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"I once read an amazing book about doll kink," I say.
"If that’s your kink, this isn’t going to work," Medici teases. "That requires too much patience on my end."
I roll my eyes. "Relax. I don't want to be a doll."
"Sure, you don’t."
"I don’t."
"You keep talking about it. It appears that this is a longstanding fantasy of yours."
"All I said was that I’d like to be Picasso," I growl, "and that I read a fun book about doll kink once."
"Pinocchio," Medici corrects. "That’s what you said."
"Pinocchio is the artist." I shake my head. "Picasso is the doll."
Medici palms his forehead. "I’m done with this conversation."
"I was done with it first, man."
Medici slides his sunglasses over his eyes. "I propose that we both visitoneart museum to solve this once and for all."
"We could look it up online," I suggest. "Or ask Nonna and Nonno like I recommended."
Medici clips out a snort. "I’m more of a visual learner. I need to see info spelled out in front of me to internalize it."
I scratch my temple. "Do you mean kinesthetic? I feel like you can still learn shit by looking it up with a visual style. Also, all we’d do at the museum would be checking the paintings of wooden dolls. We can do that on a computer."
"Picasso never painted wooden dolls," Medici says.
"I know," I snap. "Pinocchio did."
Medici hands me a juice box. "My little sunshine is getting cranky. He needs his apple juice."
"I thought I was your little sunflower," I snap. "Not sunshine."
"Right now, you’re neither."
I suck in a breath as I accept the juice box. "Thank you."
Medici tousles my hair. "I’ll break through this cranky exterior of yours eventually. Then, you’ll be nothing but a sunshiny sunflower for Daddy."
"I’m not cranky," I groan, shaking my head. "My brain stalls when contemplating life’s difficult questions—I’m unable to partake in polite conversation."
"Pinocchio vs. Picasso is one of life’s tough questions?"
Duh. "The toughest," I drawl. "I feel like I’m dyslexic sometimes. I always mix those two up."
Medici rubs the back of my palm. "If you’re dyslexic, I can help treat that. Get you the correct glasses. Install the dyslexic font on your phone. Read to you."
My eyes water. "I’m not dyslexic. But if I were, that’d be incredible."
"You’re a good boy, Mattie." Medici squeezes my hand. "Never let anyone tell you otherwise."
Squirting more paint onto the paper plate I’m using as a palette, Medici dips my index finger in it and then guides it to my canvas.
We paint for the next twenty minutes in silence—focusing on my work.
