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“They are paintings, Dante. Not a psychiatric evaluation.”

“I know.”

“I am trying something new. I am allowed to paint colors without it meaning I have lost some deeply authentic part of myself.”

“I did not say that.”

“You implied it.”

He goes quiet.

Not defensive. Not wounded. Just quiet in that patient way that makes me feel worse for snapping at him. The breeze moves through the olive branches. A few leaves drift down onto the stone path.

Dante looks at Eevee instead.

“You are very good at painting fur,” he says.

I narrow my eyes. “Don’t change the subject.”

“I am changing the subject.”

“At least you are honest.”

His mouth twitches.

“Have you called home today?” he asks.

I pick up the brush again, though I don’t touch it to the canvas.

“Yes, I spoke to my mother. Lucas called. Tyler sent me fourteen new pictures of Eevee as a birthday present, as if I did not already have enough reference material to paint an entire royal portrait.”

Dante doesn’t respond.

I feel his silence beside me.

I turn my head.

He is looking at me gently.

Not accusingly. That would be easier.

“You know which home I mean,” he says calmly.

My fingers tighten around the brush.

I shrug, concentrating on the canvas. “I did not call my father or my brothers.”

“Why not?” he asks gently. “I’m sure they’d really love to hear from you, especially today.”

“Because I did not want to.”

“Amore.”

“Do not amore me.”

Dante waits.

I hate that he waits. I hate that he can sit there without trying to win the argument, as if he knows I will eventually get tired of arguing with myself.