Chapter 22 Luca
It’s barely fifteen minutes into the movie when Emery falls asleep.
She must really be out, because there are a hell of a lot of explosions happening on-screen, and she doesn’t even move.
As the final credits roll, and Emery continues to snore gently beside me on the sofa, I let myself look at her.
Her mouth is half open and there’s a spot of drool on the throw pillow under her head, but she’s so fucking pretty.
I try to imagine meeting her now, no history between us, just strangers, maybe bumping into each other or set up on a blind date.
I don’t need to wonder whether I’d want to get to know her better, because if I’m honest, I already do.
I want to know why she’s so passionate about science.
What is she afraid of and what makes her laugh uncontrollably?
What is her favorite season, her favorite holiday, her favorite city?
And that’s when I remember my new phone, with what sounds like a lot of very organized photo albums. Maybe I’ll find answers in there.
Turns out everyone was right and I am clearly fastidious about organization. Inside the phone, which opens with face ID—and thank God, because I’d have no idea what my passcode might be, couldn’t even go with a birthday or phone number, since I know neither—are hundreds of digital albums.
There are albums with addresses that I quickly figure out are landscaping projects, and others labeled with random location names or holidays.
There’s one with a cake emoji that’s nothing but photos of food.
I’m not sure how I feel about being one of those people who takes endless pics of their meals.
At least I can dispel any questions about how often I see Crash, because he’s with me in most of them.
Below that are dozens of albums labeled with dates.
Hoping for a glimpse into my marriage, I start with the ones spanning the last three years.
Dinners out. Walks on the beach. Photos of us smiling and backlit by a sunset.
Photos of us kissing in front of a cluster of pine trees.
Photos of us on the beach, swimming, sunbathing, napping.
Most of these dates, I realize after using my calendar app, took place on a Sunday, which tracks with what Emery said about our Sunny Sundays.
I’ll tell you one thing; we look crazy about each other in all of them.
There are only two folders that seem to include photos from a vacation.
I don’t immediately recognize the locations, but a sign that reads SANTA BARBARA SHELLFISH COMPANY appears in one, and a menu with the name EMBERS RESTAURANT appears in another.
I scroll farther down in the list of albums and my breath locks on an exhale. This album is labeled only US, and when I open it, there are hundreds of naked pictures of Emery, of me, of Emery and me.
In some, it looks like the phone might be propped up against something.
In others, it’s clear one of us is the photographer.
In one, she’s looking up the length of my body at me, her hand wrapped around my dick, her mouth curved in a teasing smile.
In another, my lips are pressed high up on her inner thigh, my eyes closed in an expression of absolute reverence.
There’s one with Emery on top of me, her head thrown back, a look of sheer ecstasy on her face. My arm is in frame, my hand palming one of her breasts. Her nipple is visible, and the sight of the tight, soft blush tip trapped between two of my fingers sends a blaze of heat straight to my groin.
I try to ignore it, knowing this is not the ideal time to test my cardiovascular system again. Besides, if Emery were to wake up, she’d probably want to document the discovery.
At the thought, I glance over at her. It feels a little wrong, somehow, to be looking at these while she’s asleep, but they are our photos, and she was clearly a very active participant when they were taken.
As I scroll on, a cry of pleasure and murmured encouragements erupt from the phone’s speaker; on-screen, I am enthusiastically fucking her from behind, with her bent over the back of the very couch we’re currently sitting on.
Only then do I register in horror that there are videos in this folder and my volume is turned to max. If there was any doubt about my speaking Italian to her in bed, there isn’t anymore.
Emery jolts, startled, and I fumble to turn the volume down, initially just taking accidental screenshots until I finally manage to get the sound off. I swallow before daring to glance over, feeling the way my face has gone deep red.
She’s blinking awake, swiping a hand across her face. “Whatcha watching over there, Lukey?” The endearment feels familiar.
“Nothing. Just—you know. We finished Captain America.” I wave to the TV, which I realize only now has gone to sleep from being idle too long.
“That didn’t sound like Captain America,” she says, smiling, and her soft, sleepy eyes give a kick to some emotional nucleus in my gut. “It sounded like porn.”
Tenderness melts into mortification. “No, no. I’m not watching porn.” But as she continues to look at me in question, I relent, “Maybe sort of? I found an album on my phone of… us.”
