Page 152 of Candy Hearts, Vol. 2

CHAPTER 9

GREG

I wasn’t sure I’d ever come down from the high of Tuesday night, but I get myself to class on Wednesday morning. The dynamics are in Italian in my music—forte, pianissimo, crescendo?—

and it’s distracting. I wonder what he’ll teach me first? Family words? Greetings? I’m already learning a lot from making the practice tests. My mind is only sort of on my part as my brass quartet practices, but I make it through, even though I haven’t practiced since last week. I’m packing up my horn when our instructor, Mr. Claire, puts a hand on my shoulder.

“Can you hang back a minute, Greg?”

“Of course,” I say, a sinking feeling in my stomach. As I suspected, he waits until everyone else has left the practice room before he turns a concerned gaze on me.

“How much time are you putting into practice?” The directness of the question rattles me, and I swallow hard.

“Not as much as I could be,” I admit.

“I know it’s your first semester, and it can be a big adjustment. We want to be patient, but I’ve conferred with some of your other instructors, and they agree you need to focus more. Your tone is just not there, and you’re not blending with the others in your ensembles.” He crosses his arms as he leans against the open door.

“I’m sorry,” I blurt out. “I’ll practice more. I’ll do better.”

“We just want to see you do well here. I know you have a passion for music, but it takes more than that to succeed in this line of work.” His expression seems almost apologetic, and my chagrin makes me grimace.

“Thank you, sir. I won’t let you down.”

Nico comes over to study that evening and Thursday evening too—but I make sure I practice before he arrives. He kisses me hello when he comes in the front door, but then he holds off on more until we’ve worked for a while. On Friday, he brings groceries and cooks dinner: pasta pomodoro. He says it’s not as good as his mom’s, but I still have high hopes. Far better than the jar of Ragu I try to hide when he goes looking for real Parmesan cheese. Nico hums a little while he cooks, throwing my dish towel over his shoulder, chopping garlic and looking perfectly at home here in my apartment.

“Why haven’t I been to your place yet?” I ask, dutifully spreading butter on the bread like he showed me.

“My place is … ” He pauses, stirring while he thinks. “Nothing. Here is good.” He’s quiet again for a minute, then adds with a grin, “Also, the bed only for kissing.” It takes me a second to figure out what he means.

“You don’t have a couch?” I ask, frowning.

He shakes his head, still humming a little. “No couch, no TV, no computer.”

“God. What do you do at night?”

Nico’s dark eyebrows bounce, and I roll my eyes.

“Listen to radio. I sing along, learn English.”

“That’s a good idea. But we could look on this new website for a used couch. It’s called Craigslist; people all around San Francisco can post stuff for sale.” I start toward the computer, but he stops me with a gentle hand on my arm.

“No money for couch. All is for send home.”

“Oh, I see.” I’m not giving up that easily. There’s gotta be a way to get one without bugs in it for cheap. Maybe a thrift store or something. “Will you tell me about your family?”

“My nonne are Lauretana and Adelasia, my nonni are Cristofaro and Luigi. My mama is Immaculata, my papa is Canzio. Married—” He spreads his hands wide. “Long time. They meet in school.”

“Aww.” It gives me warm fuzzies. I hardly know any gay people who were high school sweethearts … at least, people who didn’t have to keep it a secret. It’s not even legal for us to get married. “Brothers? Sisters?”

“Four sisters. I am biggest, then Maria, Gloriana, Petra, and Elisabetta. My mama, she give to us Bible names.”

“Except for yours,” I say before tasting the bite of sauce he offers me from the wooden spoon. The fresh basil and oregano give it a burst of flavor on my tongue, and I hum my approval.

Nico laughs. “No, me also. Nicodemus.”

“No!” I gasp, a big smile spreading across my face. “For real?”

“Is true.” He chuckles, taking his own taste of the sauce. “Good?”

“Yeah, it’s very good. Are they married?”

“Yes,” he says, serving up the pasta on three plates. “Maria marry Vittorio, but he leave. Four kids.”

“That sucks,” I say, and he looks at me quizzically. “Oh, it means, I’m sorry. I feel bad for her.” She must have been pretty young if he’s the oldest and she’s already divorced.

“Me also. But she is a good mama, and my mama help her. They are Bernardo, Julio, Marco and Geronimo. Petra marry also, to Orlando, then comes Bella, Antonia, Susanna, and Virginia.”

“Four boys and four girls,” I comment, and he smiles.

“Yes. Is many people when we … ” He mimes convergence by bringing his hands together. “But family is everything.”

There’s a soft look in his eyes as he reaches over me for the cheese, but he blinks it away quickly. He’d be a good partner … especially if he doesn’t mind cooking. Probably a good dad too, from how he’s talking about his nieces and nephews now. I can tell he misses them a lot. An idea starts to percolate, bubbling up like the sauce.

“Do you talk to them much?”

“Sunday I call, hang up, so Mama know I am living.” His shoulders are down, and he’s staring at his empty plate. My heart goes out to him.

“All moms are such worriers,” I say. “I call mine every week too.”

“Is expensive,” he says with a sigh.

“That’s too bad—I call on the computer for free.” As soon as I say it, I realize a factor I didn’t consider: will it work internationally?

Nico’s mouth falls open. “Free? No money? How it’s called, this?”

“Yeah. It’s great. It’s called voice over IP. It’s kind of new.”

“How you do this?”

I wipe my mouth with my napkin and push back from the table to show him. “Come on.” I’m already sitting at the computer when I realize I can’t show him, because our phone line will be tied up by the internet. “What’s your phone number?”

He fishes his wallet out of his back pocket and pulls out an index card. “510-555-6017.”

I dial it, then point to the floor. “Listen.”

Distantly, I can hear a phone ring beneath us. I’ve never noticed it before, which probably means that no one’s ever called him when I’m home. The thought troubles me. But Nico is too busy being delighted.

“We can call now?”

I pause. “Well, we can, but isn’t it, like, really early there?”

He says something under his breath in Italian that sounds like a curse.

“Yes, too early. Sunday?”

“Sunday,” I confirm, then seal it with a kiss, just because I can. I adore kissing him—and not just because I’ve dreamed of having a stubbly face to rub against mine. It’s Nico. I don’t know if I can even picture kissing anyone else now. I know it’s fast to feel that way, but I can’t help it. It feels like our thing, even though I know it’s not.

“Tomorrow, I will take you outside to drink.”

“Oh? Won’t that take away from money you could send home?”

He shrugs. “Is okay. The meccanica will go out also.”

“Great, I’d love to meet your friends.”

Nico looks like he’s doubting himself—a look I have never seen once from him thus far.

“They is … not like us.”

“They’re straight? Not gay?” I clarify, and he nods. I laugh. “Most people are, you know. It’s not like I don’t know how to get along with straight people.”

“Can be very … ” He flexes his biceps like he’s preening, and I laugh.

“Yeah, I know. It’s okay. I don’t mind.” It’s not like I want to take him to a gay bar; someone would probably steal him from me in about five seconds. “It’s a date.”