Chapter 21 Luca
Emery seems happy to disappear with Annie into the kitchen and miss Crash’s recounting of our greatest adventures.
Based on the twinkle in his eye, I can’t really blame her.
I get the sense that the stories I’m about to hear are not family friendly.
Once we’re alone, he comes back to the sofa to sit carefully down next to me.
Crash and I study each other for a few silent seconds.
His hair is jet-black, his eyes so blue they stand out starkly against his tanned skin.
He has more tattoos now than he did in the photo on the mantel.
Both of his arms are covered, and when he sees me studying them, he points an index finger to an intricate leaf fading from green to red.
“That one’s yours.”
“Me?” I blink up in surprise. “An oak leaf? That’s cool.”
“You recognize it as oak? Dude!” He slaps my shoulder and then winces like he’s afraid he’s hurt me. I wave him off and he looks back down at it. “Yeah. I got this one on your twentieth birthday. Oak is a symbol of strength, and you’ve always been that for me.”
I swallow, unsure what to say to this, finally settling on, “Based on what Em’s told me, it sounds like we’ve both been strength for each other.”
As soon as I say it, it feels like too much. But thankfully there’s something about Crash that doesn’t let the moment turn weird. “Fuck yeah, we have” is all he says, and then grins. “It’s wild,” he continues, leaning in to look more closely at me. “You still look like Luca.”
“I am still Luca,” I tell him. “Just… no backstory. Yet.”
“But, as far as you know, everything else is working?” he asks, eyebrows raised meaningfully.
And I guess this is something we’d talk about without weirdness, too. I have no idea if I’ve ever blushed near him, but I feel the tips of my ears get hot.
“Oh shit!” Crash says, reaching out to slap my shoulder again. “Can’t say I blame you, dude. Em is hot.” Laughing, he leans back into the couch. “Should I recount your past for you?”
“I presume you mean women I’ve dated.” He nods, and I shake my head. “I’m good. Working to remember that one for now.” I hook my thumb behind me toward the kitchen.
“Man. The ways I could fuck around with you.”
“Believe me, I’m aware.”
Honey looks up at me from where she’s sitting on the floor. When I pat the sofa at my side, she climbs carefully onto the couch and rests her head in my lap.
“I wouldn’t, though,” Crash says, reaching out to scratch the back of Honey’s neck.
I get the sense that he can be a lot, but there’s a gentleness about him that already has me at ease.
I can see why we’ve been friends for so long.
I already like him. “I mean, at least not until you’re feeling a bit more like yourself. Then all bets are off.”
“Appreciated.”
“Bet it was wild to find out you’re married to a hot scientist.”
I laugh, nodding. “Definitely.” And then I remember how he reacted realizing Emery was home during the day. “Why was it such a surprise to see her here?”
Crash reaches up, scrubbing a hand over his jaw. “She works a lot. That’s all.”
I try to translate his tone. “Is it a thing?”
“Yeah.” He tilts his head back and forth and winces. “No? I don’t know, man… I don’t really want to—”
Cutting in, I say, “Nah, don’t worry about it. Just trying to figure out the dynamics of everything. We’ve talked a little and I get the sense there were some things we needed to work on. Just wondering, you know, if we were happy?”
Crash pauses, looking out the window for a few beats. “You two can barely keep your hands off each other,” he says. “But I’m guessing you know that.”
I have zero trouble believing him—I have no idea what my type is, but I’d wager it’s Emery to a T—but it still feels like there’s something he isn’t saying. It makes me feel strangely uneasy. “All right, well, that’s good to know.”
“Dude, this is wild,” he says, shaking his head, and then he pauses, setting his hand on my shoulder. “And take a couple weeks. Or whatever you need, okay?”
“Don’t we have a landscaping business to run? I mean, even if I don’t remember things, I’d like to get back to work when I can.”
Crash lifts his chin, gesturing to my leg. “Can you work now?”
I grimace. It hurts, but not nearly as much as it probably should. “Not yet. But hopefully soon?”
He waves this off. “I can handle it for a couple of weeks. Anyway, what if your memories never come back? Wouldn’t you want to figure out if you’re going to stay with her?”
