“I don’t understand why anyone would ever leave Italy,” I said.

Valerio looked at me and laughed. “Of course you do not. You are American. But for us, it is different. All my mother ever wanted was for me to leave Puglia and go somewhere like London, Copenhagen, New York. But now I do not think it is possible.”

“Why not?”

Valerio’s jaw tensed.

“Do you remember at Rigatteria, when you looked up my university on your phone,” he said, “and read that it was one of the best in Italy?”

I nodded.

“I got into a better university in England. One of the best ones in the world. But then my mother got sick. Ovarian cancer, a long, drawn-out bastard. That is why I am working so much this summer.”

“Because the hospital bills are so bad?”

“What? No.” Valerio looked at me like I was crazy. “Unlike in your country, we believe health care is a right. I am working because my mother cannot work in this condition. She wanted me to go to London, but with our finances, it would have been impossible. I have younger sisters in school, and there are bills to pay. I had to stay.”

We approached a large door, entering what seemed like another courtyard flooded with sunlight.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“Do not be,” Valerio said. We had entered an outdoor pathway connecting two chambers. No courtyard in sight. “In Italy, family is everything. It was my choice. Though maybe if I had gone to London, I would not have had cute boys falling asleep on me after a nice date.”

I grinned like a fool. “How many times do I have to say it? Italian. Food. It’s just not suitable for dates. I don’t see how the words ‘romantic’ and ‘Italian dinner’ can ever be used together.”

Valerio and I moved slowly across the walkway, soaking up that first moment of sunlight since we started our Vatican tour.

“What about your family?” Valerio asked.

I took a sharp breath. “I don’t really talk to them anymore,” I said shyly. “They’re not cool with the gay thing. So I guess they’re not cool with me.”

Valerio grew silent. I looked over to read his expression when his eyes lit up. Suddenly, he glanced quickly over his shoulder, grabbed my arm, and tugged me forward.

He pulled me behind a wooden door that was propped open at the end of the walkway, just before the next exhibit, into a little hiding spot in the corner. It was dark. I could hear the chatter of people, footsteps, behind the door. I opened my mouth to ask what the hell he was doing when Valerio leaned in and kissed me.

I pulled back.

“What are you doing?” I said, my eyes big and scared.

Valerio held my face and whispered, “I am cool with the gay thing. Fuck everyone else.”

“But we’re at the Vatican.”

“So what?”

“So, like, Catholicism.” I remembered how Jackson wore a silver cross around his neck that, when we were lying in his car with the seats reclined, would press into my arms and leave a mark. Sometimes I’d get anxious that that mark would give me away if my mom or dad ever noticed it.