“She works at a tapas restaurant. You don’t think she should learn the language?”
“She’s selling appetizers, not Spanish courses,” I joke.
As if he notices that he’s compromising his own character, Giancarlo flashes a sudden smile. It’s a little shocking how much it changes his face. He goes from stern into a handsome rogue in two seconds flat, and I can’t help but smile back.
“Maybe you’re right,” he says, covering my hand with his big one. “This is why I need you around. You make me a nicer person.” Before I can ask exactly what he means by that, he removes his hand and picks up his menu. “I will order, okay?”
“Okay,” I say, sensing it would probably be better to let him have his way at this point than to argue anymore. Giancarlo’s stubbornness seems a lot like my dad’s––not worth the fight. In a weird way, it’s sort of soothing.
A waitress arrives and stutters through the night’s specials before Giancarlo orders in quick succession. It’s too much for just the two of us, but I don’t argue. I am hungry. He also orders a bottle of wine, and we clink glasses when it arrives.
“Salud,” he says and nods with approval when I say it back. “Good. Your accent is not so terrible.”
I smile. “Um, thanks.”
We sip together while Giancarlo continues to study me. He never stops watching.
“I miss you,” he says abruptly just before taking a long drink of his wine.
I glance around, unsure if I just heard him correctly. “What?”
He shrugs, like he’s just informed me that it’s raining outside. “I miss you these last months. I’m not afraid to say it, like some of these men. I know you are busy. But I wonder why you don’t call.”
“You didn’t call me either.” And immediately, I wonder why suddenly I care, even though moments ago I didn’t.
Giancarlo shrugs again, like it doesn’t make a difference. After that display outside the church, I’m certainly not about to tell him that the reason I haven’t called is because I’ve been heartbroken. That even though I refused to go to LA for Christmas, Nico and I still talk sometimes. That we haven’t been able to stop sending each other the occasional text or even a blurry picture here and there. That I don’t want to cut him out of my life, even though having him in it hurts.
“Are you, how do you say, seeing someone else?”
I squint. “Didn’t you already ask me that?”
“No,” Giancarlo says. He leans back when the food arrives, but continues speaking, like the server isn’t even there. He has a habit, I’ve noticed, of treating certain people like furniture. It’s chilly. “I asked if that boy was your lover. You say no. So…is there another?”
I take a piece of fried zucchini and dip it into a cup of aioli. “Um, no.” I hate the way my heart squeezes when I say that. I hate that it’s the truth.
“So you are free for me.”
I balk. Is this guy for real? We barely know each other––a few random hookups do not a relationship make. I’m not sure we’ve even had an entire conversation. Most of our interactions have consisted of late-night booty calls the few times my roommates were paired off with significant others, and I was left alone at the apartment and couldn’t take it anymore.
I think of the things I know about him––things gathered from early morning musings after sex, just when we were falling asleep. He’s from Buenos Aires, I know that. The son of a shipping manufacturer there, sent here to get his degree before he goes home to run the family business. I know he’s an only child, like me. And, as I recall the way he moved through the Mass with practiced ease, that he’s staunchly Catholic.
“I––what––” I sputter.
“No,” Giancarlo says, cutting me off. “We won’t start this tonight. You are different. I can tell.”
I frown. Different from what? I have no idea what he’s talking about.
“My woman has to have her head right,” he continues. “You will, I know you will.” He leans over the table. “Look at this face. This is the face of someone who is going places. And I want to take you with me. You are beautiful. Smart. I know you will be perfect for me.”
I stare, holding my zucchini, half-eaten. This has got to be one of the strangest conversations I’ve ever had.
“When you return home from Christmas, you will decide,” he says. He plucks the zucchini from my hand and pops it into his mouth.
“I, um, well, I’m not going anywhere for Christmas,” I tell him as I watch, transfixed, while he finishes my food. “I’m just staying here.”
I haven’t even told my roommates that. They’ll all invite me home with them, and I’m just not in the mood to play nice with other people’s families again. I just want to be alone.
