Matteo says, “Evidence suggests none of us are.”
Tomasso cuts him a look. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
I take my phone from my pocket and send one message. “Marco will take you.”
Tomasso exhales, but he does not argue again. He knows where the line is. He has always known. He only likes to toe the line and tease.
He comes to me before he leaves. He is too old for easy affection but too Italian to leave without some gesture of it.
He kisses my cheek.
“Don’t wait up,” he says.
“I won’t.”
Matteo snorts.
Tomasso points toward him as he backs out of the kitchen. “You. Find joy.”
“I have joy.”
“Books don’t count.”
“They do.”
Tomasso smiles, then disappears down the hall. A moment later, the front door opens and closes.
The house settles in his absence.
I look at Matteo.
He has opened his laptop again, but he is not reading.
“You’re staying in?”
“Yes.”
I don’t respond.
His eyes lift. “I’m not lonely, Papà.”
“I did not say you were.”
“You were thinking it.”
“I think many things.”
“That’s the problem.”
I smile.
Matteo leans back in his chair. “I like quiet.”
“I know.”
“I liked it in Italy too.”
