“I am,” Noah said. “But no matter what, we both love you. Okay?”
“Okay.”
Noah looked back to Angela, who at least looked a little guilty, her bottom lip tucked under her teeth.
“Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to spring it on you like that. I just wanted to get it all in the open.”
“It’s fine.” Noah bit back a sigh. Itwouldbe fine. “When were you thinking of going?”
three
Ramin
Lost?” Ramin asked. He nearly had to shout to be heard over the bustle of hundreds of people grabbing their luggage at Milan Malpensa’s baggage claim.
“Yes,” the luggage attendant—a youngish woman with her blond hair in a bun—confirmed. “I’m sorry, Mr. Yazdani. It looks like it got sent to Amsterdam.”
“Amsterdam?” Ramin worked to keep his voice light. He’d done enough customer service calls himself over the years; he knew how thankless it could be, how a rude person could ruin your day. He wasn’t going to ruin this woman’s day just for trying to help him.
“Sì. I’m sorry, Mr. Yazdani. We’ll get it here for you as soon as we can.”
Amsterdam.
What the fuck was Ramin supposed to do without his luggage? All he had was his backpack. That wasn’t enough to last him eight weeks.
The morning after his disastrous proposal, he’d walked downstairs and announced to Arya, who’d crashed on his couch, and Farzan and David, who’d crashed in his guest room, that he’d booked himself a trip to Italy. Spur of the moment. Spontaneous.
Interesting.
“Will you be staying in Milan?” the attendant asked him.
Ramin nodded. He’d found an apartment he could book for eight weeks. Actually, it was fifty percent off if you booked more than four weeks, which was his original plan. But he’d been drunk off Barolo, and eight weeks for the price of four had seemed like a great deal at the time.
“If you can give us your contact information here, we can let you know as soon as we find it. Thank you for your patience, Mr. Yazdani.”
Ramin nodded and filled out the little form, fiddling with the new studs in his ears as he did.Brandnew. Interesting New Ramin did things like get his ears pierced on the way to the airport.
Not the smartest choice he’d ever made, but at least his wound wash was in his backpack. Along with his laptop and phone chargers and passport and PrEP.
Not his condoms and lubes, though. Those had gone into his smaller carry-on suitcase. But when the gate agent back at his connection in Atlanta had begged for people to check their carry-ons because there were too many bags and too little bin space, Ramin had done it.
Boring Old Ramin behavior at its finest.
But maybe this was a blessing in disguise. He’d come to Italy to reinvent himself. Why not start with his wardrobe?
Ramin thanked the attendant for her help, noting her name tag—Silvia—to mark in his phone. He hoisted his backpack higher and headed for customs empty-handed.
If this wasn’t a metaphor for Ramin needing to let go of all his old baggage, he didn’t know what was.
As the taxi sped toward the heart of Milan, Ramin found his second wind. Colorful stucco buildings alternated with white marble churches. Piazzas and fountains interrupted the journey every few minutes, but that certainly didn’t slow his driver down. Or any of the other cars, for that matter.
“Is this your first time in Italy?” his driver asked. His name was Davide, and he was in his sixties, with a shock of white hair beneath his pageboy cap, and a huge pair of black plastic glasses taking up half his face.
“Sì,” Ramin said, because he’d spent the last three weeks feverishly studying what Italian he could. “Mia prima volta.”
“Ah, you speak Italian?” Davide asked brightly.
“Not very well,” Ramin confessed.
