“Dad! Have you seen my Spider-Man socks?”
“We’ll find them, buddy.”
He set his phone on the nightstand and went to help his son.
The whole time they’d planned the trip, there was only one thing Noah truly wanted to do: He wanted to seeThe Last Supper.
To her credit, Angela had made sure to get them tickets, scheduling the Death March of Fun around their entrance time.
The church of Santa Maria delle Grazie had a redbrick façade, a steepled roof, and a green arch over the entrance. Beyond, the apse of the church rose several stories, with more intricate white and yellow stonework and arches supporting the exterior.
Before they could go in, though, they had to show their IDs andpick up their tickets, then wait in the small piazza for their group to get called. A group of Swiss tourists huddled on one side, all wearing matching lanyards.
Jake stalked around the piazza like a disgruntled pelican, scowling at the ground. Noah hoped it was just the lingering aftereffects of being sick yesterday, but still, it didn’t make dealing with Jake’s mood any easier.
“Do we have to see this?” he muttered. “It sounds boring.”
“I really want to,” Noah said. “It’s one of the most famous paintings in the world.”
“Painting is dumb.”
“Jake,” Noah warned. They didn’t use that word.
Noah tried hard not to police Jake’s words, but some were off-limits. The ones that could be used to hurt other people, for instance.
“What? It is. Why do we have to be here?”
“Because we all got to pick things to do,” Noah said, keeping his voice as even as he could.
How had he ended up here, arguing with a nine-year-old, when just this morning he’d woken up in Ramin’s arms? Well, that was his life now, wasn’t it? He would always be a dad first. A dad with a son who was mad at him for no reason he could figure out.
“You picked the San Siro.” Jake had been excited to see a soccer—well, football, here—match at Italy’s largest stadium. “I picked this.”
“Well, you picked a dumb thing,” Jake muttered.
Before Noah could say anything, Angela jumped in.
“Jake. That’s not how we talk to people.”
Noah was ready for Jake to argue. For them to have to step away from the line and deal with a meltdown. But to his surprise, Jake muttered, “Sorry, Dad.” He kicked at the ground and then tucked himself in the shadow of a wall, studying his hands.
Noah had never seen Angela handle him so masterfully. When had that happened?
“Sorry about that,” Angela said. “I don’t know what’s gotten into him.”
“Don’t be.” Noah shoved down his pride. He was supposed to be the one that was good with Jake. “You handled that well.”
Angela shrugged. “I just do what you do, to be honest.”
Then why didn’t it work when he did it?
When their group was finally called, they passed through a modern-looking lobby with tile floors and metal detectors and plexiglass barriers, and then a windowed hallway looking out into the convent’s inner courtyard, and then finally, finally, they were let into the refectory.
The vaulted room was dimly lit. High, narrow windows let in filtered daylight. A few strategically placed spotlights illuminated the murals.
To their left, a huge mural depicted the crucifixion. Noah took a moment to feel bad for the painter who had to share a room with Leonardo da Vinci. But not that bad, because to the right:Wow.
Goosebumps spread up Noah’s arms, crept along the angles of his neck muscles. Euphoria pooled in his belly.
