Page 61 of Boy Friends
As if my thoughts propel him closer, Luca places the postcard deck on the bed and gets up. His knee bumps mine when he stops in front of me, and I’m forced to tilt back my head in order to meet his gaze.
‘Your hair is wet too, you know,’ he says, voice low and gentle. He pulls the towel from his shoulders and lifts his hand, but if he intended to dry my hair, I’ll never know. He halts at the sound of steps on the landing, and when hisattention flicks to the open door, I feel a rush of irritation at its loss.
A silhouette appears in the frame, followed by a knock.
‘Luca, I shouldn’t be surprised,’ Mum says, and I can’t tell if she’s being nice or passive aggressive. ‘Did you have a good break?’
He takes a step back, creates a casual distance between us. Before I can stop myself, I wonder if Mum is scared that his homosexuality will rub off on me. It’s not a new thought, but always a brutal one. I try to banish it from my mind, find something to distract me. My gaze settles on Hamza, and I take several steadying breaths.
‘I did, thank you. How was yours?’ Luca asks, ever polite.
‘I’ll never be a fan of flying, but Granada is beautiful,’ she admits.
‘Mum, look what Luca gave me for Christmas,’ I interrupt. I don’t know what it is exactly that prompts me to take the frame with Hamza’s picture and hold it out to her. Her face hardens and she steps back, as if I was dangling a dead bug from my fingers.
‘That’s nice. Luca, are you staying for dinner?’
He hesitates. From the corner of my eye, I sense that he’s asking me what to say, but my arm is still outstretched, my gaze on Mum.
‘I . . . I think Dad’s making lasagna. But thanks.’
She makes an odd grimace, a failed attempt at a smile, and flees the room.
A bitter feeling settles in my gut. I don’t think I’ll be able to sit across from her at dinner tonight. I wouldn’t be able to swallow a single bite. She acted exactly like this whenAbuela summoned up the little English she knows to tell us that she keeps Hamza in her daily prayers. Mum instantly changed the topic, pretended she didn’t hear.
‘She acts like he never existed,’ I mutter, and the bitterness in my gut begins to simmer.That’s nice, she said. How cold can a person be?
‘She’s hurting,’ Luca says so softly the words are barely there.
‘We’re all hurting.’ The last thing I need is for Luca to defend my mother. I slam the picture back on to the desk. Immediately I feel guilty for mishandling Luca’s gift, for mistreating Hamza.
‘I should go,’ Luca says after a minute of tense silence. He grabs his backpack and makes to leave. As I watch him cross the room, something in me buckles with a violence I haven’t felt before.
For the past two weeks, the whole time I was away, I held my breath at every boy I came across, quietly hoping for Luca. He was hundreds of miles away, more distance between us than ever before, yet I saw him in the curve of a neck, the fall of a step, in strangers passing by. I saw him in my nights too, in the moonlight that fell through the shutters, wishing it was his fingers drawing lines on my skin instead.
‘Luca,’ I call out. He stops in the door but doesn’t turn. ‘Mind if I come?’
His shoulders relax.
‘Course not.’
I leave without saying anything to my parents. Outside, I’m glad, for once, that night falls early. At least nobody willsee us in the dark. I don’t keep a forced distance, instead I let my body find its usual spot to his right, so my shoulder nudges against his. I catch his scent – a hint of coffee, a bite of sea salt – and inhale deeply. He’s where I belong.
Luca’s gaze is glued to the ground. In the faint light, the exposed skin of his neck glows white like the moon, the vein a dark shadow blooming beneath.
‘So your dad’s made lasagna?’ I ask, to break the silence.
‘Daniel, more like,’ he replies. The way he says it makes me perk up.
‘Is that, like, a regular thing?’
‘We’ve definitely had a lot of Italian food lately,’ Luca replies. ‘I’m not complaining.’
Overcome by a sudden boldness, I place my hand right below the base of his skull and pull him into me without breaking our stride. His skin is cold, and I feel the ridges of his vertebrae press into my palm. We continue like this, heads close, hearts beating, all the way home.
SPRING
CHAPTER 23 – LUCA
