Chapter 5 Luca
That’s right. I’m still here.
Did you forget, too?
Listen, don’t worry about it. I’m rarely surprised by my wife’s workaholic tendencies, in part because she’s always been this way.
Emery was already working at SurgOptix when we met at a friend’s wedding just over three years ago.
I crossed a crowded room to introduce myself to the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen, and our chemistry was instant.
The world disappeared around me, my brain wiped of every rational thought.
I wanted to be near her; nothing else mattered.
Emery was immediately fascinating: quiet and intense, sexy and witty, driven and unlike anyone I’d ever dated before. I was down bad.
She was Emery Finch back then, but she wouldn’t keep that name for long. We had sex that first night—blisteringly hot, wild sex—and were together nearly every night after. I’d never experienced anything like it; I couldn’t get enough. It felt like I’d found my other half.
I’m sure everyone thought we were just going through some kind of impulsive, infatuated phase but something about us just fit. We were married only a couple months later.
And while that initial chemistry never faded, I quickly learned that Emery wasn’t just obsessed with her job. Her work-life balance was virtually nonexistent.
Emery’s always been utterly consumed by science.
I remember one of our first dates, sitting across from her at a tiny wine bar while she frantically wrote down a series of calculations on the back of a receipt.
I’d never met someone who could make physics sound like foreplay.
Back then, it felt thrilling, intoxicating.
Now, three years in, I’m starting to realize that brilliance doesn’t switch off. Not for anniversaries. Not for me.
I’m used to keeping a plate warm for her in the oven, spending my evenings working on projects while she’s still at work, usually well after dark, and even going to bed alone some nights.
But tonight, when seven o’clock, seven thirty, and finally eight o’clock rolls around and I have to call the restaurant for the third time in two hours to ultimately cancel our reservation, I admit to myself that Emery’s lateness this time isn’t just inconvenient, it’s deeply shitty.
Worse, I know she probably doesn’t even realize how late she is, because she hasn’t texted in a panic to let me know she’s on her way home.
I occasionally agree when my best friend and business partner audibly wonders what on earth could be so fucking fascinating about surgical lasers, but I never question Emery’s dedication.
It’s one of the things I find most attractive about her: not only is she brilliant and stunning, she’s ambitious.
But, goddamn, I’ve given her so many chances to be more present. I’m tired of being alone all the time.
With a sigh, I go to the bedroom and change out of the fancy dress clothes I put on for dinner and into a pair of shorts and a T-shirt.
It’s predictably warm for July, and the only thing worse than being stood up for my own anniversary dinner would be doing it while wearing a shirt and tie. Screw that.
I’ve always enjoyed tinkering and remain incapable of using downtime for things like TV or books.
Instead, I like the satisfaction that comes from making something and working with my hands.
With Emery spending so much of her time at work, I channeled that energy into our house.
The bedroom is a perfect example, where I replicated the exposed wood beams in the main living space and installed them on the ceilings in here.
I walk through the house, noticing everything I’ve touched, thinking about what else I want to renovate—the bathroom (awful), the hallway flooring (outdated), the linen closets (microscopic).
I pass Emery’s office without bothering to look inside—I long ago stopped going in there.
But outside, I’m reminded that no area has seen more change than the backyard, a long stretch of grass and raised beds bursting with vegetables, trees, and flowers.
Switching on the outdoor lights, I proudly survey the space: the patio decorated with brightly colored flowerpots, the pergola I built myself, with vibrant wisteria and strands of lights illuminating the garden.
The Adirondack chairs we bought for our two-year anniversary and have lounged in together only a handful of times.
It’s such an incredible space, but I’m usually the only one who ever enjoys it.
Whatever. I remind myself I’m not stuck; I have options. I’m dealing with it.
I cross to the garden shed, grabbing my toolbox. Kneeling by the side of the house, I work to reattach the rain gutter that’s recently pulled away from the exterior wall.
“Hey.”
I look up at the sound of Crash’s voice and lift my chin in greeting. My best friend reaches over the fence, unlatching the gate and letting himself into the backyard the way he always does.
Since we were kids, only the state of California and his mother have ever called Crash by his real name: Crispin Coppola Barnett.
Crash walks to where I’m working and sets down a black case. “Why are you home?”
“Em’s still at work.”
“Isn’t tonight your—”
“Yep.”
He looks at his watch, eyebrows rising. “Nothing screams ‘celebrating our love’ like fixing a rain gutter.”
“I know.” I turn back to the gutter, tightening the brace around the bottom before leaning back on my heels. He’s not wrong, but there’s relief in repairs; something broken can be fixed. It’s a shame marriage doesn’t work that way. “What are you doing here anyway?”
Crash points to the box. “Brought back the Dremel. Was just going to put it in the shed.”
Standing, I swipe the dirt from my hands and knees. “You could have just brought it in the morning.”
“I know, but I had a feeling you might be here alone.”
Huffing out a dry laugh, I nod. “Yeah.” We sit on the patio and look out at the darkening sky, at the lights coming on in the houses around us.
Ours is the kind of easy silence you can only have with someone you’ve known forever.
We met in the fourth grade when my family moved from Turin, Italy, to San Diego.
I was a quiet, shy kid, and Crash was the only one who hadn’t continually made fun of my heavily accented, limited English, or yelled spaghetti, pepperoni, or arrivederci whenever I stepped foot on the playground.
Instead, we’d share comics or climb the jungle gym while Crash pointed to things around us. I’d say the word in Italian, Crash would tell me the word in English, and I’d repeat the word after him. Eventually my accent softened, and both of us could tell those guys to fuck off in two languages.
Twenty years later, we share a thriving landscaping business. He was the best man at my wedding, is still my best friend, and we see each other every day.
