But right now, he wasbored.
It was raining harder by the time Ramin pulled into Milano Centrale, big fat drops that painted the world in gray. His footsteps sloshed on the wet sidewalk as he power-walked to his apartment, darting from awning to awning as best he could. His clothes were sodden by the time he made it home. His shorts dripped onto the elevator floor. His hair hung damp over his forehead. His shirt stuck to his chest and under his moobs. No matter how many push-ups he did, how carefully he ate, he never seemed to make them go away entirely.
Noah hadn’t minded them, though. He’d enjoyed Ramin’s body. Ramin had felt that every time they touched, every time they kissed, every time Noah looked at him like he was a work of art that belonged in some fancy Italian museum.
He was still blushing at the memory when the elevator door opened to reveal Francesca and Paola.
“Ramin! Ciao!” Paola said. Today she wore an emerald dress with a white sport coat over it. Next to her, Francesca clutched a rolled-up umbrella under her arm. She was in a sport coat too, with a scarf draped around her neck, even though it was still hot out. The rain had made everything humid but far from cool.
Still, Ramin had seen lots of people dressed like winter was coming. Maybe Italians were immune to the heat.
“Ciao,” he said.
“How was Genova?” Francesca pulled him out of the elevator and swiped at his shoulders like she could brush off the rain.
“It was really nice.” Ramin felt himself blushing. “Really nice.”
“But where’s yourfriend?” Paola’s eyebrows danced at the word.
Ramin might have told them—in the most general terms—about Noah.
“Paola, he’s soaked. Allora, come in, let’s have a coffee and you can tell us everything.”
“It’s fine, really,” Ramin said, but Francesca already had a grip on his arm and was dragging him toward their door. She grabbed a towel for Ramin while Paola went to make them espressos.
Their apartment was laid out similarly to Ramin’s, but where his rental was minimalistic, theirs was an explosion of color. Oil paintings of flowers adorned every wall. Throws and pillows clashed with the furniture, but somehow, they made a unified whole. The apartment looked homey. Cozy. Perfect.
“Allora, tell us everything,” Francesca said, spinning her chair around to sit backward.
Ramin didn’t tell themeverythingeverything, but he did tell them the broad strokes. What they’d seen, what they’d eaten, what they’d done (not counting the sex).
“Sì, but where is he now?” Paola asked, looking toward the door like Noah might be just outside.
“Turin.”
Paola drew back and frowned so deeply it gave her a double chin. “Torino? Why?”
“His son’s in the hospital.”
“Che disastro!” Francesca said. “Is he all right?”
“He’s okay now. But Noah went, and when I asked him if I could go along with him, he said no.”
“Ah.” Paola and Francesca shared one of those inscrutable couple’slooks, made even more inscrutable because Ramin didn’t know if they werelooking in Italian or English.
“But you wanted to go?” Paola asked.
“Yeah. I… yeah.” Ramin sighed. “I just don’t like how we left things.”
“Well, you can talk it out when he comes back,” Francesca said. “When you love someone, you have to have faith.”
Ramin sputtered. “I didn’t say anything about—”
“You Americans,” Paola said, but she had a twinkle in her eye. “It’s written all over your face. Just because you’re afraid to say it, doesn’t mean it isn’t real.”
Something was clawing at the inside of Ramin’s rib cage, desperate to get out.
“But I can’t love him. It’s only been a week and a half. You can’t fall in love with someone in a week and a half.”
