Don't Read in the Closet: Volume Four (111 page)

helped by steadfastness and a fantastic meal. He had to believe that.

Every time he thought of Julian’s sad avoidance, Romeo had to

hold himself back from the hill. He couldn’t go too soon. Though he

was dying to run up there, to kneel at Julian’s feet if his love would

allow it, Romeo held out until after the lunch rush. “A goal is like a

lover,” Coach Rossi would say. “Push too fast, and it all goes

kablooey.”

He wouldn’t push Julian. That included not showing up hours

before he was expected. So he waited until nearly the time he’d been

leaving, packing his bag slowly and with more than usual care, and

only a little early he headed up the hill and wondered if he dared pray

about what he’d find.

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The creek was a little high, but not a problem. His boots and his

stick and his urgency let him keep a good pace despite the mud.

If Julian was on the balcony—the deck—at the usual time, Romeo

couldn’t see him as he came up the gully. He breathed a little prayer to

the Blessed Virgin and climbed the little trail he’d made and stood

where he usually did. He never climbed the rail until Julian welcomed

him.

“Hello, the house!” he called. It took a moment, but he heard a

door open.

“Romeo?” In a moment Julian was there and for an instant he

smiled, but then he shook his head. “You—

“Julian?” a woman’s voice said. “Whatever are you doing?” She

appeared next to Julian, a pretty young woman Romeo felt he ought to

know. “What on earth? Deliveries go to—”

“He’s my friend,” Julian said. “He brought dinner. But Romeo, this

is—”

“Then he should come up!” The woman took the bag Romeo was

still holding out. “It’s lovely to meet you, Romeo. I’m Donata

Vocelli.”

“I think…he was just dropping it off,” Julian said, but Romeo

climbed over the railing and Julian didn’t send him away.

“We’ve met, Miss Vocelli,” Romeo said. “We threw apples at

Moretti’s cows once.” And only once. Word had gotten home.

“Romeo Balducci!” Donata set the bag down to hug him, kissed

him on both cheeks. “I’m not supposed to talk to you!”

“I won’t tell if you won’t,” Romeo promised. “I never knew you

had a brother.”

“Julian was a sickly child and couldn’t keep up with me.” Julian

growled at her; Donata grinned wider. “And he’s not a Vocelli, so

you’re clear to hang out with him.”

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“Donata—” Julian began. She ignored him, sniffed the bag and

declared herself starving and went in the house for plates. Julian

followed her. Romeo took a deep breath and spread the tablecloth.

“What a lovely spread!” Donata said when she came back, Julian

behind her. “Are you the reason Julian is finally looking a little

healthier, then?”

“He’s been feeding me,” Julian said.

“Well, I’m glad someone is looking after you. I was not pleased

when Momma told me you’d come alone.” She set the table quickly,

putting Julian at the end and herself and Romeo facing each other.

“How did this tradition start?”

Romeo didn’t want to explain, but Julian told her of finding a

stranger on his deck and deciding to draw him instead of calling the

police. He left out Romeo’s shirtlessness, and the fact that they’d met

before. Romeo watched and listened and wished he had some clue

what Julian was thinking, but Julian wasn’t looking at him again.

He kept doing that. Julian spent the meal with his eyes mostly on

his plate. He didn’t look at Romeo, and he didn’t look at the hill.

Sometimes he glanced at Donata when he answered a question.

Mostly he pushed the food Romeo had worked to make perfect around

on his plate, but when Donata patted his arm—she did that a lot and

Romeo saw no pattern of affection or comfort to it—he usually took a

bite.

Nothing Romeo had made earned Julian’s eyes-closed

appreciation, though Donata exclaimed over everything. Romeo ate

and talked and played the host as he always had, but he couldn’t help

feel like every moment took Julian further from him. As the meal

went on, he responded less to Donata, his shoulders hunched, he kept

his eyes more on his plate…he was so clearly miserable and Romeo

would have cut off his arm to know why, and his other arm to fix it,

but Julian didn’t even notice him.

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When Donata had wriggled delight over the last bite of
tiramisu
—

Julian didn’t touch his—and the light was fading, at last she rose from

the table. “How does this part work?” Donata asked. “I hope you don’t

take all the dishes home to wash yourself.”

“I take mine,” Romeo said, standing to gather his things. “It’s no

trouble.”

“Your family runs the inn,” Donata said. “I suppose you’re used to

washing dishes.”

“A bit, yes.”

“Well, I’ll put these in the dishwasher, at least,” Donata said,

taking Romeo’s plate to stack on hers. Julian put his on top of hers and

she frowned at the food on it, but she stood with the stack and went

into the house.

“I’m sorry,” Julian said before Romeo thought it safe to speak. “I

tried to tell you—”

“She doesn’t make you happy.”

Julian’s eyes jumped to Romeo, then away. For an instant that lost

look painted his face, but then it was gone too. “Don’t,” he said softly.

Romeo reached out and touched his hand. Julian moved it away.

Romeo finished clearing up and packed his bag and handed it to Julian

as he had many times, to hand back when he was on the ground.

“Romeo,” Julian said when he was climbing down, “you probably

shouldn’t come back.”

Romeo reached up and Julian held out the bag. “I would obey,”

Romeo said, “but she doesn’t make you happy.” He took Julian’s hand

and kissed it, took the bag and dropped to the ground and left.

