Dinner at Fiorello’s

by Rick R. Reed

  Or two, he could do what not only his mind was telling him to do, but also his body. Instinct pulled him inside the bedroom. He stood for a moment beside the bed, gnawing on his lower lip. He could hear the rumble of the ‘L’ train down the street. A breeze, actually cool, came in through the window.

  Henry didn’t allow himself to think as he removed his clothes, all of them, and lay down beside Vito. He tried to move gingerly, so as not to disturb the slumbering man next to him, but the box springs creaked. Henry’s weight caused Vito to roll toward him.

  Henry lay back on the bed, hardly daring to breathe. He looked over at Vito and was surprised to see his eyes open, those dark brown irises considering him. He was expecting Vito to ask what the hell he thought he was doing or to tell Henry to get dressed and get the fuck out of his bedroom, get the fuck out of his apartment, his life. That was the Vito Henry knew and expected.

  But Vito stared for only a few moments, and then he reached for him with both arms. Henry leaned into his embrace, scooting closer until his smooth body was aligned with Vito’s hairy one, one continuous line of flesh merging and meshing, electric. Henry swore he could feel Vito’s heartbeat.

  Henry closed his eyes. He couldn’t help it. He grew rock hard and could actually feel spasms, indicating he could come any second. He sucked in a breath, gritting his teeth and willing himself not to let go, and the moment passed—for now.

  Vito pulled him close, so close, almost mashing Henry up against him, although Henry was definitely not complaining. Henry’s head was pushed over Vito’s shoulder, and he maneuvered himself back just a bit so he could gently kiss and lick Vito’s neck. The skin was hot, slightly salty, and the taste of it was close to heaven. Henry gently bit down on Vito’s ear.

  He pulled back more so he could peer into Vito’s dark eyes. “Is this okay?” he whispered.

  In reply, Vito put both hands on Henry’s face and pulled him close, drawing him in for a kiss that was like no other Henry had ever experienced. Deep, soulful, and probing, Henry could do nothing but surrender to the power of those lips, that tongue, as in effect they consumed him. He kissed passionately back, the thoughts and worries at the edges of his mind floating away on the warm summer air.

  He felt Vito pushing against him, wriggling, and realized he was taking off his boxers. He got up from the bed, and Henry felt the absence of Vito’s body next to his own as a cold ache. He watched Vito kick off his boxers; they sailed into a corner of the room. And then he watched the rise and fall of Vito’s fur-covered ass as he shooed the dogs from the room.

  When he turned around, Henry gasped at the sight of Vito’s cock, rising from between his thighs and already leaking precome.

  Vito’s eyes met Henry’s, and he said softly, “This is so wrong.”

  Henry merely shook his head. “I think it’s just the opposite. Come back here.” Henry held out his arms.

  And Vito fell into them, covering Henry’s body like a warm, furry blanket. Their cocks were mashed together, and their lips soon followed suit.

  It had been, Henry guessed, a very long time for Vito. With a few more kisses and just the simple rub of their bodies together, Vito gasped after a minute or two, and Henry closed his eyes as he felt the hot gush of semen spurting across his belly. It caused a sympathetic reaction in Henry, and he arched his back and cried out as he came.

  They kissed again, their come merging, gluing them together as they squeezed one another, both shuddering.

  And then Vito rolled off Henry. He stared up at the ceiling for a long time as his breathing returned to normal. Henry wondered what he was thinking about. Was he feeling the same kind of ecstasy now coursing through Henry’s veins, or was something more melancholy asserting itself under those unreadable features? Henry studied Vito’s face in profile but couldn’t read his expression. To Henry, he merely looked tired.

  After a long while, Vito spoke. “That was the first time.”

  Henry wondered for a moment what he meant. For himself, Henry would have to say that was about his own third time, but he knew Vito had to be a lot more experienced than that.

  And then it dawned on him. Of course. “Since—”

  Vito turned toward him, putting the back of his hand against Henry’s cheek. “Yeah. Since Kevin.” He shrugged. “I couldn’t bring myself to be close to another man after he was gone.”

