“What do you mean?”
“If I move with Mom.”
Whatever the emotional equivalent of stepping on a Lego brick was, that’s what Noah felt. Times a million.
“Never.” Noah pulled Jake into a hug.
He didn’t want his son to move. He didn’t want to lose Jake.
But even if they were half a world away, he’d always be Jake’s dad. He’d call every day. Twice a day. Whatever it took.
“You promise?”
That was one promise, at least, Noah knew he could keep.
“I promise.”
“Okay.” And then Jake stood, brushed off his shorts (even though they were clean), and let out a whole-body sigh, like he’d just finished a twelve-hour shift in a coal mine instead of an emotional heart-to-heart with his dad.
Sometimes his son was a complete mystery to him. But he wouldn’t change a thing about him.
“Mom! We’re ready!”
Noah held Jake’s hand and followed Angela to the subway station. Noah thought maybe she’d want to rest more, but no. After a good night’s sleep, she was ready to begin the Death March of Fun: Day Two.
Stucco buildings hemmed them in on all sides, painted white and red and pink and amber and occasionally lilac. Heat and humidity pressed in on them, even in the shade, as they dodged bikes and scooters and power-suited business folks talking on phones and smoking cigarettes.
“Are we there yet?” Jake asked with a sigh as they followed Angela down the stairs into the subway station.
“Not yet,” Noah said. “I thought you wanted to ride the subway?”
Jake used to like trains, at least.
“I’m hungry.”
“We’re headed to lunch,” Angela said. “A place Nonna recommended. Near the Duomo.”
“What’s that?”
“The big cathedral.” Noah rubbed his cross. He’d never been Catholic—his parents had been firmly Baptist, and he was nondenominational himself—but he was excited to see the Duomo. He loved architecture.
They hopped onto the crowded subway, passed a few stations, until the automated announcement came in Italian and then in English: “This is Duomo. Doors open on the right.”
Angela took Jake’s hand and Noah followed close behind, up more escalators than he could count, down long corridors, emerging into blinding daylight at the final staircase up to the Piazza del Duomo.
Noah’s jaw dropped.
Pinnacles and spires reached for the clear blue sky. White marble with blue-gray swirls shone in the daylight. Statues dotted every flying buttress. High above, barely visible, a golden cross and statue of the Virgin Mary gleamed.
The cathedral wasenormous.
His own church back home was a converted Popeyes Chicken that had gone out of business (Pastor Josh always joked it would’ve been too on-the-nose if it had been a Church’s Chicken), but it was perfect to Noah: cozy, humble, with room for Jake to play with the other kids, a flagpole out front flying a Progress Pride flag, and, most importantly, a version of God that meant loving everyone instead of controlling them.
Noah loved his church. But the Duomo… well, the Catholics certainly knew how to make a statement.
He wished he had his sketchbook with him. And that Angela had budgeted time for him to sit and draw it.
“So,” Angela said. “How was—ack!”