It wasn’t true that Romeo was the only reason his team won, but

he was the reason they won when they shouldn’t.
Tenacious
was the

word Julian had used. Newscasters and teammates had others.

Obstinate
for instance.
Stubborn.

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Bullheaded.

By the time he reached his home Romeo had a plan. He didn’t

know if it was a good one, and the possible consequences terrified

him, but he had to do something and he had a plan.

It was almost derailed when he was greeted at the door by his big

brother Gastone, home for the anniversary dinner Romeo had

managed to forget. In the den crowded the rest of the family—

Momma and Poppa, his younger brother Marcellus and “that

girlfriend,” his sister Agnese, her two young children and her

husband. Gastone’s wife, his twin sons, and his daughter. Gastone

dragged Romeo in with an arm around his neck.

“Here’s our wanderer!” he announced, shoving Romeo into the

middle of the room. “Explain yourself! What do you think you’re

doing, traipsing off up the hill when you know we’re coming?”

Nearly everyone he loved in the world, waiting for an explanation.

Romeo swallowed. His mother dropped her knitting.

“Gastone, you hurt him! Romeo, is it your shoulder? Here, sit

down. Marcellus, get the heating pad. Agnese—”

“I’m all right, Momma.”

“You got a cold, didn’t you?” she demanded, guiding him into her

chair. “What did I tell you, roaming about in the rain? Agnese, get

him tea—”

“I’m all right, Momma!”

“Lavinia,” Poppa said. Agnese sat back down. Momma sniffed

and picked up her knitting. Ariana, “that girlfriend,” sighed loudly as

she gave up her seat for her boyfriend’s mother.

“How was your trip, Gastone?” Marcellus asked, and “Agnese, is

little Paolo sleeping any better?” his mother asked, and the

conversational chaos that was his family leaped up around Romeo.

Soon Gastone was explaining something to Agnese while his sons

tried to wrestle him to the floor. Marcellus was prodding hesitant

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music from the old upright piano, Gastone’s daughter singing along.

Momma chattered with Gastone’s wife, Agnese’s youngest in her

arms. Poppa dandled a toddler on his knee and talked to Agnese’s

husband about the garden. Romeo tried to imagine Julian in the

middle of all of it and he couldn’t.

No, he could. He could imagine Julian alone in a corner, stared at

and whispered about, isolated and unwelcome.

“Have a drink,” Ariana said, offering a small glass. The smell

announced
grappa
, twice as strong as wine. “You don’t look all right.”

“Thanks.” Romeo took the drink. She smirked.

“Any time.” Ariana moved on, taking the bottle with her. Romeo

had never told his mother that Ariana didn’t drink nearly as much

when he visited Marcellus as when Marcellus brought her home.

“Romeo, Paolo wants you,” Momma declared, giving him a

sudden lap-ful of year-old baby. Paolo stuck his little hand in his little

mouth and stared. Romeo made a face. Paolo grinned around his

fingers. Momma smiled and kissed them both before she moved off to

lean over Poppa’s shoulder, smiling at Paolo’s older brother on

Poppa’s knee.

Gastone’s wife touched his arm; Gastone smiled and leaned down

to hear her. On the sofa, Agnese leaned her head on her husband’s

shoulder as she talked to Gastone’s daughter. Across the room Ariana

leaned on the piano, watching Marcellus play with a fond smile.

Little Paolo smacked Romeo in the face. Romeo turned him

upside down.

Within an hour the kids were flagging. One by one their mothers

carried them off, returning child-free. Romeo held onto little Paolo,

asleep and drooling on his neck, as long as he could but finally

Agnese made off with him. As soon as Romeo stood, Gastone

grabbed Romeo’s good shoulder.

“You’re so quiet tonight,
fratellino
. Are you sure you’re not sick?”

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Romeo swallowed. Cursed his timing and prayed for strength.

And mercy. “I…” he cleared his throat. “I have to say something.”

“So say it, little brother.” Gastone was always loud. It often made

him the center of attention. Romeo took a deep breath as everyone

looked from Gastone to him.

He stepped away from Gastone, slipping his hand in his pocket to

touch his St. Sebastian medal. He’d spoken before a hundred thousand

people. He could speak to seven—eight. Agnese slipped back in,

frowned at the silence, but sat by her husband on the sofa.

“I wasn’t…I wasn’t going to say anything,” Romeo blurted. He

rubbed his face, ran his hand up into his hair. “I…have to tell you. I’m

sorry it will upset you,” his eyes found his parents, Poppa looking

confused and Momma starting to be frightened, clinging to his father,

“but it’s not something I can change.”

“Ha! Told—” Marcellus silenced Ariana. Romeo closed his eyes.

Opened them.

“I’m gay,” he said. “And I’m in love.”

Poppa stared at him, a storm gathering in his face. Momma buried

her face in Poppa’s side. Gastone stared. His wife stepped close.

Agnese took her husband’s hand. Ariana held out her hand palm up to

Marcellus, who rolled his eyes and pulled out his wallet.

“You…are not,” Poppa said. Romeo shook his head.

“I tried that, Poppa.”

“But Rosaline!” Momma blurted. “And Bianca. Gia and Imelda!

And—and, Romeo, you’re
Catholic!
”

Romeo spread his hands. What could he say?

“It’s not a choice, Momma.” Marcellus stepped to Romeo’s side.

Ariana came too, and handed him another drink. “Even the pope will

figure that out eventually.”

“Marcellus Balducci, you watch how you speak of the Holy

Father!”

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