Giancarlo swallows, then gives me a slow, sweet smile. “We’ll have Christmas together, then,” he says. “Go to Mass. And I can help you practice your Spanish.”
I open my mouth to argue, insist that I was looking forward to having my apartment to myself for the holiday, that I wanted the alone time. But the truth is, I’m not. I know exactly what I’ll be doing––just what Quinn says, moping around New York like I did tonight. I’ll probably find my way to the MET, to the Cloisters, even around Central Park in the freezing rain, just because they are places where Nico and I spent time together. I’ve been as sad and lonely with people as I’ll be by myself. I don’t want to feel this way anymore.
“Okay,” I agree. “It’s a date.”
Giancarlo nods with approval. “Sí,” he replies. “Good.”
~
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Layla
A few nights later, after Quinn and Jamie have already left for break, I’m in my room trying trying to watch a movie. Quinn was in a giant huff after I refused to apologize. I don’t know what I have to apologize for. Being sad? She was the one who attacked me.
Shama knocks on my bedroom door, roller bag in hand. She sees me lounging on my bed, watching Crybaby on the little TV that Quinn and I share.
“Oooh,” she says as she abandons her bag and comes to sit next to me. “I love this one.”
“Yeah,” I say as I sit up. “Quinn might be a bitch sometimes, but she’s got a great DVD selection.”
We watch while Johnny Depp teaches the blonde girl how to French kiss. It’s hot for a second, but before long, we’re both giggling uncontrollably when the characters start wiggling their tongues at each other like snakes. It’s the corniest damn movie, but I remember falling in love with Johnny Depp back when it first came out.
Looks like I had a thing for bad boys even then.
Shama sniffs and wipes at her eyes. I turn curiously. I doubt it’s the snake-tongues that are making her cry.
“You okay, Shams?” I ask her.
Shama shrugs. “Yeah. It’s just…Quinn’s probably right. About Jason. He forgot to call me last night. Said he had a last-minute gig at Fat Black’s. But I called to see if he was there, and they had someone else booked.” She grimaces. “I sound pathetic, don’t I? Checking up on my boyfriend.”
I don’t say anything. I don’t want to be like Quinn, so judgmental, telling Shama what to think about her own life. It doesn’t sound good, it’s true. So maybe Quinn is right. But she might be wrong too.
“I think you need to just ask him,” I say. “And then trust your gut, not mine or Jamie’s or Quinn’s. You know what’s best for you.”
Shama sighs. “Do I? Sometimes I just want to fast-forward through this part of our lives. Get to the part where we know better already.” She stands up and grabs her rolling bag’s handle and gives me a one-armed hug. “Have a good break. Unless you want to change your mind and come home with me…you’ll get a lot of really delicious Indian food and only thirty-four questions about your major and career plans.”
I snicker. A little parental badgering doesn’t sound that awful. Actually, it sounds kind of nice.
But instead, I say, “I’m good,” and walk her to the d
oor for another real hug. “Have a good break, Shams.”
~
An hour later, I’m awakened by the buzz of my phone on my desk. I turn off the Crybaby credits and look at the number. Giancarlo.
“Hello?”
“What are you doing?” His voice, as always, is abrupt and direct.
“I…I just woke up,” I say, sitting up and pushing a tired hand through my hair. A glance at the clock tells me it’s almost four thirty.
“Meet me at Rockefeller Center.”
He doesn’t make requests, I’m starting to notice.
“I just woke up,” I repeat. “What time?”
“I’m here now. Have you ever seen the tree?”
“No.”
“Then meet me here.”
I stare at myself in the mirror across the way. I look pale, with dark circles under my eyes. Even though I’ve been sleeping more than usual, I always feel tired.
I think of Giancarlo’s intense energy––the way he seems like he knows exactly what he wants. From me. From his life. His direction is invigorating. I wasn’t quite sure what to make of it all last night, but I can’t shake off the fact that being around him made me feel something other than half-asleep for the first time in weeks. Maybe he’s what I need to wake up.
