“Gay . . . gay . . . gay . . .”
The problem with starting at the top of the hill was that down was the only recourse. Edoardo had forced his eyes to watch the terrain, his brain to make sense of every curve to keep his memory from wandering back to that sunlit hill, surrounded by those cyclists, so comfortable and relaxed, leaning back on each other’s legs, sharing bottles of water.
Somehow, he’d made it home.
But the thoughts hadn’t left.
And what was dim was now clear.
He was gay.
Gay . . . gay . . . gay . . . gay.
Of course he’d known that. Not always clearly, perhaps, but he’d always known. So had everyone else. He could duck his head in the sand and pretend he didn’t know why he was always the last kid picked for sports teams and why he was held at a distance from other men. But he knew. That part of him that he let out only in low-light conditions was always there, humming its knowledge that he was damaged. Sinful.
He didn’t need the church to tell him. He had only to see how people looked at him suspiciously. He hated that separation and had tried to be normal. Hadn’t he taken out that girl in high school? Somehow he had managed to have sex with her, by both invoking and rejecting the image of a man underneath him. He broke up with her soon after, and she had frankly seemed relieved. He supposed it hadn’t been all that good for her.
After high school, he continued to date, sure. There was that girl he had met through his cousin. He remembered her with some affection now. She was more experienced, more forward, and had come onto him from the moment she met him in a way that he, who didn’t get women, perfectly understood. She had been demanding in bed, which was at first freeing, as it kept his mind from wandering into images of broader chests and different appendages. Though after awhile, she tired of the work it took to arouse him and called it off with a jovial boxing of his shoulder. She was married now, with a child. He was glad she was happy.
The clubs. Those began as a joke, a dare by his friends. Then, it was an addiction. An addiction far stronger than the liquor and drugs that were in constant supply on the edge of the dance floor.
All those nights. How could he have denied the truth? No matter how many substances clouded his judgment and memory?
He supposed it was willful self-delusion. He didn’t want to be what he feared he was. Being gay meant resigning to residing in liminal space, where he never wanted to be. He wanted to be in the thick of life, not on the margins.
For a day or two after the revelation on the top of the mountain, Edoardo toyed with the idea of trying to find Arnaldo. He got the feeling that Armando saw the demons and the desire in Edoardo, and didn’t judge either.
In spare moments, Edo allowed himself to relive the electricity of that kiss. He treasured the memory of getting lost in a man’s eyes. He preserved the image of Arnaldo’s smiling face lit by the sun. That dimple, unbridled.
Edoardo felt the shame seep from him, like the last of the toxins he’d been harboring.
Chiara tensed as the door opened. She wanted to close the bar and be done with this damnable day.
“Ciao, Chiara,” she heard the modulated voice of Patrizia.
With a sigh of relief, Chiara turned and smiled at her friend. “Ciao, Patrizia. What will you have this evening?”
“Il solito.”
Chiara tucked a fall of hair behind her ear and turned to prepare the latte caldo.
Patrizia shook out her coat, damp from the intensifying mist filling the streets. “Tutto bene, Chiara?”
“Sì, sì, everything is fine.” Chiara flicked the wand down into the metal pitcher. The homey sound of frothing milk filled the quiet bar.
Chiara set the warm milk in front of her friend, sprinkled it with a blur of cocoa powder, then leaned forward. “How is everything, Patrizia? How are Filamena and Marco?”
Patrizia reached for a sugar packet and, shaking it, said, “Piano, piano . . . things seem to be improving. Maybe slower than we’d like, but still . . . improving. The school switched Marco’s teacher to someone that has experience with kids like Marco.”
“Hmm. What does that mean?”
“I don’t know. Someone who can help him with his work, I suppose. I think they said they’re going to try lots of rewards when he does what he’s asked to do. Anyway, it is helping. Some.” Her eyes welled with tears and her voice shook.
“That must be a relief.”
“It is. It really is.”
Patrizia sipped her milk, and Chiara reached into the refrigerator for a green glass bottle of frizzante. She poured the bubbly mineral water and added a splash of orange juice. Stirring with a long-handled spoon, she enjoyed the moment of quiet, and the noticeably more relaxed features of her friend.
Chiara took a sip and then said, “And how is Giuseppe?”
“Good, good. Gearing up for the sagra. It’s so strange to think of not celebrating in the piazza.”
“Well, it’s a change, but I think it—” her voice cut off at the sound of the door opening.
Fabrizio stepped in and nodded to the women before holding his finger aloft and asking, “Un caffè lungo, per favore.”
Chiara’s cheeks flushed as she turned to grind the beans.
Patrizia looked from Chiara to the man, now