  He removed his hand to let it rest on Henry’s chest and then moved it again, replacing the hand with his head. Henry stroked the dark hair, delighting in its silk.

  Vito said, “But when I saw you, that first day in the restaurant, when Rosalie brought you back in the kitchen, I knew. I knew you might be the one to make me do something I wondered if I would ever want to do again.”

  “You did?” Henry remembered what a klutz he’d been. How that could attract someone was beyond him. Yet he was glad for what Vito said.

  “I know, I know. You wouldn’t have been able to tell. But I’ve lusted after you since the moment I saw you.” Vito took in a deep breath and held it. “You remind me so much of my Kev.”

  Henry shut his eyes, feeling a heart-piercing kind of pain that nearly eradicated the joy he’d felt only seconds ago. Of course. That has to be it. I just remind him of his dead husband. It’s kinda sweet and very, very sad. Don’t kid yourself, kid. This isn’t about you. Henry turned away from Vito and stared at the wall. Amazing how fast a moment can turn to shit.

  Henry listened as Vito breathed easily behind him. He wanted to get up and leave the room, leave the apartment. Maybe try and return to his old life. He had no place here. He should have known that—before he let himself be used again. There might be a resemblance between him and this Kevin, but he wasn’t Kevin, and Henry was not too young to realize he could never compete with the idealized image of a ghost. Who could?

  He turned back to Vito, feeling something simmering within him. He wasn’t sure if he could call it anger or sadness or simply bewilderment, but he felt off, nowhere near the calm and contentment he’d felt just after coming. The words were out of his mouth before he had a chance to consider them.

  He asked again, “Why? Why did you buzz me in? Was it because of him? Because I reminded you of Kevin?”

  Vito ran his fingers over Henry’s face as if he were a blind man. He traced the contours of Henry’s lips, and Henry resisted the urge to take his fingers in his mouth. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to suck them—or bite them.

  “Is that what you think? Are you jealous?” Vito asked.

  Henry started to protest but then realized jealous was exactly what he was. It might be petty, but his feelings were what they were, and when called out so baldly, Henry couldn’t deny that Vito was right. “I don’t know. Maybe a little.”

  Vito laughed. “You can’t be jealous of Kevin. He’s gone.”

  “I can be whatever I want.” Henry sat up but allowed his back to rest against the wooden headboard. He was realizing, maybe for the first time, that jealousy was not a rational emotion. But it sure could be a strong one!

  “Look. If it makes you feel better, I’m not looking for a replacement for Kevin. I don’t know that I’m looking for anything, period. I still hurt. I still feel like my world has a hole in it, and I don’t know what to do to fill it.” Vito sighed. “I don’t even know if I want to fill it. Sometimes grief is the only thing that connects us to ones we’ve loved and lost.” He stared hard at Henry. “It can be hard to let that go.”

  Henry nodded, feeling a twinge of shame at his own emotions. He touched Vito’s chest for a moment and then drew his hand away. Henry had never lost anyone, not in such a permanent way, and he realized he couldn’t even hope to understand the depths of Vito’s despair.

  Vito swallowed and laid his head on Henry’s stomach. “When I said you reminded me of Kevin, I meant it as a good thing. You not only look something like him, although your looks are sweeter, more innocent, and maybe that’s just your age. But the real reason you remind me of him is bec
ause you are sweet—and stubborn. Just like he was. I can tell you’re a little afraid of me, but I can also see that you won’t put up with my bullshit for very long.”

  Henry didn’t know how true the latter part of that statement was, so he didn’t say anything other than to ask another question. “Why did you wanna have sex with me?”

  Vito chuckled. “Because you laid down naked beside me?”

  “I suppose that’s as good a reason as any,” Henry said sadly.

  Vito reached up and tweaked Henry’s nipple—hard. “Ouch!” Henry pulled away.