I push off the bed and walk toward the closet. “Okay,” I agree. “I’ll be there in about an hour.”
~
Fifty-five minutes later, I step out of the Forty-Seventh Street stop dressed practically in jeans, boots, and my parka, looking around for Giancarlo, who said he would meet me at the stop. Feeling self-conscious, like I’m being watched, I see nothing. I don’t really want to wait by myself here forever. I’m not alone––Rockefeller Center is always busy, especially this time of year. But for some reason I feel like a sitting duck just standing here beside a subway stop.
“Did you think I wouldn’t be here?”
Giancarlo steps out of the shadows of a building next to the stop, one hand shoved into the pocket of the same long black wool coat he wore yesterday. He dresses a little more formally than most guys his age––like he’s forty-three, not twenty-three. He carries a large brown paper bag in his other hand.
I shake my head. “I wasn’t worried. What’s that?”
“You’ll see.” He places an authoritative arm around my shoulder and pulls me close. “Don’t worry. I would never forget about you.”
We walk down Forty-Eighth and across the street. Giancarlo guides me around the iconic buildings until we reach the familiar skating rink. It’s one of those surreal places in New York where you don’t really feel like you’re in a real city, but on a movie set––a place you’ve seen so many times in so many different films that when you see it, you can’t escape the déjà vu.
“You know, you’re lucky to meet me,” he says as he guides me around the rink. “A lot of boys might want you to look perfect all the time, but I don’t mind the ‘natural look.’”
He looks pointedly at my hair, which is arranged on my shoulder in its air-dried waves. I tried to tame it, but it wasn’t cooperating, so I just shoved a hat on top and left.
“Um, thanks,” I say, trying to ignore the way his compliment doesn’t really feel like one.
We stop and watch the skaters below. The rink is pretty full, with a long line of people waiting. Giancarlo looks bored.
“Do you want to skate?” I ask playfully.
He rolls his eyes. “I would never do that. They look ridiculous. Only a few of them can skate at all, and the others look like idiots.” He shakes his head. “I don’t waste my time on things that don’t matter.” He looks down and gives me a sly half-smile. “Not like you, of course. Don’t worry.”
He keeps saying that. Don’t worry. I want to say that I don’t, but I’m not sure it’s true.
I turn toward the rink. “I don’t know. It looks kind of fun. Don’t you like to try new things?”
“Only when I know I’ll be good at them,” Giancarlo answers. “Otherwise, there’s no point.” He pushes off the railing and takes my hand. “Come.”
He leads me to the other side of the rink, where crowds of people are all posing in front of the famous Rockefeller Christmas tree. I’ve never actually seen it in person even though I’ve lived here for the better part of three years. It’s another phantom from movies, a glittering giant of golden light.
“Too much,” Giancarlo mutters as he surveys the tree.
I blink. “You think?”
“Look at it. A hundred feet tall, covered in gold, sparkly fake presents. It has, how do you say, no class. Like what Americans think rich looks like.”
“Why did you take me here, then?”
Giancarlo shrugs, reaches down for my hand, but before he can take it, I put it in my pocket. “You wanted Christmas,” he says with a slight frown at the movement. “This––big tree, lots of presents––is Christmas in America, no?”
I turn back to the tree. Even though I never came to see it last year, there is actually something comforting about it. How many movies have I seen it in? And how many trees have I decorated with my mother, albeit on a much smaller scale.
“I suppose it is a little,” I admit. “But I’m not just an American.”
Giancarlo snorts. “Yes, you are. Your father went to Brazil by himself, didn’t he?”
I open my mouth with a quick retort, but find I have none. Maybe he doesn’t mean it to, but the comments sting. Granted, Giancarlo knows only a little about my family’s situation––little bits and pieces I’ve told him. Maybe not enough to use it as the weapon it sounds like.
We stare up at the lights for a few more minutes. I want to enjoy the beauty of it, but I can feel Giancarlo’s disdain, even though he doesn’t say anything else. I’ve never been to Argentina, even though it borders Brazil. But I know that economically, it shares a lot of the same problems as my father’s country. A lot of concentrated wealth, and a lot more poverty than here.
