Page 148 of Candy Hearts, Vol. 2

CHAPTER 5

GREG

I don’t recognize him at all when I walk in. Foolishly, I thought something would click when I saw his face, some time he’d passed me in the hall or on the stairs coming back to mind. Nope. Zippo. Zilch. And I don’t know how that could be, because he’s good-looking—very good-looking. He looks like an extra in The Godfather —no, he looks like a lead in The Godfather. Thick dark hair, deep brown eyes, high cheekbones, a strong jaw, and a build my grandfather would call “strapping.” The only reason I’m not completely intimidated is the language barrier. It’s keeping me on my toes in a good way, weirdly enough. I’m so busy thinking about what he’s saying and what I’m saying and trying to talk around the vocabulary he doesn’t know that I’ve kind of forgotten to be nervous. Which is a first for me.

“Where you work?” Nico asks, taking a sip of his coffee. He wasn’t wrong; it’s very good. I’d say it’s bad for my budget that this place is along my route to the conservatory, but I didn’t really look at how much it cost, and Nico paid before I could even get my wallet out. That made me blush; I don’t know the payment protocol on a date. But do I mind that this big, strong guy wants to take care of me? No, I do not. Not at all.

“Oh, I’m still in school, actually.”

“You study the computers?”

My mouth falls open for a moment, then I glare at him. “Because I wear glasses?” I ask, tapping my thick frames. “Are you saying I’m a nerd?”

“No, no,” he says loudly, laughing, waving his arms between us. “You look smart. Computers are smart. This is all.”

“Uh-huh,” I say skeptically, sipping my delicious coffee with faux annoyance.

“Oh no,” Nico says, face palming, and I can’t help but grin. “I give you the offense!”

“No, no,” I assure him, reaching out to grab his flailing arms, and we both still at the contact. I try to pull back quickly, my face hot, but Nico catches my hand and holds it across the table with both hands, a twinkle in his eye.

“Study what, then?”

“Guess,” I say. The sensual way his thumb is rubbing circles on the back of my hand is giving me butterflies in my stomach, even as I glance around to see who cares. Right now? No one. They don’t even seem to notice … except maybe the cashier.

“No fair,” he complains, but I just laugh, leaning forward. “Okay, okay. Mathematics?”

I shake my head.

“You build the bridges?”

I cock my head slightly … I’m feeling a little distracted by his touch, the warmth of his hands seeping into mine. I want to sink into the feeling of it: this strong, veiny hand holding mine.

“Oh, engineering? Nope, guess again.”

“You make the money?”

“Economics?” I’m strangely enjoying this game, circumlocuting our way around the words he doesn’t know. “I’m good with money, but no.”

“You are cheap?”

My mouth falls open again. “No! Just careful.”

“Ah yes, careful,” he repeats, saying it more like “care-fool,” grinning. He murmurs something in Italian, and I nearly swoon. He’s all bravado, this one.

“Give up?”

“Huh?”

“Do you want to guess more?” I clarify, and he shakes his head.

“You tell.”

“I’m a musician.”

Nico’s face brightens. “Music?” He lets go of my hand to pantomime a violin, and I shake my head, pantomiming my horn instead, tracing the spiral shape of it with my index finger.

“Ah, yes! I know! I hear you.” He points to the ceiling. It takes me a minute to figure out how he can hear the hand signs I’m making, then I realize.

“Oh, at the apartment? I didn’t think anyone was home.” My face is hot again. “I’m sorry for the noise.”

“No!” His voice is too loud for an indoor space to my ears, but he’s reaching for me across the table again, and I give him my hands. “No apology!” He looks downright agitated, and I give his hands a squeeze. He’s got calluses, and it reminds me I haven’t asked what he does. He’s stammering, and I can’t understand him, until he finally lets loose a string of enthusiastic Italian, gesticulating into the space above his head.

“He says your music is like angels singing,” the cashier says. “He says it’s the best part of his day.”

“Oh.” I want to crawl under the table now. Not because I mind him saying it, but because I wish we didn’t need someone else to hear it. “Um, thank you.”

That’s the moment. That’s the moment I decide to go to the library on campus and see if it has any books on Italian. Or if not that library, the public library. If he can sit here and try so hard to communicate with me, the least I can do is to try back. This assumes, of course, that he wants a second date at all, but the way he’s looking so deeply and earnestly into my eyes, I can’t imagine that he’s done with me. Something tells me this is just beginning.

“And you? Where do you work?” I ask, clearing my throat.

“Ah. Uh, I fix the Ferrari. Gallo Motors.”

“Oh!” I say, delighted. “I know where that is! Those are some nice cars!”

His grin is lopsided this time. “Yes, very nice. Very … ” He enlists the help of the cashier again, now that he’s proven himself willing, and gives him a word in Italian.

“Expensive,” the boy calls back.

“Sí, expensive,” Nico echoes. “I come from Maranello; the Ferrari come also from there. My father work there, and he learn me also.”

“Taught you also,” I correct automatically, then wince. “Sorry.”

“No, no, no sorry! You help.” Nico looks exhausted. It can’t be easy, talking with me like this.

“I love those cars,” I say. “Will you show me some of them next time? Take me for a drive?”

He holds out his hands sheepishly. “Here, no license.”

“Oh, right. Well, we can take my car. Maybe I can help you study for it.” Nico frowns, and I think for the first time in my life, maybe I’ve been too forward with another guy. Nico turns to the cashier, who volunteers a translation.

“Is no problem for you? You not too busy?” He’s frowning like he’s torn—I can tell he wants to agree, but he also seems concerned about my schedule.

“Not at all. How’s tomorrow? I’ll pick up a manual on my way home.”

I don’t think he caught all of that, but he breaks into a grin anyway. “Grazie. Uh, thank you.” I want to keep chatting, but I can tell he’s tired.

“Ten o’clock tomorrow? My apartment?”

Nico stands when I do, then holds out his arms for another hug, and I go gladly. It’s just as intimate as the first one, even though he says nothing. That rough voice in my ear before? I thought it was going to be the death of me, firing my blood embarrassingly quickly. But something about Nico’s arms around me, holding me tight, feels like … home. I can’t explain it. It’s not like a family hug, which makes you feel loved, but not like this. This hug makes me feel … wanted. Like I belong in his arms. Like he never wants me to leave. I’m the one who finally pulls back, and even though it was long by my standards, he still seems disappointed. Just wait until you get me into bed—then you’ll really be disappointed , I think. As we walk home, we decide to go see the cars first, then study.

It turns out the DMV is nowhere near my apartment, but I don’t even care. I had my first real date with a real man, and I didn’t fuck it up. Maybe 1995 is going to be my year after all.