This surprises me into silence because, frankly, neither of these things had occurred to me—that I wouldn’t eventually remember, or that Emery and I wouldn’t stay together. I asked her what she wanted out of all this, but I haven’t really thought about what I want.
I reach up, rubbing my hands over my face in frustration. I have about a million questions, but no context to even begin to form them. I suppose it’s good that Emery and Annie choose this moment to return to the living room.
“Here ye go, sir,” Emery says, handing me my phone with a flourish. “Your past.” To Crash, she says, “We thought it might help if he looked through his photo albums.”
“Oh, yeah, Mr. Organized.” Crash slaps his own thighs as he moves to stand. “Okay, I need to get to the Jamshidi house for a bit.” He remembers himself, and explains, “They’re one of our biggest clients. Huge yard, twice-weekly job. Lots of fussy plants.”
“Is she one of the women who hits on you at work?” Annie asks.
Crash laughs. “No. She’s like a hundred years old. She brings us lemonade and cookies.”
“Clients hit on you?” I ask, frowning.
“Come on, who wouldn’t?” He pushes his chest forward, saluting on his way out the door. Annie rolls her eyes. I don’t know the dynamic between her and Crash, but I swear I see a hint of a smile on her face.
Annie leaves not long after Crash does, and when Emery comes back to the couch, she looks absolutely wrecked.
“Tired?” I ask.
She squints, thinking. “A little. I’m used to late nights and not getting much sleep, but it’s like last night broke the seal or something and I haven’t quite caught up.”
“Go take a nap,” I insist.
“If I nap now, I probably won’t be able to fall asleep at a normal time tonight.”
“What’s normal?” I ask, smiling.
Emery groans, laughing. “Touché.”
“No, remember, I actually don’t know.”
She laughs harder. “Well, I said touché because I don’t have a normal bedtime. Sometimes ten, sometimes four.”
“In the morning?”
Nodding, she says, “Yeah.”
When I whistle, I notice the way her eyes dip to my mouth and then immediately away. Crash’s words come back to me: You guys can barely keep your hands off each other.
“You look like you’re about to drop,” I say.
“No, I swear I’m okay.” She pushes her hair out of her eyes. “Do you need anything? Something else to eat? I tried to make your pastina recipe but—”
“You made me soup?” Maybe it’s the image Crash painted of her—how surprised he was to see her here, insinuating that she was never home and always at work—but that image doesn’t align with the woman in front of me.
The one who’s clearly been sick with worry, who’s hovered nonstop and basically nursed me back to health. Fuck, it’s so confusing.
“Tried to make you soup,” she clarifies. “Like I said, I’m not much of a cook.” She glances at her watch. “Not quite time for more meds yet.”
“I don’t need anything,” I tell her. “Maybe we could watch a movie? Bonus for me, I guess, is that all of my favorites will be entirely new again.”
Emery laughs, settling on the other end of the couch. There seems to be a mile of space between us, and I both want to leave it there and also pull her into my lap. Everything feels so overwhelming.
She reaches for the remote, turning on the TV and navigating to the menu of movies we’ve purchased.
“Here are some options: Captain America. Baby Driver. Fast and Furious. Shawshank Redemption. Parasite. Um… there’s lots more.
” She presses Forward to the next menu. “For TV series, we have The Wire, Breaking Bad, The Simpsons…”
“None of these ring a bell.”
“You liked Breaking Bad. And Parasite? But those might be too stressful for this particular day.”
“Were there any shows we were watching together?”
Chewing her lip, she shakes her head. “Not recently, no.”
“Because of schedules?” I guess, and she looks over at me, nodding guiltily.
The lie about her job. The fact that she was late on our anniversary. Why do Past Emery and Present Emery seem like entirely different people?
“Em—”
“Let’s watch Captain America,” she cuts in with forced brightness, turning back to the television. “It’s fun, and everyone likes looking at Chris Evans. He’s America’s Ass for a reason, you know.”
I nod, and settle in to watch the movie, but I wonder, for the first time, whether this isn’t only my second chance at life, but maybe my second shot at finding the life I really want.
Or is it Emery’s?