But Giancarlo’s family isn’t poor. His tastes, styles, even his casual entitlement belies an upbringing that’s pretty far from the slums. I glance at the sturdy gold ring on his index finger, his shiny black shoes, then look back at the tree, trying to see what he sees.
“Are you finished?” he asks a few seconds later.
I sigh. If it were just me, I might have stayed longer. Found a seat on a bench with a coffee, spent some time watching the crowds. Tried to have a conversation. It’s the kind of thing Nico and I would have done together, content just to be in each other’s presence, no matter where we were.
But this wasn’t even my idea in the first place, Giancarlo doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who likes to people-watch. I’m also not sure I want to see what he’s like when his own plans are disrupted.
~
To my surprise, instead of leading me to the street for a cab or even to say goodbye at the subway, Giancarlo guides me up Fifth with a firm hand at my elbow. He stops in a deli for a couple of hot teas, which we carry up the street as we walk. I’m still thinking about his reaction to the tree, and finally, I can’t keep back my questions anymore.
“Your family in Argentina,” I start slowly. “What do they do?”
Giancarlo frowns. He does that a lot, and it makes his thick black brows furrow over his glasses, like a scholar deep in thought. It’s attractive…but intimidating. Which is basically him in a nutshell.
“Why do you want to know?” he asks.
Now it’s my turn to frown. “Curiosity. I just want to know more about you, I guess.”
He presses his lips together, like he’s trying to decipher if I’m telling the truth. Then his shoulders seem to relax. “My father, he owns a shipping company in Buenos Aires. It controls almost ten full percent of Argentinian exports.”
“Oh…so it’s…a good business?” I don’t know how to ask if his family makes money without sounding like a gold digger or something equally awful. I have no idea if ten percent of Argentinian exports i
s a lot, but I assume it is.
Giancarlo smirks. “It’s excellent. My father is one of the most successful men in Buenos Aires. They have asked him to run for mayor. There has even been talk of him becoming president, but he said no. His work is too important. And one day, I will take over.”
“Oh,” I say. “Well, that must be…nice.” I’m not sure how to respond to that. “Then why do you live in that apartment?”
The question jumps out before I can stop it, before I realize how terrible and rude it is. But I’m still curious. If Giancarlo’s family is wealthy enough to send him as an international student to study in the U.S., he obviously isn’t poor. It’s a little strange that he lives in such a brittle little place. Close to his school, yes. But there are nicer places in that part of the city too. Places where a shipping magnate would seem more likely to house his son.
He shrugs. “He pays for my tuition,” he says. “But my father insists that I earn the rest of my money. I don’t have a golden fork like some people.”
I twist my lips. “What?”
“You know. The golden fork. That rich children have. It’s a saying, no?”
“The golden…” I trail off, thinking it through. “Ohh! You mean a silver spoon!” I erupt with laughter. “It’s ‘silver spoon,’ not ‘golden fork,’ silly.”
Now he scowls, confused. “Why would it be silver? Gold is the more valuable metal.”
I shrug, still giggling. “It just is. The saying is, ‘born with a silver spoon.’” I nudge his shoulder, although my shoulder only comes just above his elbow. He really is tall. “It’s okay. I figured it out in the end.”
Giancarlo grunts. “It’s not nice, you know, to tease a person still learning the language. I am trying my best.”
At first I think he’s joking, but his black look tells me he’s not. Instantly, I feel awful for teasing him.
“Hey, I’m sorry,” I say, tugging on his sleeve. “Really, I am. You’re right, that was mean.”
Giancarlo examines me skeptically over the rim of his cup, and for a half-second, I think he’s going to tell me to fuck off (albeit in a much more refined way). My parents would like him. He’s strong and solid, just like my dad. He’s cultured, on his way to being educated, and comes from money. Motivated. Everything my mom wanted to marry, and my father wants to be. Or wanted.
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