The Pairing(100)

We determine that the Jeans condoms are so named because they’re designed to fit discreetly in a pocket, so I buy a box and shove two in my shirt pocket, passing the remaining four off to the Germans for their patience. Then we continue along the route Fabrizio described to Theo, through the edge of the Spanish Quarter and uphill into a neighborhood whose buildings resemble the colorful stacked palazzos of Cinque Terre. Fabrizio lives close to Castel Sant’Elmo, on the third floor of a skinny, pink-red villa with yellow shutters and white iron balconies.

“So,” Theo says, hand hovering over the buzzer. “We’re doing this?”

Something wrinkles their face—not hesitation, but gentle concern, maybe. A possible out if I need it, and I’m afraid to lend weight to whatever is making them worry I might.

“We are,” I say, reaching past them to hit the buzzer.

The whole way up the stairs, as I watch Theo’s boots hit each step, I tell myself this isn’t a bad idea, the way I did with émile in Monaco. It’ll be hot, and easy, and lovely, the way that sex should be, and I’ll make sure everyone feels good. Like the times we had sex with a third person when we were together—just, without Theo’s reassuring hand in mine, or the calm certainty that we’ll come home to each other afterward, or the love.

Theo knocks, and Fabrizio—is not the person who answers.

“Hello!” says perhaps the most beautiful woman on the continent. “Welcome!”

We both stand dumbstruck on the doormat before this unexpected apparition of Venus with a dark, blunt-banged bob and plum-painted lips, a thin housedress falling midway down her thigh. She pulls the door wider, revealing Fabrizio in a fresh T-shirt and sweats, beaming.

“My friends! You are here! Benvenuti, come in!”

I have to nudge Theo in the shoulder to get them moving.

“Amore, questo è Kit, e quello è Theo,” Fabrizio says to the woman before turning to us. “Friends, this is Valentina, my wife!”

“Your—” I clear my throat. “Your wife!”

Theo’s eyes are as wide as mine. An entire conversation passes between us in the span of half a second.

I didn’t know he was married! Did you know he was married?

Of course I didn’t fucking know he was married, Kit, or I wouldn’t have assumed he was inviting us over for sex!

Did he ever mention having a wife?

I don’t think so? Is that weird? That’s weird, right?

She’s really hot.

She is insanely fucking hot.

“Ciao, piacere!” Theo says, leaning in to air-kiss Valentina and smoothly elbowing me in the ribs.

“So nice to meet you!” Valentina says in lightly accented English. “Fabrizio speaks of you so warmly!”

I accept an air-kiss of my own, casting about for something to say. The apartment is small and cozy, filled with soft pastels and well-loved wicker furniture and dangling wind chimes. Candles burn on the low coffee table, and through the open balcony doors, I can see Mount Vesuvius in twilight on the horizon.

“This place is incredible,” I tell Valentina. “Thank you for having us.”

Valentina smiles, brushing hair from my eyes. I consider the possibility that this is some kind of partner-sharing situation—I could probably get on board after enough wine—until Fabrizio calls out, “Orla! Our friends are here!”

Theo’s eyes are the size and shape of an arancini.

“Orla?”

“Yes, did I not say? We always have Orla for drinks on her last day of the tour. This is why I invite you!”

“You—didn’t say, no, but—hi, Orla!”

Orla comes around the corner holding a bottle of wine. Her shoes are off, and her socks are patterned with little koalas. I should have recognized her hiking boots by the door.

“Evening, darlings! Valentina, love, where did you say the opener was?”

Valentina floats off to show her, and Fabrizio says, “Come, sit, we have room in the kitchen for everyone.”

Theo and I exchange another look.

This is cool?

This is cool.

“We’re coming!” I say, stepping out of my shoes.

“Not how we thought we’d be,” Theo mumbles, “but yeah.”

And so we find ourselves around Fabrizio and Valentina’s table in an adorable kitchen with sea views and yellow countertops and shelves of antique teapots filled with seashells. Orla opens the wine, Fabrizio pours, and Valentina sets out dishes of marinated olives and crusty bread. Above the toaster oven hangs a framed photo of the two of them laughing in tiny swimsuits, up to their perfect thighs in crystal clear water off a white sand beach. Mon Dieu. He really has been married this whole time.

“So, Valentina,” Theo says, already recovering their charm by sheer brute force, “what has Fabrizio told you about us?”

“Oh, I have heard that you are an expert on wine,” Valentina says, “so I hope you like this one. I took it from the cellar at his parents’ restaurant, though I do not always know if his mother has good taste.”

Fabrizio gasps theatrically and fires off a string of Italian; Valentina ignores him.

“It’s perfect,” Theo says, amused.

“And I hear that you are a patissier in Paris, very impressive,” she goes on, smiling at me. “And that you are star-crossed lovers who fell back in love on Fabrizio’s tour!”