“Oh, thank God,” I said, and we both chuckled.
How did he do that? How could he make everything better, just staying by my side?
“You don’t have to decide what to do with your future right now,” he told me. “You’re on vacation, and today is August 15th. Do you know what that means?”
I had to think about it for a moment. “Oh. Is it that holiday Claudia told me about? What is it called again?”
“Ferragosto,” he said. “We’re building a bonfire on the beach tonight. We’ll roast meat over the fire, go for a midnight swim and stay up all night. And you are coming.”
I stared into his eyes, unsure about what to do. “Can I really do this, Rob? Can I stay with you… like this?”
He smiled mildly, as if he had no choice at all. “It wouldn’t be the same without you.”
◆◆◆
Apparently, there are some classic pop songs all Italians know by heart which they would sing over the sound of a classic guitar at the beach. I made a point to make a playlist of the ones I liked the most to listen to them on the plane back home. As Jenn explained, the songs were either fun, cheesy or nostalgic and I couldn’t believe most of them had actually been written and sung by men. I was amazed at how Italian men could phrase love in such an open way, putting into words feelings most people would be embarrassed to share.
Francesco played the guitar and sang for us, as the sun sank into the horizon and the sky turned beautiful shades of red and purple. As always there were just too many people, too much food, an embarrassing amount of alcohol, and two huge watermelons lying underwater where the waves hit the shore, waiting to be served as dessert because it was “the best way to keep them cool.”
“You’re really good at playing,” I told Francesco while we were eating.
“Come on, he knows three chords!” Rob said, laughing.
“Which are enough to play 90% of pop songs,” Jenn remarked with a disgusted face. “God of Metal, forgive them.”
“The God of Metal probably hung himself when we played Albachiara,” Rob laughed. “So, as soon as we started.”
Francesco smirked. “I’m not ashamed of knowing three chords. Everybody knows a guitar is the easiest way to get laid.”
“No, that’s taking the dog for a walk,” Roberto said so seriously that my mouth dropped open.
Really? Why had nobody ever told me that?
“I second that,” Claudia agreed. Seriously, how was I supposed to know? Why don’t they teach these things in school?
Jenn shook her head. “Really, Fra? Because as far as I know, the guitarist is the one who has to keep playing while all the others make out around the fire.”
So, what’s the truth?
“You guys are only jealous of me,” Francesco said, winking at me with a smile.
Roberto scoffed. “Don’t flatter yourself. James complimented you only because he’s nice.”
Jennifer whistled. “Woo, somebody really is jealous!”
“Righteous son of a bitch,” Francesco muttered to Rob. I wasn’t sure he was joking. “I’ll die before being judged by a guy whose favorite movie is Titanic.”
I couldn’t refrain from laughing. “Really?” I asked Rob. “That movie is practically a meme!”
A furrow appeared between his eyebrows. “First, Titanic is a great movie. Second, I’m better than him at playing the guitar.” Rob gestured to Francesco to hand him his guitar, and his cousin obliged with an eye-roll and a sigh.
Rob clicked his tongue and cleared his voice. He said something loudly in Italian and got everyone’s attention. When people looked our way, I instinctively moved closer to Jenn. It was ridiculous that my heart was beating at such speed. I wasn’t the one standing in front of the crowd with a guitar in my arms. Still, my sweaty hands clenched to fists on my knees, and I found myself holding my breath.
Rob, on the contrary, looked completely relaxed. He said a joke, and people laughed. He looked like he was born to be looked at; like he was meant to be under the spotlight, always. He started playing a song with a regular rhythm which, as soon as it started, made somebody whistle. I couldn’t tell whether it was pop, rock or blues, but a moment after it started, somebody began to dance. Roberto sang with a rough, interesting voice, and a Rockstar attitude.
There was nothing grand about that song, it wasn’t epic or technically complex, but as it built up into the refrain, a chuckle escaped my lips. It was silly and sensual, like a simple, lively harmony tickling in your stomach, like an innocent flirting that makes you smile at the ground and still feel ten feet tall. The people around us sang the refrain with Rob, dancing and jumping; it was something in Spanish and Italian, and even though I didn’t know what the lyrics said, I knew that that song was for me.
It wasn’t about the words. It wasn’t about the rhythm. It was the way Rob’s stare burned into my heart that made me understand that he was singing for me. Look at me, his eyes told me. So I looked. I looked at him so deeply I was afraid my stare would consume him.
The joyful, light sound of the guitar, warmed up by Rob’s intense, sexy voice, exploded in my chest and I was laughing before I knew it, and I felt like jumping, higher and higher, without thinking about anything or anyone, forgetting about the past, the future and anything that ever made me feel anything but this ridiculous, undying happiness.
You’re so childish, I thought. Childish, stubborn and fucking adorable.
And you’re singing for me. For me.
I felt that he could hear my laughter over all the others, over the singing and the commotion, and there I realized for the first time just how much I had wanted this. I wanted to know all the silly sides of him, laugh with him, dance together and hear his singing voice every day. Touch him, hug him, kiss him. I wanted to be his. I wanted him to be mine. I knew there was a name for such a feeling.
I was in love.
ROBERTO
I was usually the one who got closer and touched him. I figured James wouldn’t consciously come to me out of respect for my relationship. He probably had more respect for my relationship than I did, because I ended up by his side all the fucking time.
The night of Ferragosto, however, he seemed dramatically starved for contact. After our midnight swim, he lay with me on the sand with his face buried in my side and his hand holding tight to my sweatshirt. I pulled up his hoodie and reached for my backpack to cover him with a spare blanket I’d brought from home. Nights at the beach were chilly. Some of the kids had brought tents – Marco was sharing one with his girl – but I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep, so I’d rather lay on the sand to look at the night sky until morning.
“Are you sure you don’t want to sleep in Jenn’s tent?” I whispered to James. “It’ll get a lot colder out here.”
“If it gets colder, just hold me tighter,” he murmured.
Jesus Christ. Why did everything stop making sense when I was with him? I couldn’t seem to find even one good reason not to kiss James. I couldn’t understand why I wasn’t making love to him already.
I laid a kiss on his head, breathing him in. A faint whine escaped his lips and he whispered, “more.”