“Just finished up at the Anderson place a little while ago.” Crash reaches up, scratching his jaw.
He has a cluster of California tattoos littering his body, including Saddleback Mountain across his shoulders, a cluster of poppies on his right forearm, and his born and raised in San Diego mom’s name on his left bicep. “Julie was topless in the backyard.”
“Again?” I lean forward, resting my elbows on my thighs as I look back at him. “Didn’t she know you were coming?”
“Dude, she was the one who buzzed me in the gate.”
“I can work their place next time and make it clear that sort of thing isn’t acceptable.”
“Oh, I wasn’t complaining.” At my wary look, Crash laughs. “Listen, I just keep my eyes on the grass. Doug has that navy veteran flag out front and a huge NRA bumper sticker on his truck. I like breasts as much as the next guy, but I’m not stupid.”
A pointed throat clearing precedes a shaky voice asking, “How are you today, Luca?”
Both of us glance over to the fence that separates my yard from the neighbor’s, where Mrs. Caldwell’s gray hair and bespectacled watery blue eyes peek over the top.
She can’t be more than five feet tall and, given that the fence is six, I got her a stepladder last summer so she’d stop standing on one of her patio chairs when she wants to talk, since apparently not invading our privacy at all hours isn’t an option.
She lives alone, after all. The last thing I want is for her to fall and hurt herself.
“I’m doing good, Betty,” I say, and Crash and I stand to move closer to the fence. My mother would kill me for referring to a woman Betty’s age by her first name, but Betty has told me no fewer than ten times to not be so formal. “How about you? Anything interesting happen today?”
“The Silvas had a Realtor over yesterday, though I’m not sure how much they think they’ll get after painting their house that terrible, sickly green. They haven’t listed it, so I’m assuming the Realtor said the same thing.”
I smile. “Ah.”
“And I’m trying to get the sheriff’s department to put up one of those digital speed check signs in front of my house. You leave so early you probably don’t see, but there are too many people ignoring the posted limit when they’re running late in the morning.”
“I hope that group doesn’t include Emery,” I say, laughing.
“No, she’s usually very conscientious about her speed.” Betty sniffs, casually adding, “I noticed you were home all morning. I hope everything’s all right.”
Beside me, Crash snorts. The woman misses nothing. “She had an important presentation today, so I stuck around to see her off,” I explain.
“That’s lovely, Luca. You are a very thoughtful person.”
“He’s a real sweetie,” Crash adds, and Betty slides her eyes to him, disapproval plain on her face. Crash spends most workdays shirtless, something Betty finds distasteful. Add in his full-sleeve tattoos and she probably thinks he’s planning to break into her house.
“Oh, before I forget.” Betty frowns and leans in as if she fears we’re being overheard. “Have you seen a white electric sedan driving up and down the street today?”
I tilt my head, thinking. “Not that I can recall.”
She sighs, clearly aggrieved. “I saw it at least three times this afternoon but didn’t recognize it or the driver.
” She frowns, adding like a curse: “Tinted windows.” Turning to look toward the street, she continues, “I couldn’t catch the plate, but maybe you’ll have better luck if it goes by again. ”
“I’ll keep an eye out and let you know.”
“I appreciate that. I don’t like strangers circling around the neighborhood.”
“I know you don’t, Betty.”
“And could you transplant those milkweed plants in my front yard?” she asks, lifting her chin in that direction. “I know you put them there for the butterflies, but they’re looking a little leggy.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll move them this weekend.”
“Patience of a saint, you,” Crash says when we’re alone again.
“She’s lonely,” I say with a shrug.
“And keep an eye out for a white electric sedan? That’s the California state bird.”
I laugh at this, and Crash hooks a thumb over his shoulder. “All right, I’m off.”
“Date tonight?” I ask.
“Nah. Dinner with Mama Leora.”
He’s currently single, but knowing him, that could change at any moment.
Crash is a total mama’s boy and loves women, going from one relationship to the next with the same frequency most people hit snooze in the morning.
But he’s so likeable, there are rarely any hard feelings on either side.
He had a thing for Emery’s friend Annie for a while, but apparently he checks too many boxes on her Ick List, so even the most charismatic man I’ve ever known couldn’t win her over.
Glancing at his phone, Crash types out a text before tucking it into his back pocket. “Let me know if you want to do something later. You know…”
If Emery doesn’t get here soon, he means. “I’ll probably head out for a run,” I say, “but will do.”
It’s less than a half mile from our house to the ocean.
I take the route every day—through our Rancho Amaro development, down Ninth, across Camino Del Mar, and over to the Sea Cliff Coastal Trail.
It’s a gorgeous area, with scrubby, hard-packed earth perched on vertical cliffs.
On a good day you can see for miles, from Torrey Pines in one direction and the Del Mar Racetrack in the other.
The trail is emptier this time of night, but during daylight, I pass scores of dog walkers and couples with strollers and have a constant view of the surfers below.
The tide rolls in, the surfers dive and paddle through it, the waves attempt to spit them out while also swallowing them whole, and repeat.
The thing is, I used to dream of living near the ocean.
I love the smell and the taste of the air.
I love the sense of freedom the ocean brings.
You can swim as far as your body will take you, no walls, no fences.
It’s why I got married here. I never feel lonely looking at the ocean.
Tonight, though, I’d feel isolated even if Emery were here.
I startle when my phone rings. I expect it to be Emery but frown when I see my youngest sister’s face filling the screen instead.
I’d normally never ignore one of my sisters—I’m hardwired to take care of them, always have been—but I’m not in the mood to explain why I’m out on a run, and not at dinner with my wife on our anniversary.
I can’t do it. So even though it goes against my very nature, I silence my phone, turn off the ringer, and run.