It hadn’t even hit midday and Dickie was already on his second glass of wine. He really did live the life in Italy. Of course, he could do what he was doing in America, but drink so early in the morning and you’d be dubbed an alcoholic. Something Dickie wasn’t. He just enjoyed the odd glass of wine in the morning--then, again in the afternoon and, hey, he wasn’t a stranger to a drink in the evening. Everything was just so much better here. The women, the drink, the food, and the sex; god, who knew Italian women were such freaks in the sack?
He ran his tongue over his lower lip with his eyebrows furrowed in confusion at Tom’s sudden out-burst of laughter. His laugh was addicting, and was usually followed by Dickie laughing. He wasn’t laughing at the joke, or whatever Tom happened to be giddy at. He was laughing at Tom. The boy with the crooked, addicting laugh. The boy with teeth so white he could light up a city or two by just opening his mouth, who made Dickie laugh, and laugh to the point where he’s wiping the tears from his cheeks. The boy Dickie didn’t want to part from—and that worried him.
Dickie wasn’t a stranger to male friends. He couldn’t count on both hands how many of them he’d had. Yet, he’d never felt this at ease, this happy, this content. It was strange. It was different and Dickie dreaded to think what it meant.
“You’re completely insane, you know that, right?” It was all he could say before his laughter took over. Tom was like some sort of giddy, city girl who was only seeing the ocean for the first time. He narrowed his eyes playfully as Tom kicked him from under the table, “Watch it, I’ll have you under the table within a blink of an eye.”
It made him smile. Tom made him smile.
“Who said I’m letting you return to your old life?” Dickie sat up straight in his chair and leaned over the table with a grin tugging at each end of his mouth. “I’ve so much planned for us, Tom. You’re going nowhere. We’ll milk my father for as much money as he’ll fork out and after that,” Dickie shrugged, “You could get a job, or something. Male gigolos are a big thing in Europe.” He joked with a playful wink.
He grabbed Tom by the face as he stretched across the table and kissed each cheek before throwing him back in his chair. “Do you really want to go back to the life you lived in America? Forever lying and forging signatures? Or do you want to stay and live the best possible you could, with me?”
You’re completely insane, you know that, right?
It echoed in his mind, like the aftershocks of a gong struck. Oh, no, not insane. Drunk, perhaps. Drunk on Italy, Italian wine, on Dickie. The hazy thrown-back head of a giggling high woman, the pink-cheeked flush of good humor hadn’t dissipated once save for--
It had been late afternoon and Fausto had just finished giving Tom some Italian lessons, and Dickie was with Mia or Myah or Mariano, and the letter came on the porch from Marge, who didn’t need to be writing him letters, for she lived just up the sloped hill overlooking the sea, about a seven-minute walk away from Dickie’s home.
He’d fed his anger and his amusement by circling the room, using Marge’s falsetto, a perfect imitation of a woman, hand flourishing effeminately in a showy fabrication of her own movements. He’d been laughing angrily between it, crumpling the lavender paper, delicately scented with her perfume:
My dearest Dickie ----
By now you have probably received my past two notes. It is
in our best interest that we rethink the trip to Turin until your
new friend informs your father of your plans (or lack thereof)
and he departs for America. He is wonderful, don’t get me
wrong. [Tom had bitterly laughed here.] But I think it would
make all three of us uncomfortable to share a hotel room in
the expanse of more than one day.
I cannot wait to see Basilica of Superga. [Tom wanted to see
it, too!] I cannot wait to smell the incense burning there and
see the dome. I cannot wait to experience the nightlife with
you--hand-in-hand. I know you think I’m a bit stuck-up when
it comes to that sort of thing, but I am willing to delve into the
culture if you’d be so willing to invite me.
[...It got boring here. Something or other about her book.]
I anticipate going with you in late November. I love you.
When Tom was done, he read it again, silently. It was so stupid--utterly and fully stupid. Marge was a nice girl, but she was a dim one, who couldn’t see past Dickie’s charm, mistaking it for love. Tom didn’t do that. He already had Dickie’s love--or he would. And they didn’t have to exchange these gooey pleasantries. No doubt Dickie would be exhausted in replying to it, struggling to make up the courtesy she’d extended equally. So he did them both a favor, and ripped it to bits, letting the handful out the window as some summer breeze picked it up the bits and led them towards the sea, a scripted snowfall in the hottest Italian season, like those flurries you see outside a train car in winter.
“Never,” Tom agreed, grin enormous as Dickie kissed his cheeks. He didn’t want to attribute this to the drink, but if that was the case, he’d feel inclined to enjoy it regardless of the inciter. “Never, I don’t even want to think of New York. I’d stay here my whole life with you. I think I will, Dickie!”
The waiter brought them pagnottini--Italian sweet rolls. “Grazie,” Tom said, and when he turned, Dickie reached across to hold Dickie’s hand, squeezing it once and looking very seriously into his eyes. “We should go to Turin,” he suggested eagerly. He was going to usurp Marge or die trying.
“Tonight. Stay a few days. You and I.”
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