I run a hand through my hair and order another beer, trying to drown out the voice in my head.
What a pathetic idea. What a pathetic situation.
I'm at the Taverna del Porto, one of my favorite pubs around here. I was supposed to have a date, but the guy bailed. Whenever I feel particularly lonely—like last night, after that call with Fiore—I open that damn dating app Romina installed on my phone "so you can at least get laid once in a while."I swore I'd never use it. Too trashy. But a couple of times I gave in: some chatting, some matches. And more. Always one-night stands, though. Nobody's ever been enough to get Enrico out of my head.
I sip the last bit of my beer, staring at the open chat on my phone. The dark-haired, pretty boy I was supposed to meet half an hour ago just texted, 'Sorry baby, something came up, let's do it another time.'
Baby, my ass. I close the chat and block him. Screw you, asshole.
The second beer arrives, along with a plate of fries, "on the house." I smile, but it doesn't reach my eyes.
I'm not saying I'm immune to hormones — I'm a young, healthy gay guy, after all. But ever since I met Fiore (or, rather, re-met him), it feels like I'm reliving my teenage years. And not in a fun way. Every time I see him, there's this tension under my skin; that day at the bar, the attraction was off the charts. Just the thought of seeing him again makes my stomach flutter, and when I saw him shirtless, I felt like a teenager about to get his first kiss. So not me.
Why am I even overthinking this? I like Enrico, for crying out loud.
And Fiore's a FAIRY. Turning FIVE HUNDRED AND TEN this September. And, above all, I get the feeling he'd never take anything seriously. Least of all… a potential… relationship. I'm looking for something else.
But what, exactly? Hell if I know.
"Aaah…" I sigh loudly and shake my head.
"Who are you mad at?"
I snap my head around. "Enrico!"
He's here, in all his damn rockstar glory. With an illegal black tank top showing off his shoulders, hair tied in a half-up samurai style, and a beard a tad longer than usual.
Holy shit, he totally pulls it off.
Half-dazed, I can only stammer: "What are you doing here?"
"I just finished at the gym," he says in that warm voice, "and came to grab a sandwich and a beer. And you?"
"I…" I want to come up with an excuse, but the second beer is already working against my brain. So I go for the sad truth: "I got stood up on my first date."
"Nooo, who's the she-devil?"
"HE-devil," I correct him, grinning slightly. "Just some random dude I met online. Nothing special."
For a moment, he stares at me, surprised. Then he grins ear to ear. "Well, screw him anyway. He doesn't know what he missed. Mind if I keep you company, then?"
I blush, embarrassed. "Y-yeah… sure!" I rush to say.
Could this flop actually be a blessing in disguise?
Enrico flips through the menu, chatting. He says he comes here a lot after the gym, that it's funny to bump into each other by chance, that he's noticed my progress on the climbing wall—but I have to be honest, I'm busy scanning his toned, tattooed forearms with veins popping and trying not to drool.
The bartender arrives. He orders a burger and a beer, then smirks at me: "Mind if I poke your business around a bit?"
I burst out laughing, nearly choking on my beer. "Go ahead! Hit me."
"What do you do for work?"
"Seriously? Out of all the possible questions, 'what do you do for work' is your top pick?"
"What can I say? I'm curious how folks earn their keep."
His old-fashioned expression makes me laugh again. "And why's that?"
"The way people talk about their work always says something about them. You just have to listen."
"Mmm… well, color me intrigued." I smile, genuinely surprised. In four years, I'd never managed to exchange more than a few words with Enrico. I'd always watched him from afar, like a relic behind glass.
Now, though, I actually have the chance to see who's behind that aura. And I'm curious.But talking about myself… well, that makes me a little uncomfortable.
"Come on, spill your secrets," he teases, grinning.
"Okay, okay," I give in. "So… I work at a dull little ad agency. Not much real advertising happens, though: mostly I'm cutting out photos of ready-made meals for supermarket catalogs. Or laying out company calendars that get handed out with panettone at Christmas. End of revelations." I knock back my second beer in one gulp. "So, detective… verdict?"
Enrico scratches his chin, then folds his arms. "I'd say… heavy."
"Well, it's just an office job like any other. I wouldn't call it heavy."
"Yet it weighs on you."
I stay quiet. I don't know what to say. He watches me calmly, no pressure.
"I'm not trying to be your therapist," he adds, "but it seems like you're feeling trapped."
"That's accurate," I admit, surprisingly honest, no filters. "I really want to do something else."
"Like?"
"Like… actually drawing again."
"And why don't you?"
"Probably because I'm a fool," I say sarcastically, motioning to the bartender for another beer.
"Mmm." Enrico narrows his eyes, like he expected a different answer.
"Because… I don't feel capable anymore. There. That's it." I fiddle with a napkin, folding and crumpling it, seeking some sort of refuge. It's the first time I've opened up like this to anyone besides Romina. I feel exposed. But with him, it's not unpleasant.
Our beers arrive along with Enrico's sandwich. We clink glasses, smack them on the table, and take a synchronized sip, like proper Venetian drink etiquette.
"But I've seen you learn to climb from scratch," he goes on, sandwich in hand. "Now you handle even tough routes like it's nothing. I told you: you could even compete."
"That's different—bouldering is another thing entirely," I huff, sipping some beer.
"I don't see it that way. If you can overcome a block, whether rock or mental, it's the same thing. The question is: do you really want to overcome it?"
He eyes me slyly, like he already knows the answer. I look away, feeling my cheeks heat up. Being this close to him for so long is too much for my weak heart.
"Who knows… maybe one day, when I stop making excuses to myself," I toss out.
My gaze then lands on a table, where a guy with a furious expression is staring straight at us. When our eyes meet, he stands up and stomps over. Planted in front of us, hands on his hips like a furious matron. What's his deal?
"Ah! I see you've been keeping busy, Enrico!" he spits, full of disdain.
"Samuel?" Enrico looks surprised. But also uncomfortable. I immediately get that he's not happy to see this person again.
"All that stuff you said… 'I'm not seeing anyone anymore'—I knew you'd be screwing someone else at the first chance!"
"Hey! That's not how it went, don't start making assumptions like usual!" Enrico snaps.
"Like usual?! You're the one who keeps mocking me, asshole!" the guy yells, and I see Enrico's expression falter. I feel a surge of irritation, too. I don't even know this dude, but something in me wants to put him in his place.
"Excuse me, darling," I say smoothly, giving the stranger a sidelong glance. "Can you get out of the way? You're killing the mood."
"What?! The fuck do you want?"
"I want you to get out. Of the fucking way, now." I rest a hand on Enrico's arm, slow, deliberate, sensual. "You're ruining the vibes. Nobody wants you here. And if I were you… I'd feel pretty damn embarrassed. Everyone's watching… and not in a good way."
The usual murmur of the pub around us drops to nothing, as if everyone's holding their breath. He notices. Pale as death, he turns on his heel and storms out of the pub.
"Milo…" Enrico looks at me, half-smile on his lips, surprised. And with a trace of something else I can't quite place.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to step in between," I rush to say, withdrawing my hand. "Nor did I mean to make you uncomfortable. I don't know who he was or why he was so pissed, but I couldn't let him talk to you like that. No one should be allowed to talk to anyone like that."
"Thanks, Milo. I'm not uncomfortable. I'm impressed!" he says, his voice gentle. Then, almost in a whisper: "That… was my ex."
Wait. Stop everything.
His ex??