The Pairing, page 30
Maybe it’s the atmosphere of a traditional Neapolitan cucina. Maybe it’s Fabrizio’s father sweating under his heavy beard in the kitchen, stirring enormous vats of stew, communicating only by shouts through the kitchen window in the voice of a man who gets incredible deals from the local butcher. Maybe it’s Fabrizio’s mother, who dances in and out to deliver more parmigiana or squeeze Fabrizio’s cheeks or interrogate someone on why they haven’t cleared their plate. Or maybe it’s how happy Theo seems to be here, nearly weeping with laughter at the photos of teenage Fabrizio and his brothers on the walls.
Just as Fabrizio’s mother is beginning to nag him about the length of his hair, my phone sounds a long buzz in my pocket.
It’s probably Cora, forgetting I’m in Italy and calling to chat about what she’s been reading, or Maxine with a recipe question that’s easier to explain over the phone. But neither of their names are on the incoming call.
I slip away from the table and out the front door.
“Paloma?” I answer.
“Bonsoir, mon petit américain,” says Paloma’s crisp voice over the line. “Ça va? Where are you?”
“I’m good,” I say. “I’m in Naples.”
“Ah, Napoli.” Paloma sighs. “Beautiful city. Excellent fish. Are you eating well?”
“So well,” I say, rubbing my chest where I can feel the threat of impending heartburn. “Maybe too well.”
“As you should,” Paloma says. “And your Theo?”
I press my shoulders to the restaurant’s brick wall and lean my head back.
“My Theo is as brilliant as ever.”
“Have you confessed your love yet?”
I cover the phone with my hand, like somehow Theo could overhear from all the way inside.
“Paloma, not that I’m not happy to hear from you, but is there a reason you called?”
“Yes, there is,” Paloma says. “You remember the pâtisserie under me? The one with the macarons, and the old woman?”
“I do.”
“Every Thursday I bring her dinner with fresh fish, so she likes me, and she tells me her secrets. Usually it is about François across the road—she thinks he is very handsome—but tonight it was about the pâtisserie. She wants to close next year.”
“Oh, no,” I say, still unsure why Paloma felt she needed to call with this news.
“And,” she goes on, “she wants to sell it. She wants to find a young pâtissier who will do something nice with it and stay for a long time, the way she did. She asked if I knew anyone, and right away I thought of you.”
“Oh,” I say. “Oh, wow.”
“And?” she prompts. “What do you think?”
It sounds like a dream. The kind of gorgeous, sugar-spun dream that is never as easy as it feels in my head. The kind of dream I was chasing when I lost Theo, the kind my kitchen in Paris wrung out of me.
“That’s so kind of you, Paloma,” I say, “but I have a job, remember?”
“Yes, the job you hate.”
“I don’t hate it.”
“But you don’t like it.”
“That doesn’t mean I can just quit.”
“Why not?”
“Because I put all this time into it,” I say. “It’s what I worked for.” It’s what I lost Theo for.
Paloma laughs over the line, a short, sarcastic grunt.
“Crois-moi,” she says, “ça ne veut rien dire, si cela ne te rend pas heureux.” That doesn’t mean anything if it doesn’t make you happy.
I find myself without an answer to that.
The door of the restaurant opens, and people filter outside in knots of laughter and tipsy conversation, each flushed with the intoxicating joy of a good, simple meal prepared by someone who loves what they’re cooking. I can hear Fabrizio’s parents inside, making jokes with the cooks and foisting boxes of leftovers on the last guests. It seems like a good life. A messy and abundant life, possible because they share it with each other.
“Think about it,” Paloma says.
Theo finds me as they exit, all curious eyebrows and Aglianico lips, and I rush out a goodbye to Paloma and hang up.
“Who was that?” Theo asks.
“Just Cora.” I shove my phone into my pocket. “Where’s everyone going now?”
“Different places,” Theo says, “but wait until you hear where I got us invited.”
“Where?” I ask. At first they just raise their eyebrows and lower their eyelids in that way of theirs that suggests something either very good or mildly illegal, which is usually also good. “Where, Theo?”
