“Did you fuck?” Rocco asked.

“Rocco, shut up,” Neil hissed. “Keep going, Amir.”

I nodded. “But then Jackson noticed something. He looked over across the aisle, and behind the last row, there was a space. Just a foot or two between the back of the seats and the wall. Enough space for two people to fit in.”

“Oh my God,” Rocco said, and Jahan nearly shoved him off the bench.

My heart was thumping faster. I took a breath. “Jackson looked over at that space, and my eyes followed, and we just stared at each other in the dark. I think we were thinking the same thing. All I wanted in that moment was Jackson, on a flat surface. Not a car seat, not a movie theater seat. So we went.”

• • •

After the park, we stopped by Mercato Testaccio, a busy market with small stands and portly sellers that was filled to the brim with tourists. We had to pick up some ingredients for dinner—pasta and vegetables, meats and cheeses.

Jahan seemed to know all the vendors. Every time we went to pick something up, Jahan would chitchat with the person at the stand. They never wanted to let him pay. He’d pull out his wallet and the seller would wave their hands and it went back and forth like this until they finally took his money. It reminded me of the battle to pay the bill any time my family went out to dinner with another Iranian family. Soraya and I never understood why they couldn’t just split it. I mean, we knew why, but still.

We went back to Jahan’s apartment across the river to cook dinner together. Jahan had to run out and grab some wine, and Neil was preparing the salad in the other room, which meant I was stuck in the tiny kitchen with Rocco.

I started to rip the plastic wrapping off the pasta from the market. Rocco shook his head. “No, you have to boil the water first.”

“I knew that,” I said. I looked around the kitchen. I was still in a bit of a funk after the call with my parents. Rocco sighed audibly and bent down to get a pot from one of the cupboards.

“Here, fill this with water,” Rocco said.

I took the pot and went to fill it up in the sink.

“That’s enough,” he said, turning the faucet off. Rocco reached under my arms and took the pot over to the gas stove. He twisted the knob. Click, click, click, fire.

I slid around him and started opening the can of pomodoro tomatoes on the counter. Rocco was watching me out of the side of his eye as I pulled the metal lid off.

“Do not spill the tomatoes,” Rocco said to me. “Giovanni’s cleaning lady had to spend an hour cleaning up the next day after you spilled those meatballs.”

The water wasn’t boiling yet, but my blood was. Ever since the night I rejected him, Rocco had been acting generally unpleasant around me, but tonight he was on another level. I wasn’t in the mood for his shit.