“What?” I say loudly, trying not to sound angry at the interruption.
The door opens and I look over my shoulder to see my son poking his head in.
“Sorry,” he says, though he doesn’t look sorry.
“What is it? I’m trying to work.”
Vanni looks at the lump of clay and the mess of sketches across the table. Generally the clay would have taken shape by now, but it’s just a giant blob with my knuckle indents in it.
“That doesn’t look like anything,” he comments glibly, walking over.
“Because I keep being interrupted,” I tell him. “What is it, Vanni?” I repeat, trying to sound more patient this time.
He throws his arms out, his head back, and wails, “I’m booooooooored.”
I exhale and spin around on the stool to face him. “You’ve read all your books already?”
“The Tipler Cylinder is bunk,” he cries out. “It’s impossible, physically impossible, to create an infinitely long cylinder! In space!”
I have no idea what he’s talking about, but it doesn’t matter, because Vanni whines a lot when he’s bored. His brain needs constant stimulation or he just sort of falls apart. This is why I wish his school stayed in session all summer. Instead, they get out earlier than they should.
“Okay, well, we can get Emilio to come over and you can help him—”
“Nooooooo.” He throws his arms dramatically against the table, burying his head.
“Look, I need to create something,” I tell him. “You know I do. This is work.”
“Maybe Grace will pay attention to me,” he mumbles.
“No,” I say sharply, enough that he lifts his head in alarm. I clear my throat. “No. Grace is here as our guest.”
“She’s Mom’s guest.”
“Regardless, she is our guest now. She needs to write. I need to work.”
“You weren’t supposed to be working right now anyway,” he points out, his fingers tracing over the abstract sketches I’ve made. “We should be on a boat on the Mediterranean with Toni. Like we are every year.”
“Last year we were in a cabin in Austria.”
He shoots me daggers. “And this year was supposed to be on a boat. But no, Toni had to break his stupid leg.”
“Hey,” I tell him, putting my hand on his arm and giving it a light squeeze. “That’s not very nice. This isn’t Toni’s fault.”
“It is! He’s the klutz who fell down the stairs.”
“You’re a bigger klutz than he is.”
“Am not!”
“You are. That could have been you.”
His face is starting to get red. A meltdown might be imminent.
Which means I need to stop my attempt at working.
“This timeline sucks!” he snarls and then storms off.
“Vanni!” I yell after him.
I get up and walk into the house, which is a lot cooler than my studio, thanks to it being a literal greenhouse, even with the curtains drawn and panels open. I can hear Vanni stomping up the stairs to his room.
I pause and pinch the space between my brows, warding off a headache. I know how he feels, but I also need to take this opportunity to work.
But that’s what being a parent is all about. The balance that keeps you running from one side of the seesaw to the other.
I do what I can to work, though my mind keeps wandering, feeling guilty about Vanni. Then my phone rings.
My sister Maria.
“Claudio,” she says. “How are you?”
I sigh, finding it too hard to lie. Besides, she knows me too well.
“Uh oh. That sounds like a frustrated artist,” she says.
“It’s Vanni.”
“I see. And you are the frustrated artist.”
“I feel bad that I need to work…”
“That’s what I thought. Listen, Sofia here has been moping around, bored. All her friends are on vacation, but of course I am working, same as you. But my job has reduced some hours for the summer and anyway…how about Vanni comes and stays with us for a few days? Sofia would love the company.”
Maria’s daughter, Sofia, is the same age as Vanni and they get along quite well, especially as she likes science and things like that.
“Are you sure?” I ask suspiciously. “Because I don’t want him to get excited over nothing.”
“Yes, of course.”
She’s agreed to come by and pick him up in a couple hours. She lives in Livorno, which isn’t far.
I head upstairs to tell Vanni the news, hoping he’ll be excited.
Luckily he seems to want the escape.
“Maria will take you to the fair,” I tell him. “She said so. Maybe you can go for a boat ride. You might even be able to see your Nonna and Nonno on Elba. A ferry ride, that would be fun.”
Vanni knows that only one of those things is likely to happen since Maria also works, but he seems happy enough to have someone his own age to play with.
I sigh, and as he starts to pack for a few nights away, I close the door, feeling the guilt throb deeply in my heart. This never gets any fucking easier. I know it was Maria’s idea to pick him up, but I still feel bad that I need this time and space to work on my art.
The sound of a door creaking open brings my attention across the hall to Grace peering at me with those big eyes of hers.
My god, she’s a stunning creature.
“Everything all right?” she asks quietly.
I nod, rubbing my hand along my jaw, the stubble scratching my skin. My frustrated artist beard is starting to come in, which is what happens when all my energy goes into getting a project off the ground. “It’s fine.” I pause, noting that she’s wearing a pair of glasses. She looks unbelievably sexy in them. “Sorry, we disturbed you, didn’t we?”
She shakes her head and takes her glasses off. “Not really. I was taking a break. On Twitter.” She adds that last part sheepishly. “What’s going on?”
“Vanni is going to go stay with his aunt for a couple days,” I tell her.
Her forehead creases. “Oh. Why?”
“Maria’s daughter is as bored as he is. He needs to be with someone his own age right now,” I say, not wanting to get into the tribulations of being a single father who doesn’t have enough time for his son. As if I don’t feel awful about it already. “They both get along well, and Vanni wants to go.” I glance at my watch. “He’s leaving in an hour, then I’ll start lunch, if you’re interested.”
Her eyes gleam and she gives me an enthusiastic nod. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
Her words, plus the look on her face, makes something twitch in my chest. I’ve been feeling that more and more around her these last few days. My eyes are often drawn to her, especially when she’s not looking, taking in every inch of her face, her neck, her hair, down to the swell of her full breasts, the dip of her waist. There’s a pulse in my palms, an itch in my fingers. I want to touch her skin, feel her curves, let my hands glide over every soft part. This isn’t completely sexual, though naturally it’s that, too. It’s not easy to ignore that my dick feels a certain way about her, that even her scent gets me hard.