The Pairing(99)

“Who was that?” Theo asks.

“Just Cora.” I shove my phone into my pocket. “Where’s everyone going now?”

“Different places,” Theo says, “but wait until you hear where I got us invited.”

“Where?” I ask. At first they just raise their eyebrows and lower their eyelids in that way of theirs that suggests something either very good or mildly illegal, which is usually also good. “Where, Theo?”

“Fabrizio wants to know,” they say, “if we’d like to see his apartment.”

I wait for the punch line, but it seems there isn’t one.

“Are you teasing me?”

“Dead serious,” they say. “He lives a ten-minute walk from here. Said he’s looking forward to sleeping in his own bed tonight and asked if we wanted to share a bottle of wine.”

“We?”

“We.”

I stare. For all our flirting and big talk about making sensual tantric love to Fabrizio, I never actually thought our tour guide would proposition us. But I think of his warm touch on the side of my face, how he chose us specially to ride with him in Rome, how he watched us work on the engine of the bus.

“Is . . . is this it?” I ask. “Do you think he wants to—?”

“There was a strong vibe, yes. At least one of us. Maybe both. It seems like he considers us a package deal.”

“Oh my God, because we let him think we’re together?”

“I don’t think it’s not because of that.”

“Well.” I put my knuckles to my mouth. “Do we—do we want to?”

“I mean,” Theo says. “It’s Fabrizio.”

“It’s Fabrizio.”

“How can we not? Unless . . . you can think of a reason we shouldn’t.”

“No, it—it would be hot, if it’s both of us.”

“And if it’s just one of us?”

The image flashes into my mind. Theo as seen from the foot of the bed, broad hands on their hips as they pant into a pillow. Or Theo reclined on a chair, learning that I’ve trained away my gag reflex. Heat coils in my gut.

“Then . . .” I say. “Winner takes all?”

It takes a beat for Theo to catch on, and then they’re pink with indignance.

“What, after I smoked you in almost every city? No way. If it’s just you, you can count him for double, because. You know.”

“It’s Fabrizio.”

Theo nods, biting their lip. “It’s Fabrizio. But if it’s both of us, Monaco rules. It cancels out. Deal?”

“Deal.”


“It’s not that difficult,” Theo says. “Just pick one.”

“It is, actually.” I scan the illuminated rows of different-colored boxes through the glass. “I don’t know what half of these words mean.”

“We don’t have time for this!”

“Then help me, Theo,” I say, feeling more than a little lightheaded. “You’re the one who actually knows some Italian.”

“Yeah, weirdly, my job at a restaurant did not teach me the word for condoms.”

We’re in an alley a few blocks from Fabrizio’s apartment, bathed in the glow of a Durex vending machine. Our hotel is on the other side of Centro Storico, and there’s no time to run there for our own provisions. Instead, I’m squinting at boxes that say things like PERFORMA and PLEASUREMAX and, mysteriously, JEANS, trying to decipher which will bring the lowest element of surprise to group sex with the person I love and our sexy tour guide. We’re already ten minutes later than we said we would be, and the German tourists behind us are getting impatient.

“I’m pretty confident the condoms are the ones that say PROFILATTICI,” Theo says.

“Yes, like prophylactics, I guessed that, but the rest of the words? Which ones are the normal ones, without any flavors or tingling or anything? And which one is lube, Theo? Which one is lube?”

“The ones at the bottom!”

They point to the last row of the machine, which is filled with brightly colored plastic tubes of liquid with pictures of fruits on them. They’re all marked LUBRIFICANTE.

“The ones that look like the sour squeeze candy we used to get from 7-Eleven when we were ten? I’m not using that.”

Theo squats down to examine it.

“I don’t think this vending machine sells artisanal fair-trade lube for delicate Parisian buttholes, Kit.”

“How do you know it’ll be for me?”

They look up at me with a perfectly flat, knowing expression and change the subject.

“Don’t you think Fabrizio has condoms at his place?”

“We can’t show up empty-handed, that’s inconsiderate,” I say. “And what if he doesn’t? Who knows the last time he was home.”

“Okay, okay.” They take out their phone. “That box says ‘Settebello Classico,’ which means . . .” Typing, typing. “‘Seven beauties classic’? What?”

“Just—get the natural lube.” I sigh. “The one with the leaves on the tube.”

“What if that means it’s pesto flavored or something?”

“I guess that’s a risk I’m willing to take,” I say as Theo punches the buttons.