Twelve Noah
twelve
Noah
How long till we get there?” Jake asked, staring out the bus window.
It was forty-five minutes to Como, and from there another forty-five minutes if they caught the faster ferry to Bellagio, where Nonno and Nonna had their wine shop.
“That’s so long,” Jake sighed. “Can I use your phone, Dad?”
“If you use it on the ride, you can’t use it again until the ride back. Deal?”
“Deal,” Jake said.
Noah handed the phone over. Thankfully Jake’s grumpiness had eased after another night’s sleep.
Angela shot Noah a half-fond, half-amused look across the aisle as the shuttle rumbled to life and pulled out of the station.
It was exhilarating and a bit alarming as they navigated the streets of Milan before finally reaching the freeway.
While Angela sat next to Jake, Noah had ended up next to a German backpacker who had promptly fallen asleep against the window.
He peered around them for a glimpse of the far-off Alps, clusters of villas, parks, churches, a small university, even a few fields of corn.
Noah pulled his sketchbook out of his pocket.
When he was younger, he used to draw a lot, at least until his parents had told him he was never going to be an artist, so why not focus on something practical instead? But he’d gotten back into it after the divorce. Well, more specifically, after his therapist recommended it.
He used a cheap sketchbook with unlined paper, a soft cover, and an elastic loop for a small ballpoint pen. It was small enough to fit in his pocket, which left no room for the grand landscapes or detailed portraits he preferred, but it was something , and it was his .
Meanwhile Angela kept pointing things out to Jake in an overly enthusiastic voice, like she was trying to convince him how awesome Italy was, but she was laying it on way too thick.
Jake always got suspicious if you hyped something up too much, even when he was a toddler and could barely speak.
When Noah had tried to convince him carrot sticks were good by playing up how tasty and crunchy they were, Jake had stuck one up his nose just to prove a point.
Honestly, Noah wished he had a picture. Frustrated as he’d been, it was hilarious. One of Noah’s favorite memories.
Noah admired Angela’s intelligence, but sometimes he wondered if all that college made it hard for her to remember what it was like to be a child, to not know anything about the world except what your own little hands could grab at.
She’d been great when Jake was a baby, but once he started developing his own little personality (and once he’d been able to argue), she’d struggled.
Angela loved Jake with her whole heart. On that front, she and Noah were exactly the same.
But when it came to the little things—getting Jake to brush his teeth at night, or letting Jake Calvinball the rules of a board game, or helping him build a Lego set—parenting had always come much easier to Noah than to her.
Maybe this whole moving thing was her way of balancing the scales. Noah couldn’t blame her for wanting that.
He didn’t have to like it, though.
The shuttle dropped them off by the train station, at the top of a tree-lined hill. Angela ushered them off the bus, anxiously checking her phone.
“You need the bathroom, Jakey?”
“He can use it on the ferry,” Angela said. “The dock is that way.”
Noah pressed his lips together but didn’t argue with her. They tried not to argue in front of Jake.
Despite her short legs, Angela had a long stride, and she was walking faster than Jake could manage. Noah took him piggyback to keep up.
“You good, buddy?”
“Yeah.” But suddenly Jake let out a huge belch.
“Excuse me.”
“Jake!” Angela admonished.
“I said excuse me!”
“Your tummy okay?” Noah still remembered last year’s stomach flu. He didn’t want to be caught in the blast zone.
“Yeah.”
They cut through narrow streets lined with shops and banks, a small park with fascinating sculptures, took another left, and then—
Then Noah saw it.
When Noah was a kid, his dad had loved fishing at Osage Beach.
The Ozarks formed the backdrop for what few uncomplicated good memories Noah had of growing up.
Quiet days with his dad teaching him to fish, encouraging him to try again instead of berating him for failing.
Nights filled with the hum of cicadas, his mom cooking hot dogs on a charcoal grill, laughing as he chased fireflies instead of yelling at him to keep his shoes clean.
Noah loved the Lake of the Ozarks, but Lake Como was a million times better.
Mountains dense with green and orange trees rose on every side.
Vibrant yellow-beige-pink buildings climbed the slopes.
Puffy white clouds sailed by, silent barges on an endless voyage through a sky so blue it redefined the word.
And stretching into the distance, shimmering in the morning light, lay Lake Como itself.
A cool breeze ruffled Noah’s hair. The sound of gentle waves against the docks settled into his soul.
“Wow.”
He let Jake down but kept a hand on his head as he stared, slack-jawed, at the water.
He hated to admit it, but maybe Angela had a point.
Italy was awesome.
Noah pulled out his phone to snap some pictures, but Angela kept power-walking toward the dock. “Come on, guys, we gotta go.”
Noah sighed and took Jake’s hand. Angela had always been an on time is late type person.
Granted, Noah always showed up to work fifteen minutes early—the surest way of getting the other folks in the union to hate you was tardiness—but when you had a kid, sometimes you couldn’t help it.
Still, he supposed they had a boat to catch.
“Do you think there’s fishing?” Jake asked as they headed down the boardwalk. He burped again. “Sorry.”
“Just cover your mouth, buddy. And probably, but I don’t think we can do it from the ferry.”
“Aw man.” Jake’s shoulders slumped melodramatically.
The line for the ferry—a triple-decker blue and white boat with red awnings—bottlenecked on the narrow gangway as everyone stopped to get their tickets scanned.
“Let’s go to the front!” Jake shouted, once they finally made it aboard. He charged toward a row of seats near the metal railing at the bow.
“You sure you don’t want to sit in the shade?” Noah asked. The sun was bright and hot, even with the breeze to cool them, but Jake shook his head, and so they all filed in, Noah and Angela sandwiching Jake between them.
A few seats away, a young couple stood against the railing, playing a fairly intense game of tonsil hockey. Noah thought of Ramin, of the weird, inexplicable draw he’d felt as a teenager who thought he was straight, of the soft, quiet attraction that had reignited at dinner the other night.
He wondered what Ramin’s lips felt like. Not that he’d ever get to find out. He wished again he’d gotten Ramin’s number.
It was okay, though. He was here with Jake, having an adventure. That was enough. More than enough.
“I’m glad you’re with me, buddy,” he said, dropping a kiss onto the crown of Jake’s head.
The boat filled quickly. Groups started splitting to find separate seats.
Some folks had given up completely and stood around the rails instead.
As an announcement in Italian played over the loudspeakers, people jostled to Noah’s left, the last folks aboard trying to find what seats they could.
A few groups of friends split up. Families stuck their kids on seats and stood hovering over them.
Noah scanned the crowd. The seat next to him was still open.
He was about to have them all scoot over, so maybe someone could get in on the aisle, when he heard something.
A familiar voice.
No. It couldn’t be.
“Scusi. Sorry. Is that seat taken?”
High and clear. Noah’s heart skipped a beat.
It couldn’t be.
Noah held his breath and turned to find a pair of familiar green eyes, widened in surprise.
“Noah?”