“Matteo?”
My cousin let go of me like he was holding a rattlesnake and cursed vividly in Italian. Then he said in English with a fairly thick accent, “What are you doing here, Nico?”
“I’m on vacation with my grandmother, as you know because we’re supposed to meet for lunch later in the week.”
“I know that part. What are you doing in Catania?”
“We wanted to visit a few gay nightclubs, which of course meant getting out of Viladembursa.”
“I can’t believe I was checking out my own cousin’s ass. Please never tell anyone I did that.” He lowered his head embarrassedly, his somewhat curly dark brown hair falling into his light eyes. At twenty-seven, he was a year older than me but looked barely twenty-one. He was about five-foot-eleven with a lean build, and was currently wearing tight jeans and a form-fitting bright blue t-shirt with the logo for an Italian bicycle manufacturer on it. I’d last seen him three years ago, when he was traveling through the western U.S. and had spent a weekend with Erik and me.
“I always wondered if you were gay,” I told him. “Why didn’t you come out to me when you were in L.A.? The fact that I was living with a guy should have told you I’d be a pretty safe person to open up to.”
“But if I told you, what was I going to do, swear you to secrecy? This side of the family’s not as accepting as the U.S. side. They pretend they are when they’re in public. They act progressive and say the right things about the current social climate and the changes happening in our society. But behind closed doors it’s another matter. You should have heard them when our cousin Dante came out a few years ago. It was right around the time he took over the Dombruso family business, and some people were actually questioning his ability to do the job because he was gay. Is that not the stupidest thing you’ve ever heard?”
“I get why you don’t tell them, but what are you going to do if you fall for someone? Will you keep him a secret from your family?”
“I have no intention of settling down. I’ve moved to Catania for work, I don’t remember if I told you. I’m a cameraman at the local news station now, and it keeps me busy. When I lived in Viladembursa, I constantly had to dodge the family’s efforts to set me up with every single woman in town. I’d tell them I was too busy training with no time for love. It’s actually the truth.” In his free time, he trained as a competitive cyclist. “I think they’ve given up to some extent and written me off as a workaholic. Little do they know, I still find time for fun.” He gestured at our surroundings.
A good-looking guy with short, light brown hair and a muscular build came up to us and said in Italian, “Sorry to interrupt. Matteo, I’m headed home but I’m going to walk because I drank too much. Will you bring my car back if you’re sober enough?” He turned to me and said, “We’re just roommates, nothing more. Don’t worry.”
“Matteo and I are cousins,” I told him, also in Italian, “so no worries at all.”
“Allessandro Girardi, this is Nicolo Dombruso, my cousin from America. Nico, Allesso,” Matteo said, “my friend, roommate, and, as he annoyingly refers to himself, the ‘on-air talent’ at my news station. I spend all day pointing a camera at that ugly mug.”
We shook hands and he said in slightly stilted English, “It is a pleasure to meet you. Where in the U.S. do you live?”
“California.”
His dark eyes lit up at that. “I’ve always wanted to go to California to live with the movie stars and get into show business. It is my dream. That’s why I studied English.”
“You speak the language very well,” I told him.
“Thank you. Your Italian is excellent too, for an American.”
“I grew up speaking it right along with English. My family might have left Viladembursa, but they certainly didn’t forget the old ways.”
I’d been referring to the
My cousin let go of me like he was holding a rattlesnake and cursed vividly in Italian. Then he said in English with a fairly thick accent, “What are you doing here, Nico?”
“I’m on vacation with my grandmother, as you know because we’re supposed to meet for lunch later in the week.”
“I know that part. What are you doing in Catania?”
“We wanted to visit a few gay nightclubs, which of course meant getting out of Viladembursa.”
“I can’t believe I was checking out my own cousin’s ass. Please never tell anyone I did that.” He lowered his head embarrassedly, his somewhat curly dark brown hair falling into his light eyes. At twenty-seven, he was a year older than me but looked barely twenty-one. He was about five-foot-eleven with a lean build, and was currently wearing tight jeans and a form-fitting bright blue t-shirt with the logo for an Italian bicycle manufacturer on it. I’d last seen him three years ago, when he was traveling through the western U.S. and had spent a weekend with Erik and me.
“I always wondered if you were gay,” I told him. “Why didn’t you come out to me when you were in L.A.? The fact that I was living with a guy should have told you I’d be a pretty safe person to open up to.”
“But if I told you, what was I going to do, swear you to secrecy? This side of the family’s not as accepting as the U.S. side. They pretend they are when they’re in public. They act progressive and say the right things about the current social climate and the changes happening in our society. But behind closed doors it’s another matter. You should have heard them when our cousin Dante came out a few years ago. It was right around the time he took over the Dombruso family business, and some people were actually questioning his ability to do the job because he was gay. Is that not the stupidest thing you’ve ever heard?”
“I get why you don’t tell them, but what are you going to do if you fall for someone? Will you keep him a secret from your family?”
“I have no intention of settling down. I’ve moved to Catania for work, I don’t remember if I told you. I’m a cameraman at the local news station now, and it keeps me busy. When I lived in Viladembursa, I constantly had to dodge the family’s efforts to set me up with every single woman in town. I’d tell them I was too busy training with no time for love. It’s actually the truth.” In his free time, he trained as a competitive cyclist. “I think they’ve given up to some extent and written me off as a workaholic. Little do they know, I still find time for fun.” He gestured at our surroundings.
A good-looking guy with short, light brown hair and a muscular build came up to us and said in Italian, “Sorry to interrupt. Matteo, I’m headed home but I’m going to walk because I drank too much. Will you bring my car back if you’re sober enough?” He turned to me and said, “We’re just roommates, nothing more. Don’t worry.”
“Matteo and I are cousins,” I told him, also in Italian, “so no worries at all.”
“Allessandro Girardi, this is Nicolo Dombruso, my cousin from America. Nico, Allesso,” Matteo said, “my friend, roommate, and, as he annoyingly refers to himself, the ‘on-air talent’ at my news station. I spend all day pointing a camera at that ugly mug.”
We shook hands and he said in slightly stilted English, “It is a pleasure to meet you. Where in the U.S. do you live?”
“California.”
His dark eyes lit up at that. “I’ve always wanted to go to California to live with the movie stars and get into show business. It is my dream. That’s why I studied English.”
“You speak the language very well,” I told him.
“Thank you. Your Italian is excellent too, for an American.”
“I grew up speaking it right along with English. My family might have left Viladembursa, but they certainly didn’t forget the old ways.”
I’d been referring to the
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