Her eyes do that thing again, dipping from my gaze to my mouth and back again. She moves to sit up. “Ah.”
Clearing my throat, I tell her, “I didn’t realize there were videos. It just started to play.” I clear my throat. “Loudly.”
Emery fights a laugh. “That must’ve been a surprise.”
“Uh, yeah.”
“You know, I don’t mind if you want to look at any of it. We could even do it together, if you wanted.”
“Did we do that… before?”
“Mm-hmm,” she says, nodding as she runs her fingers through her long hair, sweeping it up and tucking the ends into her bun. “We didn’t like more standard porny stuff, so we made our own. Sort of served two purposes, you know?”
“I think so?” I swallow audibly and can’t stop my gaze from dropping down her neck, to her chest, and back up again.
“It got us in the mood,” she says quietly, “and it was also fun to perform for future us, knowing we’d watch it later.”
I have no idea how to respond to this and drop my phone in my lap, right on my semihard dick. I wince, fighting a groan. That’s certainly one way to help the current situation.
We fall into a beat of silence, and Emery seems to read the way my brain has locked up. She sits up, taking a deep breath. “I was doing some research on amnesia, its causes, and how to treat it.”
“Yeah?” I’m grateful for the track change, even if it’s a return to the subject that bothers me the most.
“Unfortunately,” she says, “there aren’t any medications to help, and unless the memory loss is caused by a known trauma or injury, there isn’t any concrete treatment.
Your scans didn’t show any physical damage, so that sort of rules any of that out.
There’s always cognitive rehabilitation, but that’s more for short-term memory issues, and rebuilding skills, which wouldn’t apply to you, either.
” She smiles at me, her dark eyes shining hopefully.
“I know that might not sound very encouraging, but I do have an idea.”
“Yeah?”
“I think we should start at the beginning. I know you don’t have the greatest impression of me right now, but we really did have so much fun together.”
I nod to the phone in my lap, my meaning clear: Our sex life seemed pretty good.
She laughs. “Well, yes. That, too. But also, in other ways.”
I tilt my head, listening.
“I want you to do what you’re comfortable with, but maybe we can look at this as a bit of a do-over.”
“A do-over?”
“Yeah. We could go out, when you’re up to it, of course. We could pretend it’s our actual first date?”
“I think I’d like that.”
A relieved smile returns. “Really? Even after everything you’ve heard, you still want to date me?”
I grin. “Well, yeah.” I nod to my phone. “I’ve just seen your boobs.”
She laughs. “Sorry to disappoint, but I don’t put out on the first date.”
“Funny, that’s not what I heard.”
Her laugh grows. “Busted!”
I lift one corner of my mouth, liking this easy, playful energy between us. “Maybe we can do something tomorrow if I’m not so exhausted and the leg is a bit more healed?”
Emery nods. “Perfect.”
“You’re exhausted, too. I can see it.”
She shrugs. “Being tired feels like a blessing, honestly. I’ll be tired if it means I don’t lose my husband.”
I smile at her. “You don’t have to sleep on the couch, you know.”
“I want you to be comfortable.”
“The bed is big enough for two people,” I say.
“Yes, but I mean emotionally as well as physically. I want you to know that I’m committed to helping you come back to this life however I can. And if we’re going to get to start over, let’s do it for real. You take the bed, and I’ll sleep out here.”
I begin to protest, but she holds up a hand to stop me.
“You are not sleeping on the couch, Luca. I’m not even entertaining the idea. You’re still healing and could really hurt yourself if you fell off. Besides,” she says, looking down to where Honey is leaning against my side, “I don’t think you and your new girlfriend would both fit out here anyway.”
As if she knows she’s the topic of conversation, Honey looks up at me and thumps her tail against the sofa.
I may not remember all the details of who I am, but I know I would never agree to my wife sleeping on the couch while I have our entire bed. That said, Emery does have a point; I’d be arguing for the sake of my ego. “Fine,” I say. “But I reserve the right to renegotiate at a later time.”
Emery grins and the uneasy thing in my stomach unwinds, just a little.
It’s clear our marriage wasn’t perfect, not by a long shot. But if there’s one thing I’m certain of already in this new life, it’s this: Emery loves me enough that she literally kept me from dying. For that, she deserves another chance, too.