italy, as most are."

"Okay," I replied, still not fully sold on Lowell Perry being my right-hand man. "So, is this what you moguls call ‘sweetening the deal'?"

"Something like that. Is it working?"

Dad sounded almost eager. "I have to secure a job for my friend before I can commit."

"Oh? Is this a friend or a friend ?"

"That's kind of up in the air right now," I responded as I wiggled my toes. I'd never discussed my love life with my father before because I'd never had anyone special. "He's not exactly out."

"Ah, that is a problem. Can I give you some advice?"

"On being gay?"

"Well, no, not that exactly, but just some…perhaps I shouldn't."

"No, Dad, go ahead." I wanted to hear what he had to say. Despite all of our battles since my mother had passed, and there had been many, he had never once wavered in his acceptance and support of my queerness.

"I'm not trying to get my nose into your affairs," he began, which made me roll my eyes heavenward. Him being in my affairs is why I was in Italy to begin with. I mean, he had already reached into my life big time, but things seemed to have worked out so far. If I'd not come here, I'd not have met Donvino who was gods knows where, doing gods knows what. "I just wished to say that if this friend is a special one, do not let life's trivialities bar you from finding something meaningful."

I mulled over that for a moment. It felt like he was maybe trying to be nosy in a roundabout way. Perhaps that was just me looking for some wedge to shove in between us, as I usually tend to do when people got too close.

"Arlo?"

"Yeah, I'm here, Dad." I pushed away that instinct to lay mental bricks. This was the most pleasant discussion he and I had had in years. Olive branches and all that. "Just parsing."

"I understand." His accent tended to return when he was feeling things deeply. He'd worked incredibly hard to train that thick Italian flavor from his speech. Personally, I found the accent to be passionate and quite appealing. "Some people will bring up many reasons for two people not to be together. Society has silly dictates about who is acceptable. Do not let those old rules interfere with your friendship."

I recalled Mom telling me when she met Dad she had been a free spirit, a traveler, a dancer, and a lover of freedom. While Mom never came right out and said Aunt Ginerva disliked her, the vibes were strong. Maybe that's part of the reason why I disliked coming to Italy as a boy. I felt the animosity in the air but was too young to fully understand it.

"I have no plans ever to let society dull my colors. I am a rainbow dreamer after all," I said, my sight lingering on the trunk, lying like a sack of discarded bones in the corner.

"That is perhaps the most apt name for you I have ever heard."

"I thought it fit. Can I have a few more days to think about the job offer?"

"Of course. I'll have Lowell send over the contract via email for you to read while you ponder."

"Contract?" I wasn't sure I wanted a contract. What if the job sucked? What if I sucked at the job? The second was more than likely what would happen.

"Calm yourself, son. It's a standard employment contract. All management workers sign them. When you read it over, you'll see. It explains wages, job expectations, retirement plans, health insurance, and such."

"Will it say that I can be transferred whenever someone thinks I should be? Because if it has that clause, I'll refuse to sign it. I think that's a shitty clause and a shitty thing to do to a person who has been busting ass for the company for years. Trust me, being yanked out of your home and forced to go somewhere you don't know is terrible." I heard the exhalation on the other end. Dad was probably rubbing at the bridge of his nose as he did when I pushed his buttons. "I'm not trying to stir up things. We've had a really nice chat here, but I meant what I said. What you did to me was shit and I think you know it."

"I was at my wit's end, Arlo. Sometimes, as a parent, you need to practice tough love."

"Yeah, that's bullshit, sorry."

" Arlo …"

"Dad, just do not add that clause, please. I'm asking as politely as I can here."

"Very well, that clause will be removed."

"Can you erase it from Signor Piravino's contract as well?"

"No, Arlo, I cannot. He will be fine, trust me. This is how business works, my son."

"Hmmm."

"I know that sound. Behave, Arlo."

"I make no promises." I heard a soft chuckle roll out of him, and I smiled just a little. "I have to go. I need to find my friend. He and his grandmother had some hot words, and he raced off on that damn sketchy motorbike of his."

"Of course, go find your friend. We'll talk later, son. Ciao."

"Ciao, papà."

"Addio, al mio bellisimo figlio."

The call ended. I stared down at my cell. He'd said goodbye, my beautiful son. I had to clear my throat. Beautiful son. To hear that hit me hard. Dashing at a stray tear trickling down my cheek, I checked my texts. Nothing from Donvino. I hit up Bianca. She hadn't seen or heard from him either. It was twice as upsetting hearing he hadn't gone to his cousin. Bianca was his sounding post, the only person aside from me that he could vent to about the feeling of suffocation that living in the closet forced on a soul. Where was he? I began pacing while texting, sending lots of questioning texts riddled with exclamation points.

