But then we hit the rooftop. It was a completely different vibe upstairs, kind of like the difference between your brain before coffee and after coffee. Downstairs was decaf; the rooftop was triple espresso madness. Pretty Italian girls and handsome boys with tight jaws and even tighter shirts were dancing, and we danced alongside them. There were yellow lights, orange lights, so many lights. It was like we were at the center of the universe. If Rigatteria was a junk shop, the rooftop was its hidden treasure.

At four in the morning, Jahan did a split on the dance floor and ripped his pants. The party was as alive as ever.

At four thirty, Neil and his partner kissed. I’ll admit, it made me jealous. When they came over so Neil could introduce me to Francesco, my whole body tensed and my mouth turned dry. It was a short introduction, since Francesco didn’t actually speak any English, and Neil laughed and said, “Maybe I really should try and teach you Italian.” He slapped me playfully on the back. I think Francesco noticed my cheeks turning red.

I looked around the glowing rooftop and wondered when this would all come to an end. My Italy escapade, yes. But mostly this party. I wasn’t used to being out so late. Come to think of it, I wasn’t used to being out, period.

At five in the morning, people were still going strong, but our group left. We headed over to Garbo, the bar where I had met Jahan, for a “nightcap”—which I learned was not an article of clothing but an alcoholic drink you have before bed. (The vocabulary around drinking is truly astonishing.) Neil stayed behind to help his boyfriend—sorry, partner—he said he preferred that term, since it felt more serious, more committed—clean up. At Garbo, people sat around a clump of small round tables, drinking their nightcaps and telling wild stories.

Jahan appeared from the bar with a bottle of champagne.

“It’s time for a toast,” he said. “To many things. Neil and Francesco’s new bar. And our new friend, Amir.”

He held the champagne bottle under his arm and yanked the wooden cork off, and with that decisive pop, I decided that I was in awe of these people. As Jahan filled the champagne glasses with bubbly, golden delight, I felt incredibly lucky. I could have been alone. I could have been home dealing with the worst kind of coming out. Instead, I was with these men, this secret society of Italians and Americans who were free to be themselves. I felt happier than I’d felt in a very long time.

Most everyone soaked up Jahan’s toast, this moment, except for Rocco, Giovanni’s boyfriend. He refused to sit down. He went around the bar, arbitrarily pinching strangers’ nipples. (To be clear, this is still not the nipple story.) His boyfriend looked annoyed, but he tried his best not to intervene. He and Jahan were having a conversation. Rocco also showed off his macaroni art to me on his phone, which I pretended to be impressed with. It didn’t look much more advanced than Lego pieces.