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“You are quite welcome. So, let us see what they are offering for breakfast,” he said, his dark eyes alive with good humor. I eased back into my seat, feeling that we had gotten things settled between us, and read over the menu. After making my choice—a fresh fruit and yogurt plate—we had a nice chat about what to expect at this congress, the state of Italian wineries, and the impact of global warming on our crops. He was incredibly smart, as he would have to be obvs, and laid out complex things in a way that a dummy who had dropped out of college could understand. The food arrived in a timely manner and was delicious. I checked my phone throughout the meal on the sly, hoping Ricardo wouldn’t notice. Nothing yet from Donvino or Bianca or my scheming aunt. I sent out more texts after we were done eating, then allowed Ricardo to escort me to the conference room, his laughter over a quip that I made floating down the ornate corridors.
The rest of the day was boring as fuck. It started off with handshakes, photos out the ass, and nodding along as people peppered me with Italian that my meager knowledge of the language had no chance of grasping. Ricardo translated when he was beside me, but when he was called off to speak to some lady, I floundered. Fortunately, I was good at social media, so I shared pictures of me with everyone, adding hashtags and then tagging Bonetti Farms Olive Oil so that the world—and dear old Dad—could see that I was being a good little corporate puppet.
Honestly, eight hours of talk about nothing but agriculture was the worst. I dozed off several times, coming awake when Ricardo would touch my knee or cough into his hand. We were seated at a large round table, one that held the heads of several major Italian food growers and exporters, so nodding off as some old man with a paunch droned on about how to counter the drought was rude, but for shit’s sake, dude, spice it up.
There was an hour break for lunch that Ricardo and I used to leave the hotel to get some fresh air. He led me across a lovely arched bridge to a tiny bistro that served the best fettuccine with clam sauce I had ever tasted. He gossiped about the people at the congress, telling me salacious tidbits that made me choke on my pasta several times.
As we were sipping some coffee after dessert, my phone buzzed. I leapt on it like a cat pouncing on a crippled mouse. The text was from Bianca.
He did not place. ~ B
“Well shit,” I frowned at the message, then blew out a long, sad breath. A gondola gracefully moved past along the canal a few feet from our table. The couple was older, mid-fifties, and seemed to be snapping images of everyone and everything.
“Is everything all right?” Ricardo asked. “I hope your aunt is well?”
“Oh, I’m sure she is.” I hit Bianca back then sent a fast note to Donvino saying how sad I was that he didn’t do well and that I wished I were there to kiss away the sting. “It’s a friend of mine.” I put my phone face down on the table to find Ricardo watching me with concern. “He was running a race in his boat, well, it’s a scull actually, but he didn’t even place.”
“Ah that is too bad. I’m sure he will do better at his next competition,” he said, taking the check from the waiter before I could even blink. He signed the form, slid his card back into his leather wallet, and rose. “Come, let us make our way back. I would hate to be late and miss Signor Brigante’s speech on digital agriculture.”
I dabbed at my lips, dropped the napkin on the table, and looked Ricardo right in the eye.
“Are you being serious right now?” It was hard to tell.
“Actually, yes, I am. You’ll find it fascinating, Arlo, I’m sure. And if you do not, I will treat you to a night on the town to make up for four hours of boredom. Does that sound fair?”
“As long as we go somewhere where the median age of the patrons isn’t eighty, then yes, that’s a deal.” We shook on it, he smiled, and we made our way back to the hotel where, as I suspected, I spent four more hours bored senseless waiting for my aunt and my lover to contact me.
Neither did, and after sending out more texts that went unread, I worked myself into a fine snit that only ended at nine that night when Ricardo escorted me into a gay club. Perhaps it was a bad call to go out when I was feeling snippy and downcast. Getting hammered would help nothing, but as we jumped out of his hyper-luxurious SUV leaving his driver to fight with Saturday night traffic, I gazed skyward. The stars were freshly risen, and the narrow street had been decorated with white strings of lights draped from several windows, adding even more bits of light to the evening.