I was worked into a fine froth and this close to calling the polizia when my phone pinged. Of course I was taking a piss when it did, so I had to shake, tuck, and wash my hands at the speed of sound, and then dive on my phone resting beside the sink. It was Donvino.

"Finally!" I gasped, throwing myself back to my soft yellow bed to reply.

Where R U?! I was going to call cops. ~ A

I took a ride. Out to the country. To think. I am fine. ~ D

Where R U? I want to come to you. I am so worried. ~ A

That you worry is lovely. I am outside Valle Sicuro. Will you come? ~ D

Yes! Where exactly R U? ~ A

The Pheasant Call. Small bar with food. I will order us wine and pasta. Come please soon. ~ D

I shall fly to you on gossamer wings! ~ A

Never let it be said that Arlo Bonetti lacked flair.

I grabbed my keys, jumped into my darling little Bianchina, and was off. The Tuscan countryside rolled by unseen, as I was too busy fretting over Donvino. He'd sounded so sad, so lost, the poor man. Not being privy to the whole showdown, I was lacking the details, but I was pretty sure I knew the gist of things. A poppy dance tune, something about chaos in the sea if I were translating it right, filled my green-and-white car. That made me think of my tutor and my great-aunt, then my father and his heartfelt words about loving who your heart wished you to love, which led me to Donvino. Yes, I loved him. Sweaty hands white-knuckled around the slim steering wheel, I shuddered out a breath.

There. I had said it. Well, to myself. I loved him. I'd gone and done it. Let someone tap, tap, tap away at the masonry surrounding my heart until they'd picked away a break in my defenses. A shy, beautiful man my Donvino was, struggling with himself and his life, just like me in so many ways, yet so different.

The dust blowing in the windows made my eyes water. Yep, that was it. I was not crying. I refused to do that before I met with Donvino. He would need me to be the strong one. As I slowed to make the sharp right into the sleepy village of Valle Sicuro, I vowed I would not let him down. A stonework bridge spanned a sliver of what was, I had to assume, a mighty river. Now it was a mere trickle. Slowing after I crossed the bridge, I rolled into a charming town, if one could call a burg this small a town. Sitting on a sloping hillside, it overlooked tens of thousands of olive trees, all Bonetti owned. Our name was everywhere. Decals in windows of every tiny eatery and deli bore the Bonetti logo. Obviously, this village had been built to house the workers in the nearby orchards. The homes were soft tans and yellows, bright doors and open windows looking down on cobblestone streets. Flowers struggled to bloom in pots or window boxes, the drought sapping even the most hardy of flora. The streets were narrow, barely allowing for my teensy car to navigate properly.

At the end of the main drag, I found The Pheasant Call. ‘Il richiamo del fagiano' was written on the sign which displayed a cock pheasant in flight. Parked along the curb were several bikes, one being the Suzuki I knew so well. I made a pass, then another, and finally just pulled up to park with the righthand tires on the curb about a block away. A thin black dog watched me pass his home, the front door open, his tongue lolling, the rich smell of fish cooking wafting into the street.

I pushed into the eatery. The cooler interior felt wonderful. It was a small place with only six tables and a small bar. Donvino was seated in the corner, his large frame filling the small chair that had to be struggling to hold him up. His dark eyes met mine and a weak smile pulled at his lips.

"You are here," he said as I crossed by an old man eating a plate of clams and linguine in a watery red sauce. The old fellow shouted to someone in the kitchen and then returned to his meal. I sat across from Donvino, trying not to pay too much attention to the old banner on the wall with Alcide De Gaspiri in bold red letters, Italia in green, and an image of a man in glasses that I had to assume was this Alcide.

"Who is that?" I asked as I righted my yellow vest, tugging it into place and then jerking my chin at the sun-bleached banner.

"An old politician," Donvino replied and poured me some wine, his eyes moving to my face as he passed the glass of blood red wine to me. A TV could be heard in the kitchen, a man and a woman having a heated discussion about microwaves? No, surely not. No one would get that het-up over a microwave. "This place is old. Everything in Italy is old." He sighed and emptied the bottle into his glass, his sight moving from me to the man on the banner. "Sometimes I wish to run from this country. From the church. From the people who judge me for who I sleep with."

His voice rose as he spoke. The old man with the clams gave us a dour look, his bushy brows knitting.

"How many bottles have you had?" I asked softly.

"Two or three. Oh, here he comes with our dinners." Donvino waved a younger man over, chattering away to him as he placed two large dishes heaped with Alfredo atop some angel hair pasta. A basket of bread came next, oil and vinegar as always, and another bottle of wine.

