I sighed. “Yes and no. It’s more a culture thing. Our culture is pretty conservative, even if you’re not religious. Like, my parents and I have never even talked about sex. I always knew that when and if I came out to them, it would be like two coming-outs: ‘Mom and Dad, first of all, I’m a sexual being, and then oh yeah, and I like dudes.’”

“Wow. I’m sorry.” Laura laughed, but her eyes were sympathetic. “I had no idea.”

“It’s okay,” I said quietly.

Laura looked back at the restaurant. “I haven’t told my parents, either. About me. They’re not religious or anything, I just . . . I don’t know. They’re traditional in some ways. They think I’m like this”—she gestured at her cropped hair, her studded tank top, her Doc Martens—“because I’m an artist.”

We stared at each other for a second.

“Besides,” Laura continued, “I’m bi. I could still end up with a man. That sounds awful, doesn’t it? Like, ‘There’s a chance I might not be a fucking weirdo in the eyes of my parents.’”

“No, it’s not awful! I think that’s a totally reasonable thing to think,” I said. “It would make your life a lot easier.”

“But life’s not supposed to be easy, you know?”

“Sometimes I wish it were.”

“It wasn’t easy for old Bartholomew over there,” Laura said, gesturing to the church. She made a skin-peeling gesture over her face and I just about died laughing. An old man reading a newspaper a few tables over muttered something at us in Italian, and Laura snapped right back at him.

“Damn,” I said. “You’re kind of a badass. You know that?”

“Of course I do.”

I leaned back into my chair a little and exhaled. “So, what’s Rome like for people our age? I’ve been hanging out with these older gay guys here, and I feel like maybe I should . . . start branching out.”

“Honestly? It’s kind of shit,” Laura said. “I like college in America better. My girlfriend and I met at a frat party, just like in the movies. Still, Rome can be all right. You’ll have to come have a drink with my friends and me sometime.”

I nodded. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

• • •

That evening, I met Neil at Rigatteria for our Italian lesson. It had honestly been a relief to finally hear from him; it had been a few days, and I was starting to believe maybe he was pissed off at me, too.

“We missed you this weekend,” Neil said. We were sitting at the small table in the corner where we had our first lesson.

“Come on. You know there was no way I could come,” I said.

“What do you mean?”

I gave him a look. I realized Neil legitimately had no idea what had happened. I explained all the drama to him: the hookup, the breakup, Jahan finding out.

“Hey,” Neil said, rubbing my shoulder. “None of that is your fault.”