“What an idiot,” she murmurs, shaking her head.
I close the distance and press my lips to her jawline, kissing her softly, breathing in her scent as she tilts her head for me, giving me her neck. There’s a knock on her window and we jump, the side of her head smacking against the headrest.
“Jesus Christ,” she murmurs, rubbing at her temple.
Luca’s handsome face is in the window holding a slip of paper. He scrunches his nose as Ava puts down the window.
“Luca, if you aren’t dying—”
“Mi dispiace, Professore, ma.” He hands Ava the slip of paper. “There was a parking ticket on my car and I was wondering if Miss Graham might go work her magic with the—” He gestures toward the entrance of the station.
I keep my tone as flat as possible, channeling Liam Neeson inTaken.
“Luca, you have five seconds to take your ticket and get. The. Hell—”
He doesn’t let me finish. His eyes widen, and he snatches the ticket back from Ava and takes off in a sprint.
The sound of Ava’s laughter fills the car as I put it into drive and navigate us out of Pesaro. The duration of the ride passes like that, soft giggles and stupid grins, as we tell each other stories from our past, being careful to sidestep around anything heavy or painful as we drive, like two soldiers tiptoeing through a minefield. At some point, her fingers find the space between mine on the gearshift and they stay there, squeezing lightly any time I chuckle at something she says. If I thought fighting with her was fun, this—this comfortable, unforced levity—has me more relaxed than I’ve felt in a long time. By the time we arrive back in Urbino, my mouth hurts from smiling, but the air tastes thinner—easier to breathe. And I wonder if she can taste it too.
VENTISETTE
James
Raffaello Sanzio is perhaps the most interesting man I know. It’s clear from the way the students’ faces are lit up around me that he is now the most interesting man they know. And this is what I love about teaching—the transfer of passion for a topic. How a hundred students can walk into a room completely unaware that when they walk out, their minds might be set on fire with questions about something that did not exist to them an hour before.
“The most iconic work, the real masterpieces, they can be found in Rome—no, Julia, we cannot take a field trip to Rome,” I say, meeting her wide eyes.
Julia puts down her hand and smiles while I continue on.
“That’s a bit outside our budget. But hopefully you all have mastered Italian transportation by now. Head down over the weekend and sit for a few hours staring at Raphael’s frescoes in the papal palace. The Vatican is a spiritual experience no matter what youbelieve. Try that instead of going out to Rimini for clubbing all weekend. And let’s try to stay out of trouble.”
There are a few chuckles, and many students avert their eyes toward their laps. Word travels fast in Urbino, and Steven has already become a cautionary tale that these students will tell their children before they study abroad.
“This afternoon you will be visiting the house where Raffaello was born. Your assignment is to document what you see, through both picture and prose, and to put together the young artist’s story for yourself. Engage in the debate about what happened in those walls. Which art was his and which was his father’s. Use what you saw at the palazzo to make your case. Santi or Raphael? You decide.”
I pause while they scribble down the assignment. My eyes find Ava’s as she looks down from the third to last row. Her head is tilted and she’s studying me like I’m on a microscope slide. I lift a brow and she shakes herself out of the trance and smiles. A hand pops up nearby.
“If you are about to ask me for a word count, please refrain. You should know by now when something feels complete.”
The hand goes down.
“Anything to add, Miss Graham?”
All necks crane her way.
“I’m excited to see what you all come up with. I wish I had assignments like this at law school,” she tells them. It’s the first time I’ve heard her come close to complaining about her career path.
“You can do my assignment,” a voice calls out from the left.
Ava chuckles. “Alright, off you go. Do the learning. Be the art.”
And my class is dismissed. Our class is dismissed.
The sounds of shuffling papers and rushing footsteps fill the amphitheater as Ava makes her way down the steps in my direction. Her eyes are on the screen behind me whereLa Mutais displayed inall of her glory. The green bodice of the young noble woman’s dress is the exact shade of green as the eyes beholding it.
“I didn’t know he lost both his parents at such a young age,” she murmurs, commenting on the information I shared about Raphael during the lecture.
“Eleven,” I confirm. “His uncles took him in,” I say. Her eyes find mine and I know exactly what she’s thinking. That this story sounds familiar. “He turned out just fine.”