"Grazie," I said while Donvino slopped some wine into his glass, uncaring that his elbow had grazed his plate of pasta. The young man moved back to the kitchen, leaving us and the old clam man to hold down the fort. "Donvino, you should eat instead of drinking. Wine won't help a thing."

"No truth," he replied vocally. I picked up my fork to begin twirling some pasta, unsure of how best to handle things. "Untruth for wine is helping big. Wine helps me forget that my cousin is a fuck wit bastard who runs to my grandmother with accusations on his tongue. Wine dulls the things that were said to me. Things that were not kind to you, Arlo. Things that were unkind to me and my true me. Wine is making that all forgetful."

"No," I whispered as I laid my fork down. "All the wine is doing is making you loud. You need to sober up so we can talk about what Giada said."

He swung his arm in the air, sloshing wine onto the tablecloth as well as the floor. "We talk about what she says? I say what she says. She says my cousin hints that I stick up for homosexuals because I am one."

I shot a glance at the old gent not ten feet away. He was focused on his food, or so it seemed.

"Donvino, we should get this to go," I said, not sure where we could go once we left but sensed this was not the place to air all of our gay little secrets.

"Okay," he said, rose, and weaved his way to the door, the bottle of wine held in his arms like a baby.

"Shit." I jumped up, threw some cash on the table, and rushed back out into the blazing sun to find Donvino making his way down a little footpath to the river. I ran after him, eager to avoid him going ass over merlot down into the river and drowning. Sure, it might be low, but a person could drown in a teaspoonful of water, or so Nanny Ingrid used to tell me. Which led to a year of me being terrified of teaspoons. Gods I so disliked that woman. "Would you please slow down?"

"I will wait for always for you, my beloved Arlo," he called over his shoulder, tipping his head back to take a slug of wine and falling ass over merlot—called it—into the fucking river. Yelping in fright, I skittered down the rocky path, red dust kicking up as I skidded downward to Donvino lying in a pool of lethargic water. He rolled to his back, sat up, and frowned at the bottle, which was now empty of wine but filled with brackish water. "Well fuck."

He chucked the wine bottle to the bank and then laid down, the current so slow it was barely moving. The water curled around his ears as I stood on the bank panting, my hand over my heart, as the cypress trees lining the waterway shimmied on the river's reflective surface.

"Are you okay?" I asked, hunkering down to place my hand on his thick thigh. His clothes were soaked, but he seemed uninjured. My heart was thudding madly in my breast.

"No, Arlo, not so fine. Will you sit with me?"

"In the water?! This vest is a Donald Rey Amigo original from last year's Paris line and—" He made a sloppy swipe to grab me, but I scooted back, just far enough that his long arms couldn't reach me, pulled out my silk hankie, and placed it over a dusty, flat rock. "I'll sit here."

"That is good," he murmured, moving to sit up. Water streamed out of his thick hair, rivulets sliding along his nose to tickle his lips. "Sometimes I wish the water would carry me away. Far away. I'm not happy with my life here other than you." He shook his head like a dog. Water peppered my face and vest. The droplets might stain my vest, but I said nothing. Nor did I utter a word when he placed his sodden hand on my thigh. "You are all the good for me."

"I am not all the good," I softly corrected. Then, because I was a softie and I loved this sweet, suffering man, I unbuttoned my vest, laid it carefully under the bough of a desperately thirsty cypress tree, and took off my shoes. Leather loafers did not go into the…well, whatever river this was. I took my time stepping gently into the water, surprised at how warm it was, much like a bathtub but with little fish darting about and checking out my bare toes. I deposited myself on his lap, legs tucked along his thighs, and let the water soak through my trousers. "I am part of the good, but you have so many people who love you." I put my hands on his shoulders and leaned in to kiss him. His lips tasted of river water, earthy and a little metallic, but not unpleasant.

"People on the bridge will see," he whispered when I sat back.

"Who cares? Let them look down on us and see two men sitting in a river and kissing. Let them write sonnets about great passion! Is that not what courses through the veins of all Italians? Love, romance, and passion?"

"I wish I could be like you. My grandmother and family are thinking you and I are getting together in bed."

"We are, darling," I whispered, moving my hands from his shoulders to push his wet hair from his face. My gods those eyes, those cheekbones, and those soft lips. Such a stunning man. "And there is no shame in that."

"I know, but I feel the shame of them. Can you teach me to be shameless?"

"That, my love, I am an expert in. But we warned once you go full gay, you can never go back." I threaded my fingers into his wet hair.

"I think I am tired of going back."

"Then we'll go into the future as a couple, yes?"

He glanced up, nodded, and plastered his mouth over mine as he flipped us over. I yelped even though the water was tepid, which made Donvino smile into the kiss. Even with brackish water filling my ears, kissing this man was like a religious experience.