I was standing next to the big painting—a Caravaggio, Jahan had told me—when Neil entered the room, and as he approached, I puffed my shoulders and bumped into the gilded frame. “I remember you!” he said, pointing at me. I swear I died right there. It’s possible I literally melted into the canvas. “You’re the boy from the bookstore,” Neil added, and this time, I managed a smile.

We were huddled in the back of the dining room, away from everyone else. Jahan, Neil, Giovanni, me, and this naked painted lady with her arm in the air, all ta-da in the painting. “So, Jahan tells me you are a writer,” Giovanni said, eyeing Jahan and Neil. His voice was a mix of Italian and high-society British, and if I had to describe his aesthetic, it’s tank-top-monocle-chic. “Do you write books?”

“No, no,” Jahan said. “He’s far too young to be a novelist.”

“We did meet in a bookshop,” Neil added kindly.

“Who do you write for?” Giovanni asked quickly. The three of them exchanged glances, like they had already discussed my prolific writing career on some text thread. Even Caravaggio’s naked lady looked suspicious.

I was about to reply when Jahan cut me off. “We know who you really are, Amir.”

I froze. And then Jahan looked at the other guys, clapped his hands up to his chest and giggled. “Oh! That was far more dramatic than I intended it to be. I just meant to say, we know you’re not really a writer.”

“What?” I replied.

Jahan gave me a side-eye. “Oh, come on. You’re hiding something. I mean, you’re eighteen years old and you’re in Rome, by yourself, to ‘write.’ Come on. Either you’re the Nigerian prince of ‘writers,’ or some Talented Mr. Ripley wannabe, or something is up. You’re not fooling anyone. Now, just tell us. We’re your friends. What really brought you to Rome?”

I looked around frantically at the antique busts and miniature ships all over the room. It was seriously a wonder that this place didn’t have air-conditioning. My armpits were damp, and my palms were slick. I was burning up. I felt exposed, I wanted no part in this conversation, and I wanted to leave. But I also wanted to know who this “talented” Mr. Ripley was, and was it a compliment? Yet another reference I didn’t understand. Yay.

But then one magic line struck me like paint hitting a canvas: we’re your friends. Jahan had stated it as plain, unambiguous fact. Was that how it worked in gay world? Was being attracted to men somehow all it took to be friends—a common experience to bond us instantly and forever? In this moment, it seemed that way. It seemed these people had accepted me into their tribe for no other reason than that. And if that was the case, then it was entirely possible that they would understand why I’d lied to them. Jahan, Neil, Giovanni—they would uniquely understand why I came to Rome.