Free A White Coat Is My Closet by Jake Wells Page A

name was Zack.”
    Taken a little off guard, the guy turned back toward me. He looked genuinely baffled. “Whose name was Zack?”
    “The guy who took home the gold. His name was Zack.” I couldn’t help but smile. “Same as mine.”
    He shook his head, and though his face offered an expression of impatience, his voice was warm. “Silver went to Sergio. Nice to meet you, Zack.”

Chapter 5

     
    O NCE the ice between us had been broken, conversation became much more fluid. Initially, we both exhibited a fair amount of restraint and avoided asking questions that could be construed as being too personal. Slowly, however, we became more comfortable with one another, and as a result were less guarded. Our dialogue became more spontaneous, my feelings of self-consciousness evaporated, and we spent the next hour laughing, joking, and slowly getting to know one another.
    “So,” I said hesitantly, watching him out of the corner of my eye to gauge any indication of discomfort, “how long have you lived in the United States?”
    He answered without hesitation and as casually as if I’d ask him for directions to the corner store replied, “About seven years.”
    “Really?” I said. “What brought you west? No, wait. Don’t tell me. You had dreams of becoming a big star in Hollywood.” I initially suppressed a grin—I was confident he would interpret my question as being a joke—but I became a little anxious when I considered that wanting to break into acting might very well have been his motivation for coming here. His looks certainly qualified him as a tall, dark, handsome leading man. As far as I knew, he might actually have been either a successful actor or an actor wannabe.
    I continued to smile but realized I was holding my breath to disguise my anxiety. Things between us had been going well, and I didn’t want to inadvertently fuck things up by insulting him. Actors had a tendency to take their craft very seriously.
    If he’d considered even for a second that my question had potentially been offensive, it didn’t register in his expression. He launched into his response without a second thought. “No, I came here without a specific plan. My youngest sister, Lala, had moved here a year earlier. I was still living in Rome, and I was looking for a change. She told me that Los Angeles was great and that I would love it here. If you want to know the truth, I think that she was actually a little homesick and would have said anything to convince me to come join her. I arrived without a plan and was unable to speak much English.” He eyed me a little defensively. “I speak English a lot better now, but guess I do still have a slight accent.” He emphasized the word “slight,” though he smiled in acknowledgement that his accent was in fact still pretty thick. “That was seven years ago.” He rolled onto his back and relaxed as if he was fatigued from having narrated an entire biographical documentary. “The rest is history.”
    I smiled too. I was smitten. In the time we’d spent together, he had proven himself to be charming, humorous, and warm. He undoubtedly had an edge, but I was learning it usually only revealed itself when he felt threatened or ill at ease. He used his defensiveness as a shield to deflect discomfort. Beneath a confident, cocky exterior, I was beginning to believe there lay a genuinely nice guy. Or maybe I was choosing to believe that because I was developing a crush on him.
    “Man! Coming here under those circumstances took incredible courage. You’re, like, an Italian superhero.” I grinned to assure him I was being facetious. “No, really, it did take balls. To leave your native environment and move to a country where you didn’t speak the language and without the guarantee of a job. You must have been scared shitless in the beginning.”
    He let the corners of his mouth creep up as if he was reminiscing. “Well, it’s not like I was going it alone. When I first arrived, I