“Fabrizio wants to know,” they say, “if we’d like to see his apartment.”
I wait for the punch line, but it seems there isn’t one.
“Are you teasing me?”
“Dead serious,” they say. “He lives a ten-minute walk from here. Said he’s looking forward to sleeping in his own bed tonight and asked if we wanted to share a bottle of wine.”
“We?”
“We.”
I stare. For all our flirting and big talk about making sensual tantric love to Fabrizio, I never actually thought our tour guide would proposition us. But I think of his warm touch on the side of my face, how he chose us specially to ride with him in Rome, how he watched us work on the engine of the bus.
“Is … is this it?” I ask. “Do you think he wants to—?”
“There was a strong vibe, yes. At least one of us. Maybe both. It seems like he considers us a package deal.”
“Oh my God, because we let him think we’re together?”
“I don’t think it’s not because of that.”
“Well.” I put my knuckles to my mouth. “Do we—do we want to?”
“I mean,” Theo says. “It’s Fabrizio.”
“It’s Fabrizio.”
“How can we not? Unless … you can think of a reason we shouldn’t.”
“No, it—it would be hot, if it’s both of us.”
“And if it’s just one of us?”
The image flashes into my mind. Theo as seen from the foot of the bed, broad hands on their hips as they pant into a pillow. Or Theo reclined on a chair, learning that I’ve trained away my gag reflex. Heat coils in my gut.
“Then…” I say. “Winner takes all?”
It takes a beat for Theo to catch on, and then they’re pink with indignance.
“What, after I smoked you in almost every city? No way. If it’s just you, you can count him for double, because. You know.”
“It’s Fabrizio.”
Theo nods, biting their lip. “It’s Fabrizio. But if it’s both of us, Monaco rules. It cancels out. Deal?”
“Deal.”
* * *
“It’s not that difficult,” Theo says. “Just pick one.”
“It is, actually.” I scan the illuminated rows of different-colored boxes through the glass. “I don’t know what half of these words mean.”
“We don’t have time for this!”
“Then help me, Theo,” I say, feeling more than a little lightheaded. “You’re the one who actually knows some Italian.”
“Yeah, weirdly, my job at a restaurant did not teach me the word for condoms.”
We’re in an alley a few blocks from Fabrizio’s apartment, bathed in the glow of a Durex vending machine. Our hotel is on the other side of Centro Storico, and there’s no time to run there for our own provisions. Instead, I’m squinting at boxes that say things like PERFORMA and PLEASUREMAX and, mysteriously, JEANS, trying to decipher which will bring the lowest element of surprise to group sex with the person I love and our sexy tour guide. We’re already ten minutes later than we said we would be, and the German tourists behind us are getting impatient.
“I’m pretty confident the condoms are the ones that say PROFILATTICI,” Theo says.
“Yes, like prophylactics, I guessed that, but the rest of the words? Which ones are the normal ones, without any flavors or tingling or anything? And which one is lube, Theo? Which one is lube?”
“The ones at the bottom!”
They point to the last row of the machine, which is filled with brightly colored plastic tubes of liquid with pictures of fruits on them. They’re all marked LUBRIFICANTE.
“The ones that look like the sour squeeze candy we used to get from 7-Eleven when we were ten? I’m not using that.”
Theo squats down to examine it.
“I don’t think this vending machine sells artisanal fair-trade lube for delicate Parisian buttholes, Kit.”
“How do you know it’ll be for me?”
They look up at me with a perfectly flat, knowing expression and change the subject.
“Don’t you think Fabrizio has condoms at his place?”
“We can’t show up empty-handed, that’s inconsiderate,” I say. “And what if he doesn’t? Who knows the last time he was home.”
“Okay, okay.” They take out their phone. “That box says ‘Settebello Classico,’ which means…” Typing, typing. “‘Seven beauties classic’? What?”
“Just—get the natural lube.” I sigh. “The one with the leaves on the tube.”
“What if that means it’s pesto flavored or something?”
