“Are you?” Vito asked Brice.
“No, I’m pretty gay,” said Brice.
“But who cares!” said Arlo. “You can’t assume he likes all those big, tanned muscles just because he’s gay. In fact, he hates big, tanned muscles!”
“Actually, I like the muscles,” said Brice.
“Fine!” said Arlo. “So he likes muscles. But you can’t expect him to be attracted to a man so submissive to his mother!”
“It’s really quite sweet,” Brice told Vito. “Honestly, it’s one of the reasons I didn’t want to push anything. I didn’t want to put a strain on your relationship with your mother.”
“So he finds Vito’s relationship with his mother sweet!” said Arlo. “But you can’t expect a wild, vibrant, hedonist to settle down in the prime of his life. Mr. Ghello has seeds to sow! Conquests to make! Hearts to break!”
“I’m really more of a domestic,” said Brice.
“Yes! But all of that aside, he still doesn’t want to involve himself romantically with Mr. Nalone because…” Arlo looked expectantly at Brice. “Come on, I can’t come up with all the reasons. What else?”
“I can’t think of anything,” said Brice.
“Oh.” Arlo looked deflated. “You’re sure?”
“What I’m sure of,” said Brice as he took Vito’s hand, “is that I would love to take you to dinner off the resort and get to know you better. If that interests you?”
Vito smiled. “Very much.”
Lena nudged Arlo. He tried to ignore the warmth her touch kindled within his chest.
“You almost overplayed that,” she whispered in his ear. It was more or less impossible to ignore the shiver that ran through him as her breath touched his ear, so he thought the fair thing to do was retaliate in kind.
“Nah, it was perfect,” Arlo whispered back, noting with satisfaction that Lena shivered slightly.
“I suppose everything worked out, regardless,” said Lena.
Arlo grinned. “You have to admit, it was a lot of fun.”
A smile slowly worked its way onto Lena’s face. “Yes. As a matter of fact, it was.”
“All right, Miss Cole.” Isabella gave her a steely, decidedly unperky look. “And you, too, Mr. Kean. I suppose you’re both quite pleased with your little matchmaking schemes.”
Arlo shrugged. “I suppose we are.”
“It was with your best interests at heart,” said Lena.
“I don’t doubt it,” said Isabella. “But there’s an aspect of this you both missed. Wouldn’t you say, Franklyn?” Isabella gave him a wink.
Franklyn frowned. “Is there?”
Isabella sighed and whispered something in his ear. His eyes widened, and he gave Lena and Arlo a wicked smile. “There is indeed, my dearest Isabella.”
“You don’t think…” said Brice.
“I think she does,” said Vito.
“What are we missing?” demanded Arlo.
“It’s perfectly obvious that they mean us,” said Lena.
“You and me? In love?” Arlo asked incredulously.
“It would seem that is their intent.”
“Love? Me?” he asked. “Ridiculous!”
“People who fall in love lose all ability to think logically,” said Lena.
“Common sense leaps right out the window,” said Arlo, nodding his agreement as he leaned in toward her again.
“Any wit they might have had leaves them,” said Lena, leaning in as well.
“I don’t think I could ever fall in love,” said Arlo, leaning in just a little more. “Not even with a woman as brilliant and attractive as you.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” said Lena, matching him in closeness. “It doesn’t matter that you might be nearly my intellectual equal and look fantastic in tight khaki shorts. I would never allow myself to succumb to something as banal as love.”
By this time, the two had leaned in to each other so closely that they were staring directly into each other’s eyes. Still they had not touched, and the tiny space between them crackled. If longing could be converted into electricity, they would have powered the resort for a year.
“I would go so far as to say,” said Arlo, his breath coming fast, obviously from talking so much and not from the effort of maintaining that tiny space between them, “that the only person I could ever truly spend my life with is someone who loathes love as much as I do.”
“Agreed,” said Lena, her breath as fast as his, no doubt because she wished to show that she could respire just as strongly as him. “And now that we have firmly established this fact, that neither of us would ever consider love as an option, I suppose”—she took his hands in hers, feeling the spark run through her body—“there would be no risk in forming some sort of intimate relationship.”
Arlo entwined their hands further until he could feel her strident pulse pound. “Since we’re the only two sane people on earth, common sense dictates we are perfectly suited for each other.”
“There’s only one final test before we know that for certain.” Lena leaned in so close their noses almost touched.
“What is that?” asked Arlo, his eyes a little glassy.
“I loathe bad kissers. So I’m afraid I’ll need to verify your skill in that area.”
“Verify away,” said Arlo.
So she did. And it was a very long verification process. It could never be said that Lena Cole was not thorough. By the time Arlo had demonstrated his alacrity with kissing to her satisfaction, nearly everyone had retired to the picnic.
“That was sufficient, Mr. Kean,” she said breathlessly against his cheek.
“I am beyond relieved that you approve, Miss Cole,” he sighed against her cheek.
A slow, polite clap began nearby. They both turned to see Zeke laughing silently at them.
“It appears Mr. Zanni anticipated this outcome,” said Arlo. “Perhaps from the beginning.”
“It would explain why he wanted us to cooperate so badly in the first place,” said Lena. “I suppose you think you’re very clever, Mr. Zanni.”
Zeke nodded.
“Don’t worry, Miss Cole,” said Arlo. “The summer has just begun. I’m sure you and I can find a suitable match for young Mr. Zanni.”
Zeke vehemently shook his head.
“I will bend all my thoughts toward it, Mr. Kean,” said Lena.
* * *
I regret to inform you, dear reader, that they made good on their promise. For there are none so insistent on the virtues of love as those already in its thrall. Which is why I chose to set this story down for you.
You see, I am Zeke Zanni, and I am sorry to admit that I have deceived you. As you have no doubt figured out, this is, indeed, a story about love. And as I am in love, I have penned this tale in the hope that you should join me in this folly by falling in love with someone yourself. Because if we are all fools, then perhaps there is some wisdom in falling in love.
Audrey and I are lounging on the sandy banks of Foster Avenue Beach when she tells me she’s going to San Francisco.
Some people would beg to differ, but Foster Beach is the best beach in Chicago. A breeze floats up from the lake and skims across our bare legs and arms before moving over to the plain of well-tended grass shaded by tall, leafy trees, where people grill out and throw balls around. Down the sand from us, kids splash each other in the shallow water, their parents parked a few feet away with noses stuck in grocery store paperbacks. It’s not the type of beach people think of when you say “beach”—there’s no salt water, and the city is far from tropical. But it’s nice to sit here on a blanket in the middle of July, eating pastries with my cousin while we sun our legs.
“San Francisco? For a protest?” I ask, reaching into the paper bag between us for a cherry boat. It’s my favorite treat from the Swedish Bakery, the flaky pastry filled with dark, sticky-sweet preserves. I met Audrey on Clark Street around ten this morning and we walked straight from the bakery to the beach, leisurely strolling as we ate pecan rolls and scones.