“In here,” Ricardo called, reaching out to place his hand on the small of my back. He’d changed into a short-sleeved pink paisley tribal print shirt that he had paired with sleek tan jeans. A bold gold watch was all the jewelry he had worn, whereas I had loaded on the bangles and baubles. Probably because I was feeling abandoned by Donvino, who had yet to reply to the twenty texts I’d shot him. My great-aunt had deigned to answer me with a curt little ‘We will talk in person’ that made me even more tiffy. So yeah, I’d gone rather femme boy tonight with an orchid and gold corset snugged tightly, a white shirt underneath, and billowy orchid pants with chunky heels. I’d lined my eyes with purple liner, applied lip gloss, and spiked my hair into a madcap design. Ricardo had given me one long look when I’d met him in the hallway outside our rooms, smiled in wonder, and leaned in to kiss my cheek.
I had to give him credit, he fucking owned his queerness. Something that a certain someone who was now ghosting me wasn’t able to do. Instantly, I felt bad for comparing the two men. I checked my phone as we slipped off the street into Cocktail di Stivali, which Ricardo had translated on the ride over as Boots Cocktails. Stepping into the club, I could see why it was named that. Hundreds of boots hung from the ceiling, the drinks were served in plastic boots, and the walls were covered with images of famous men in boots. The club was quite packed, but we were taken to a small table in the corner beside a crowded dance floor.
“This is awesome,” I shouted to Ricardo, sitting down carefully as I was cinched tightly. A server appeared with two beautiful cocktails. “Now that’s service!”
Ricardo grinned, then moved his chair closer so we could talk without shouting. “I hope you don’t mind that I called ahead. I know the owner well and wanted to ensure you had a good time tonight, given that your face has been sad all day over your phone.”
I forced a smile as I lifted my drink, a glorious light green drink with a cherry and lemon on a cocktail skewer and a paper straw with boots printed on it.
“Thank you. It’s been hard adjusting to a strange country, and then when I thought I made a friend, it turned out that perhaps I didn’t.” It was foolish of me to feel this way, but doubts about that night in Donvino’s apartment had started to creep in. Was he done with me now that we’d fucked? Wouldn’t have been the first time. What made this worse was that I’d had—still had—some pretty strong feelings for the man. Stupid of me, I know. “Let’s not talk about him. Let’s enjoy this…what are they?”
“Tokyo Iced Tea,” he replied, lifting his glass to tap mine. “They’re very tasty but can pack a kick like a mule. Perhaps just sip as you ate very little today.”
“Oh, I’ll be fine,” I said and took a sip. Wow, it did have a kick, but it was super tasty. “I like it!”
“Good, I wasn’t sure, but it seemed like a cocktail you might like. There are some potent ingredients such as rum, tequila, and vodka, so pace yourself, okay?”
“Okay!”
I did not pace. I tossed down two in rapid succession, the warm buzz spreading out from my empty tummy—one could not cinch to the gods and eat—as I found the pull of the thumping dance music calling me.
“What is this song?!” I yelled as my chair suddenly felt wobbly. The server brought me my third cocktail while Ricardo was nursing his first. Silly man, how did he plan to feel great if he didn’t get busy drinking? His reply was in Italian. Meant nothing, but man did the thumping bass mean everything. I glanced around. Purple and green lights rolled over the bouncing crowd. I took two big sips of my drink, burped subtly, and then discovered I could sit no longer.
“Dance with me!” I shouted and shot to my heels, my chair tumbling over. “Oops.” I giggled. Ricardo hurried to right my seat and allowed me to drag him to the dance floor. It’s amazing how alcohol and music can make you forget being ignored. For a good thirty minutes, I kept Ricardo on the floor, moving about in circles, leaping up and down more than actually dancing. We finally took a break when I stumbled into some stranger, my head feeling quite airy as my feet tangled.
“Time for a break,” Ricardo shouted beside my ear, using his hands on my shoulders to steer me back to our table. “No, no, I think you should…” Whatever else he said was lost in the din as I fell on my drink, parched beyond belief, and emptied the glass in one long pull. “Okay, I think we should find you some food and water. Sit down, please, and I will dash to the restaurant across the street to find you something to eat. No, no arguments. Loosen that lovely corset. You are eating. I will be back.”
He ran a hand over my sweaty neck and then disappeared into the throngs, stopping to speak to our server on the way out. Hmm, was he ordering me another drink? I hoped so, I was incredibly thirty. Wait, no, thirty? No way was I thirty! I started to giggle madly at myself, saw his drink sitting there all alone and watery, so I slammed that down. The server appeared with bottles of water.