“I guess that’s a risk I’m willing to take,” I say as Theo punches the buttons.
We determine that the Jeans condoms are so named because they’re designed to fit discreetly in a pocket, so I buy a box and shove two in my shirt pocket, passing the remaining four off to the Germans for their patience. Then we continue along the route Fabrizio described to Theo, through the edge of the Spanish Quarter and uphill into a neighborhood whose buildings resemble the colorful stacked palazzos of Cinque Terre. Fabrizio lives close to Castel Sant’Elmo, on the third floor of a skinny, pink-red villa with yellow shutters and white iron balconies.
“So,” Theo says, hand hovering over the buzzer. “We’re doing this?”
Something wrinkles their face—not hesitation, but gentle concern, maybe. A possible out if I need it, and I’m afraid to lend weight to whatever is making them worry I might.
“We are,” I say, reaching past them to hit the buzzer.
The whole way up the stairs, as I watch Theo’s boots hit each step, I tell myself this isn’t a bad idea, the way I did with Émile in Monaco. It’ll be hot, and easy, and lovely, the way that sex should be, and I’ll make sure everyone feels good. Like the times we had sex with a third person when we were together—just, without Theo’s reassuring hand in mine, or the calm certainty that we’ll come home to each other afterward, or the love.
Theo knocks, and Fabrizio—is not the person who answers.
“Hello!” says perhaps the most beautiful woman on the continent. “Welcome!”
We both stand dumbstruck on the doormat before this unexpected apparition of Venus with a dark, blunt-banged bob and plum-painted lips, a thin housedress falling midway down her thigh. She pulls the door wider, revealing Fabrizio in a fresh T-shirt and sweats, beaming.
“My friends! You are here! Benvenuti, come in!”
I have to nudge Theo in the shoulder to get them moving.
“Amore, questo è Kit, e quello è Theo,” Fabrizio says to the woman before turning to us. “Friends, this is Valentina, my wife!”
“Your—” I clear my throat. “Your wife!”
Theo’s eyes are as wide as mine. An entire conversation passes between us in the span of half a second.
I didn’t know he was married! Did you know he was married?
Of course I didn’t fucking know he was married, Kit, or I wouldn’t have assumed he was inviting us over for sex!
Did he ever mention having a wife?
I don’t think so? Is that weird? That’s weird, right?
She’s really hot.
She is insanely fucking hot.
“Ciao, piacere!” Theo says, leaning in to air-kiss Valentina and smoothly elbowing me in the ribs.
“So nice to meet you!” Valentina says in lightly accented English. “Fabrizio speaks of you so warmly!”
I accept an air-kiss of my own, casting about for something to say. The apartment is small and cozy, filled with soft pastels and well-loved wicker furniture and dangling wind chimes. Candles burn on the low coffee table, and through the open balcony doors, I can see Mount Vesuvius in twilight on the horizon.
“This place is incredible,” I tell Valentina. “Thank you for having us.”
Valentina smiles, brushing hair from my eyes. I consider the possibility that this is some kind of partner-sharing situation—I could probably get on board after enough wine—until Fabrizio calls out, “Orla! Our friends are here!”
Theo’s eyes are the size and shape of an arancini.
“Orla?”
“Yes, did I not say? We always have Orla for drinks on her last day of the tour. This is why I invite you!”
“You—didn’t say, no, but—hi, Orla!”
Orla comes around the corner holding a bottle of wine. Her shoes are off, and her socks are patterned with little koalas. I should have recognized her hiking boots by the door.
“Evening, darlings! Valentina, love, where did you say the opener was?”
Valentina floats off to show her, and Fabrizio says, “Come, sit, we have room in the kitchen for everyone.”
Theo and I exchange another look.
This is cool?
This is cool.
“We’re coming!” I say, stepping out of my shoes.
“Not how we thought we’d be,” Theo mumbles, “but yeah.”
