Page 147 of Candy Hearts, Vol. 2

CHAPTER 4

NICO

It takes a few days, writing notes back and forth—he never seems to be home when I am—but we finally find a time to meet. I like his handwriting, very flowing and nice. He lets me pick the place, and I chuckle—I am likely as new as he is, so I guess we are both just stumbling in the dark about what’s good. I pick a little Italian bistro down the street. There are lots of Italians here, in this part of San Francisco, and it helps a little to hear my language spoken at the garage, at the café, even if their dialect is different. I met also my boss’s wife, Wanda, and the next day, she sent Parmigiana di melanzane, a whole tray of it for only me, and I nearly cry. I have been savoring it for every supper, freezing half to make it last longer. Giacomo said his mother taught her to make it when she visited, and the jealousy hits me like a prizefighter. I wish my family could be here, even for a little while. But the point of me being here is to send money back, so I know it is an impossibility.

My heart craves it still, more than Parmigiana, more than crostata, more than anything.

But today, I will meet my shy neighbor, Greg! The coffee here will be good; the macchiato feels like the right thing for a Saturday morning, though it is not too early. I smooth down my shirt. It has a bold print, and I hope it will express the excitement I feel better than my halting speech can. I have also the body language, I remind myself. You can say a lot with that. I do not want him to gain the wrong impression about me—in my language, I am funny, you know? I like to talk with all the people and laugh and tell them stories, some of which are true. But in his language? I am so dull. I cannot make his shining smile come out from behind the clouds.

But no. I will not be thinking this way. I am Nicodemus Arosio; I know who I am. In time, if he is patient, he also will know. That is good enough. I laugh at myself for thinking so much of one coffee date. It is too early for such thoughts, and shy neighbor Greg will also take some time to know, I am sure.

At that moment, he walks into the shop. I take him in—his cotton polo shirt in the same blue of his eyes tucked into his nicely pressed pants, his light raincoat in a dark green. His gaze passes over me, but he doesn’t seem to see. Has he forgotten my face? Did he not say in the letter how he knew the look of me? Strange. But when his gaze passes again, I give him a wave, and he breaks into a smile. That smile. He looks to me like the smartest kid in the class, always sitting in the front, always raising his hand to show that he knows. I bet he is a good student in all the ways, and I tell my prick to cool off as it imagines. No, it is too early to think of fevered kisses and untucking his careful clothes. We must woo his heart first.

“Nico?” he says, still so shy. “Or is it Nick-o?” He holds out his hand to shake it, but oh no, we do not start a date that way. We save handshakes for business meetings and meeting his father if he agrees to marry me. Ignoring his hand, I pull him in for a quick hug, letting my rough cheek brush his smooth one, but after a little gasp, his arms close around me too. He smells only of soap and dandruff shampoo, so pure and innocent, and the rightness of it, the goodness, it overflows inside me. Not only for him, but for what can be here, far from my small village where the way I am is not accepted.

“You say right first time,” I tell him quietly. “Nico.”

“Oh, okay,” he says, also quietly, and I hope he does not faint. I pull back to see him.

“Come. Sit.” I roll my eyes inside at the way I sound, like I am commanding a dog, but I can’t really help it.

“I’m just going to get a drink first,” he says, edging toward the line.

“Me also,” I say, following him.

“Do you know what’s good here?” He sticks his hands in his pockets like he does not know what to do with them. Adorable.

“Here? No. But is Italian coffee. Is good.”

He smiles, but I don’t think he’s laughing at my speech. “What’s your favorite?”

“Favorite?” I echo, not knowing the word.

“Uh, best of all,” says Greg, watching my face. “One you like the most.”

“Oh, favorito,” I say, feeling embarrassed. Such a close cognate, and still I did not understand. I push away the feeling that this is doomed and remind myself again who I am. “Uh, macchiato.”

“Macchiato,” he repeats, rolling the word around in his mouth, and I smile to hear my language from his gorgeous lips.

“You know it?”

“No, I’m from a small town in Missouri. We just drink whatever Folgers makes.”

I laugh, because I do know this word—it is on the red can of disgusting instant coffee at the garage. I chided them for owning such a thing; they have forgotten their heritage so quickly.

“You are funny,” I cry, delighted. “Where is small town? Where Missouri?”

“Uh, Missouri? Do you know Kansas?”

“No. I know … California.”

He laughs. “Well, it’s in the middle.” He puts his hands out then brings them together in front of his handsome face.

“Okay, I see. In the middle,” I echo with a smile. Then it’s our turn to order.

“Ciao, fratè,” I say, using the southern expression. Lots of Italians here from southern Italy, and it’s strange to me, but I am learning their ways. The boy greets me warmly, glancing at Greg, clearly curious what our association is. He reminds me of my cousin Benicio, about seventeen, lanky and lean, the way boys get when their height goes shooting up. I give him my order, then we both turn to Greg.

“Uh … ” He’s looking at the menu, but in the end, he still spits out the word I gave him. “A macchiato?”

I want to tease him for phrasing it like a question, but I can’t find the right words, so I just grin.

When he chooses a small, I hope it’s because of money and not because he wants this to be over soon.

I’m just getting started.