  Vito said, “You want to know the real reason? The real reason is because I like you, maybe even I’m falling for you, in spite of lots of little voices inside me telling me it’s a very bad idea. They’re saying you’re too young, too rich. You’ve got too many problems of your own. I’ve got too many problems of my own. I’m not ready. I need more time. They’re telling me all that.

  “And I think, finally, and I know I’m right, that those voices are full of shit. I made love to you because I wanted to, because, as I have to admit as much to myself as to you, I wanted to from the first moment I saw you.

  “I wanted to make love to you because you were—are—a bridge back to living. It’s a bridge I wasn’t sure I ever wanted to cross again.”

  Vito pulled himself up so he could kiss Henry deeply, soulfully. He moved away, and their eyes locked. “But I do. You came into my life just when I needed you. You gave me the one thing I realized I was lacking since Kev and my Sal passed away.”

  “What’s that?” Henry asked.

  “Hope. Do you know what it’s like to lose hope? Before, even when my life was shitty, I could always make myself believe that something good was waiting for me just around this or that corner, that the rain would stop and the sun would come out again.” Vito laughed. “Don’t make me sing that song from Annie, Henry. But seriously, I always had hope, until it seemed even that emotion died with those two boys I loved so very much.” Vito kissed Henry’s ear. “I feel hope again. And it’s because of you. Not because you remind me of him, although you do, but because you gave me that incredible gift back. I didn’t know how much I missed it, how much it was making my whole life a very dark and lonely place.” Vito kissed Henry’s lips softly. “I don’t know where we’ll go from here, sweet boy, but I have this warm thing in my heart that allows me to think that we may wind up somewhere—together.”

  Henry pulled Vito close, trying hard to hold back the tears, which was pretty easy when he considered his other head, the one farther south, had risen up and was weeping its own tears of joy.

  Thoughts, emotions, and heat all became tangled up as they gripped and groped each other again, exploring and tasting. This time, they took their time, and when it was over, they both knew what the other’s come tasted like.

  The light outside the window had changed, telling a tale of late afternoon. Outside the door, the dogs had become restless. Henry could hear them pacing and realized they needed to go outside, be fed, or both. Both, yes, indeed.

  “We have to get to work soon.” Henry swung his legs over the edge of the bed.

  Vito pulled him back down. “We have a little time. There’s something I want to say to you.”

  “Are you gonna tell me you love me?” Henry asked.

  “Oh, you kid. No, that wasn’t what I was going to say. And even if I did feel that right now, I wouldn’t say it for fear of it sounding like I was coerced into it. So let’s wait on that, shall we? What I wanted to tell you was just as important, though.”

  Henry looked at Vito, knowing there was a question on his face.

  “You know what I said about hope?”

  Henry nodded.

  “You should take it to heart. You told me about your family and, in particular, your dad.”

  Henry turned his head away, and he found himself staring intently at the wall. He wasn’t sure he wanted to listen anymore.

  Vito’s hand on his shoulder forced him back. “I know it’s hard to hear this now. But there is hope—for you too. And for them.” Vito took a breath and said, “Family is everything. Be patient. Be there. Wait. Love.”

  “Yeah, but your family loved you. They didn’t love some idea—”

  Vito cut him off before he could say any more. “For one, my family of origin, the one I grew up with, wasn’t always crazy about me being gay. When my mom first found out, she went to church and lit a candle, praying the gay would be ‘ripped out of me.’” Vito flopped Henry’s penis from one side to the other. “We both know how well that worked out. My point is, people change. It sounds like your mom has her own issues. You need to remember that our parents are people too. They don’t exist solely as parents, you know? And your dad? I think he’ll come around. He loves you.”

  “I don’t know about that.”

  “All I’m saying is, keep an open mind, give him a little time.” Vito gently turned Henry’s face until he was forced to confront Vito’s dark-eyed gaze. “We never know how long those we love will be with us.”

  All at once, Henry understood. He didn’t know how or when or even if the rips in his family could be mended, but they might be. One day. In the meantime, he had this man who had more depth than he ever imagined, lying here beside him, naked and full of hope for the two of them.

  Things weren’t so bad after all.