And so we find ourselves around Fabrizio and Valentina’s table in an adorable kitchen with sea views and yellow countertops and shelves of antique teapots filled with seashells. Orla opens the wine, Fabrizio pours, and Valentina sets out dishes of marinated olives and crusty bread. Above the toaster oven hangs a framed photo of the two of them laughing in tiny swimsuits, up to their perfect thighs in crystal clear water off a white sand beach. Mon Dieu. He really has been married this whole time.
“So, Valentina,” Theo says, already recovering their charm by sheer brute force, “what has Fabrizio told you about us?”
“Oh, I have heard that you are an expert on wine,” Valentina says, “so I hope you like this one. I took it from the cellar at his parents’ restaurant, though I do not always know if his mother has good taste.”
Fabrizio gasps theatrically and fires off a string of Italian; Valentina ignores him.
“It’s perfect,” Theo says, amused.
“And I hear that you are a pâtissier in Paris, very impressive,” she goes on, smiling at me. “And that you are star-crossed lovers who fell back in love on Fabrizio’s tour!”
My face, previously warm from the balmy night and Valentina’s compliments, goes cold.
“Oh, we’re not—” Theo begins.
“We’re just friends,” I say before I have to endure the rest of Theo’s sentence. “We split up years ago, that’s true, and the tour did bring us back together.”
I turn to find Theo’s eyes sharp and searching.
“Right,” they say. “But … as friends.”
“Ah, I see,” Fabrizio says, sounding disappointed. “Colpa mia.”
I set my attention upon the olives in front of me, studiously avoiding Orla’s sympathetic gaze.
“Well, even so,” Orla says, “you’re friends again, and that’s lovely. Some of my best friends in the world are my ex-girlfriends. I’ve got one in Copenhagen who lets the wife and I borrow her flat when we’re in the mood for herring.”
“Oh, I hear Copenhagen is so cozy,” Valentina says. “Can we come next time?”
“Fabs, you haven’t taken this girl on the Scandi tour yet?”
“I tell the company to never send me on the Scandinavia tour,” Fabrizio says. “Too cold. Not enough sun.”
“Oh wise up, that’s when you let your lady keep you warm. Valentina, love, I’ll take you.”
Theo laughs, and I laugh, and it’s okay.
We talk for an hour while the sun sets. Orla and Fabrizio tell stories of their wildest tour happenings, and Theo and I talk about the strangest people we’ve encountered at our jobs. Valentina tells us that she was working in Rome as an English tutor when she met a Vespa guide who wanted to learn English to travel the world, how they kissed for the first time on Rome’s oldest bridge because he wanted to join her to history. Orla tells us how she met her wife as schoolmates in Derry and waited fifteen years to confess how she felt. It’s simple and warm, the kind of magical human thing that happens in transit when like brushes against like.
“My mother, she would tell me to hold the bottle like this”—Fabrizio holds the wine by its bottom, palm to base with his arm fully extended—“and when I am big enough to hold it this way and touch it to my lips, I am old enough to drink it.”
“And what age was that?” Theo asks.
“Eleven!” And we fall apart laughing again.
Everything is going well until I lean over to refill Theo’s wine, and a condom falls out of my shirt pocket and into the olives.
“Oh God,” Theo whispers.
I try to intercept before anyone notices, but the foil wrapper is now coated in olive oil and shoots out from between my fingers. It lands with a small, wet plop beside Fabrizio’s glass.
The table goes silent.
“So sorry about that,” I say. “That’s—that’s really a design flaw, isn’t it? If anything should be easy to grab when it’s covered in oil—”
Fabrizio claps his hands together with delight.
“So, you are together again!”
“What?” Theo says.
“Yes, of course, when two lovers are reunited, the sex is better than ever. All you want to do is make love, day and night.” He takes Valentina’s hand, glowing with the romance of a poet, and plants a kiss on the inside of her wrist. “When I return home from a tour, Valentina and I—”
“Fabs, darling,” Orla says. “Spare them.”
“We’re not—” Theo says.
“That’s not what it’s for,” I say.
Fabrizio pauses halfway up Valentina’s arm.
“It is for something else, then?”
And it’s been such a long day with so much to process that I can’t think of a single excuse.
A twinkle appears in Fabrizio’s eye.
