After I packed up, I stood outside on Via Della Gensola, the little street with the clay windowsills, the motorcycles parked along the walls, the whispers of Italian conversation flowing out the windows. What was my next move?

I managed to bum around Rome for a few hours. In a café. On some steps. And then I remembered: Jahan lived nearby. I thought I’d go ask him for advice—whether I should stay in Rome, what I should say to my parents. He seemed to know everything, and he’d been in my boat before, or at least half of it, with his Iranian dad.

Jahan’s apartment was across the street from an art gallery–themed café in Trastevere, I remembered—“I like to look at the artwork from my window,” he had mentioned the night before. I didn’t know which unit was his, so I buzzed every single one. I got a few angry and confused Italians, but eventually I got Jahan. He let me up.

When he opened the door, Jahan was buttoning up a short-sleeved shirt with dinosaurs printed all over. “What a surprise. It’s the American!” he exclaimed. “I’m getting dressed for a dinner party at my friend Giovanni’s. Would you like to join?”

“Oh no,” I said, flustered. “I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

“Don’t taarof me, Amir. I invited you. Accept.”

I couldn’t help but smile. Taarof—the Iranian tradition of pretending to turn something down out of politeness. And hey, it’s not every day you’re invited to an Italian dinner party. I’d figure out a place to stay later. I accepted Jahan’s invitation, he told me to leave my duffel in a corner next to a stack of poetry books—he didn’t ask any questions—and we took off.

The apartment was gigantic. It took up three floors in an old building in Monti, a neighborhood near the Colosseum. It was like entering a museum, with marble busts and antiques sprinkled around, and a twelve-foot-tall painting hanging over the dining room table. The apartment belonged to Giovanni Marcello di Napoli, who opened the door and air-kissed Jahan on each cheek. Giovanni was wearing a tight black shirt, tight jeans, and a belt with the letter G on it. I guess he really liked his name. He led us through an ornate room to a group of men, all fit, all wearing tank tops or tight T-shirts.

Dinner wouldn’t be served for another hour, so we floated around the room. Everyone was in their late twenties, like Jahan, maybe their early thirties. Jahan introduced me to his friends, and I felt like I stood out like a sore thumb. It wasn’t just the age difference. One of them was wearing hoop earrings. Another had pristinely arched eyebrows and spoke with a strong lisp. I thought being around people like me would feel like the perfect shoe fit, but instead, it felt like I had stepped into high heels.

-15: Might not get along with other gay men.

“Ciao, Giovanni!” I heard from the other room. I recognized the voice, even though I’d only heard it speaking English before. It was like an avalanche, the way that perfect human rushed right back into my mind. The mess of brown hair. The perfectly symmetrical face. The not-too-muscular arms and tousle of chest hair poking out of his loose tank top.