“I thought he was my amore,” Valerio said, he said, taking a last bite of our primi, the pasta dish. It was the most delicious red-sauced pasta I’ve had in my life. “I was not expecting the breakup. I was extremely heartbroken.”

I assumed this meant that Valerio was still a virgin, like me, until he told me about the aftermath.

“I am very sensitive when the people I like disappear. It is the Italian in me. We are very emotional.” He paused. “You could say I am scarred.”

“In America we call that ghosting,” I said.

“Yes, I am afraid of ghosts.” Valerio chuckled, probably pleased with himself that he’d made a dating/Halloween crossover joke. But then his face got grim. “After my amore and I broke up, he stopped talking to me. And so I went out with my friends that Friday night. I met a boy who quite literally swept me off my feet. He marched up to me at the bar, and I thought there was someone attractive behind me, so I turned around. But he wanted me. He said, ‘Un bel ragazzo’—beautiful man—with such confidence.”

The waiter stopped by and dropped off our secondi. Valerio said “grazie” and gestured at me to take a bite, and over a thin slice of veal that melted in my mouth, I asked him to keep telling the story.

“Oh, he was beautiful himself,” Valerio said, his eyes lost in the past. “Beach-blond hair, tall, tan like a Sicilian. I could not have drawn up a more attractive man. Within minutes we were kissing. My friends left me with this boy. I believe his name was Alessio. I will spare you the details, except that on our way to his apartment just blocks away from the bar, he bought me a rose from one of those street peddlers. A rose! And so in my drunken, heartbroken state that night, I slept with him. He was gentle. So kind. The next morning, I walked home from his apartment, happier than I had ever been with my amore. I felt hope. I felt wanted.”

I knew where this story was headed, and my face turned grim as well. “He never texted you,” I said. “Did he?”

Valerio’s eyes fell to the table. “He did not. Another ghost. It truly hurt.”

I took a long sip of red wine. I couldn’t help but think about Jackson, how I might have hurt him in the same way when I just cut him off like that.

“I’m sorry, Valerio,” I said.

“It is fine,” he said, and he raised his glass to me. “Nothing a little wine cannot help.”

“Salute,” I said.

“Cheers,” he said, exhaling.

Dessert was sweet and soft and cocoa-filled. The lights strewn around the outdoor restaurant grew brighter. We stumbled off back to Valerio’s motorcycle—at least, I did. Valerio only had one glass; I finished the bottle. I assumed this was the end of the night, but Valerio drove past my neighborhood and up and up a winding road until we reached the most amazing view of Rome.