  Henry put his arms around Vito and whispered, “Do we have time for one more round?”

  Vito chuckled. “My, you are young.”

  “And so are you,” Henry said, pulling Vito closer, closer. “Come on.”

  And Vito did.

  EPILOGUE

  Four Months Later

  HENRY STANDS next to the table where his father and Maxine are seated. In each of Henry’s hands is a plate. The aromas wafting up from them just about eclipse the nervousness Henry’s feeling because, well, the braciole just smells so damn good, it’s hard to think about anything else.

  And yet it’s not enough.

  He sets the first plate down before Maxine, who looks up at him with tears in her eyes.

  “What? Food makes you cry now?” Henry says to his parents’ housekeeper and his surrogate mother. He says the words in a mocking way because the expression on her face—the pride, the love, the joy all jumbled together in her damp eyes and crooked smile—is making him want to cry and this is the only way he can think to stop from shedding a few tears himself. And he wants to be professional.

  “No, Henry,” Maxine says. “I’m just so damn proud of you.” She touches his hand and looks up at him. Her eyes say a lot, but what they’re mostly saying is You did the right thing.

  And then there’s his dad. Henry hasn’t spoken to him since the summer, since his father said he was no longer his son and threw him out. Little did Henry know, back then, his father was doing the best thing he ever could have done for him. He doubted his father knew it either.

  His father doesn’t say anything right away. He looks down at the plate of food before him. The braciole—flank steak rolled up and stuffed with a mixture of breadcrumbs, garlic, parsley, and Romano and provolone cheeses—sits, perfectly rolled, in a pool of steaming marinara sauce, redolent with garlic and sweet basil. There’s a dusting of Italian parsley and shaved Parmigiano-Reggiano. His father picks up his fork, puts it back down. He takes a sip of wine, a very nice Sicilian import Rosalie helped Henry pick out.

  “You made this?” his dad asks.

  “Yeah, Dad. First time I’ve been allowed to cook in the kitchen by myself.”

  Henry watches as his father lifts his knife and fork, slices off a piece of the tender beef, and puts it in his mouth. As Henry absorbs the expression on his father’s face, he feels a little relief. It’s the look, what all cooks dream of when someone takes a bite of their food. It’s a kind of ecstasy, born of pure delight and sensation. His father has the look.

  “Oh my God,” his father says softly. “Damn. That’s good.”

  H
enry beams. “The head chef here, his name is Vito….” He glances over at Maxine and winks. He has told her all about Vito, a long time ago. “Vito says it’s even better than his own version. He doesn’t know why, since we use all the same ingredients, but he says mine just has more flavor, more layers, more intensity.”

  “It’s magic,” Maxine says, taking another bite.

  Henry nods.

  His father laughs. “God. My son!” He looks at Maxine. “Full of himself.”

  Maxine smirks. “He takes after his dad. And—” She takes a sip of wine and closes her eyes for a moment, savoring it. “—he deserves to be full of himself.”

  Henry steps back from the table. “I need to get back to the kitchen.” This is the first time he’s spoken to his dad since that terrible night four months ago, and Henry knows they have a lot more to talk about than food, but duty calls. He’s been in touch with Maxine, though, during this period and she’s sort of become his father’s unlikely friend and Henry’s tireless advocate.

  He starts to turn away.

  His father reaches out and tugs on his apron to stop him. Henry is in full chef garb tonight, even though it will be a long time before he can call himself chef. But because he’s actually cooking tonight and not just assisting Vito, he’s worn the chef’s clothes he bought for his nights cooking in the kitchen at Big Shoulders Culinary Institute, where he’s been enrolled full time since, well, two weeks ago, when classes began.

  Henry turns to look back at his dad.

  “You look good, son.” His father smiles.

  The words are simple, as simple as Henry’s outfit of black-and-white checked pants, white smock, and black Crocs—shoes he wouldn’t have been caught dead in when he was in high school, but they’re practical—but his father saying them means so much. Henry takes them as an acknowledgment that maybe he was right in following his dream.