He’d been dreaming about Noah.
Not a sex dream. Well, they hadn’t gotten to that. In his dream, rather than go their separate ways last night, they’d gone back to Noah’s hotel, taken a weird glass elevator that went sideways to his room, where Noah had pressed him up against the door. He’d used his strong arms to pin Ramin’s wrists above his head, leaned in close, and whispered,I know you want to know if it’s true. His lips had brushed Ramin’s jaw, which made Ramin sweat, which made him realize he was actually sweltering, which made him wake up.
He wasn’t sure if he was relieved or disappointed.
He rolled out of bed, figured out how to turn off the air conditioner’s motion sensor, took a shower, checked on his bags—still on a European adventure of their own—and got dressed. He didn’t let himself think about Noah. He’d never see Noah again. Last night was fun—borderline magical—but it was an anomaly.
He was here to have lots of sex with hot Italian men he’d never seeagain. Or at least average-looking Italian men, since that was what he could reasonably expect to attract. Hot men didn’t go for guys who looked like Ramin. He was soft, with stretch marks and loose skin and gray nose hairs…
Ramin shook himself. He’d gotten better at snapping himself out of dysmorphia-induced spirals, but they still crept up on him sometimes. He’d been fat as a teenager, skinny after his mom died, fat again when his dad died, and then there was the whole disordered eating thing he went through in his mid-twenties, until Farzan and Arya had more or less bullied him into therapy.
The therapy had changed his life—saved it, really—introducing him to yoga and meditation, and helping him unlearn all sorts of harmful shit he’d internalized over the years. His body was strong and capable and beautiful, even if he wasn’t (never had been, never would be) a picture-perfect twink.
He was healthy. That’s what mattered.
He rubbed at his tattoo and took a few breaths. Then he laced up his shoes, fought with the billion locks on his door, and went in search of breakfast.
Ramin found the tattoo parlor by accident.
He’d eaten breakfast—a croissant (though the cafe called it a brioche for some reason) and a double espresso—and was heading home when he spotted it.
The entry was narrow, nestled between a pharmacy (advertised with a green cross, which had befuddled Ramin at first, because back home that meant a dispensary) and a little general store. The door and windows were covered in art in all different styles: graffiti script, black and white portraits, geometric designs, tribal motifs.
Ramin only had two tattoos, his parents’ names in Persian script, one over each wrist, but every so often he thought about getting another. Or maybe several others. He’d always told himself he wanted to get inbetter shape first, especially before doing his chest, which had been at times bony, at times soft, at times a little flabby, but never muscled.
Nothing like Noah’s, which had been much firmer-looking than Todd’s, but from what Noah had said last night, he actuallyusedhis muscles instead of growing them for vanity. Ramin wondered what Noah’s pecs felt like…
He shook the thought away. He wasn’t here to wallow in an old crush. He was here to reinvent himself.
Maybe it was the drive to be Interesting New Ramin. Or maybe it was lingering exhaustion and jet lag. But fuck it.
He stepped inside and hoped the tattoo artist spoke a bit of English.
twelve
Noah
How long till we get there?” Jake asked, staring out the bus window.
It was forty-five minutes to Como, and from there another forty-five minutes if they caught the faster ferry to Bellagio, where Nonno and Nonna had their wine shop.
“That’s so long,” Jake sighed. “Can I use your phone, Dad?”
“If you use it on the ride, you can’t use it again until the ride back. Deal?”
“Deal,” Jake said.
Noah handed the phone over. Thankfully Jake’s grumpiness had eased after another night’s sleep.
Angela shot Noah a half-fond, half-amused look across the aisle as the shuttle rumbled to life and pulled out of the station.
It was exhilarating and a bit alarming as they navigated the streets of Milan before finally reaching the freeway. While Angela sat next to Jake, Noah had ended up next to a German backpacker who had promptly fallen asleep against the window. He peered around them for a glimpse of the far-off Alps, clusters of villas, parks, churches, a small university, even a few fields of corn.
Noah pulled his sketchbook out of his pocket.
When he was younger, he used to draw a lot, at least until his parents had told him he was never going to be an artist, so why not focus on something practical instead? But he’d gotten back into it after the divorce. Well, more specifically, after his therapist recommended it.
He used a cheap sketchbook with unlined paper, a soft cover, and an elastic loop for a small ballpoint pen. It was small enough to fit in his pocket, which left no room for the grand landscapes or detailed portraits he preferred, but it wassomething, and it washis.
