Chapter 28 Luca
My leg feels mostly back to normal, so I insist on running errands with Em the next day. Groceries, car wash, bank—a series of normally banal stops that suddenly feel like miracles.
I’m registering more and more that I nearly lost this. That I died. That each of these tiny, insignificant moments is a gift.
After we’re done, groceries unloaded, Honey walked, house clean, neither of us feels like sitting around. Restless, we hop back in the car and drive a short way inland for a night out together.
I’m pretty sure that my memory of scents is coming back, because the second we step foot in Bluefoot Bar and Lounge, I’m positive I’ve been here before.
“Yeah,” Emery confirms when I ask. “You and Crash used to come here a lot in your early twenties. You shared a tiny apartment nearby, with four other guys.”
I look around. It’s not a big place, and on this random afternoon, it’s perhaps predictably not very crowded, but I can imagine on a weekend or game night, it would be packed.
The well-stocked bar lines one long wall, while the wall opposite has two wide doors that open to a patio facing Thirtieth Street.
In between are two blue-topped pool tables.
A door at the end of the bar leads to another room with high-top tables, booths, and a DJ stand in the corner.
Emery makes her way to the bar and looks over her shoulder at me after ordering herself a gin and tonic. “I’m not gonna order for you. Maybe this new Luca drinks differently.”
“What did I drink before?”
“Not telling.”
Laughing, I consider a cocktail, too, but find my attention moving to the beer menu overhead. My mouth waters at the idea of a pint of lager on this hot day. “I’ll have… the Eppig, I think?” I tell the bartender, and beside me, Emery claps. “Did I do well?” I ask her.
She nods. “You love Eppig. It’s a local brewery.”
“Cool.”
Emery tilts her head to the side. “How are you feeling?”
“Good.”
“Not tired?”
A little, but nothing I can’t handle. “I swear I’m good.”
“And the leg?”
It feels so nice to be out, I’d actually forgotten about it for a few minutes. “It’s good, too.”
“Good,” she says cheekily. “How do you feel about getting spanked by your wife…” My pulse trips, and she grins at me. “… in pool?”
“I don’t know if I’ve ever played pool,” I tell her, “and I would happily be spanked by you.” Thanking the bartender when she deposits the pint glass on the bar top in front of me, I add, “But something tells me it’s going to be a close match.”
Emery’s eyes shine as she takes a sip of her drink through the thin straw and shrugs.
Barely one game in and I already know my wife is a shark.
“When on earth did you have time to learn how to play this when you were living in the lab like a hermit?”
She laughs, sinking the solid two ball with a satisfying thunk. “You taught me.”
I believe her. She’s good, but I’m better.
I watch her line up a shot with the eight ball for the win, but can tell it’s going to barely ricochet off the corner pocket.
“Wow, your teacher sucked,” I tease, and she rounds the table toward me, her hips swaying under the intensity of my attention, and comes to a stop only inches away.
For a beat, I think she’s going to stretch up on her toes and let me kiss her, but she only reaches around me for her drink, taking a long, deep gulp while she holds my gaze.
“Winner buys the next round,” she says.
“If memory serves, you’re my sugar mama. I think you’re buying all the rounds.” She laughs at this, and I counter, “I think it’s more like ‘loser has to tell a secret.’ ”
“Do you have any secrets?” she asks, laughing.
“Hey,” I say, mock offended, “I’ve had several days to create new ones.”
Emery finishes her drink, pulling air through her straw before letting out a satisfied ahhh. “Excellent. I can’t wait to hear them when you lose.”
I grin down at her, brushing her shoulder with my arm as I pass her to survey the table. “You’re cockier than I expected you to be, Dr. Martín.”
“You have to know by now that I am the cockiest asshole you’ve ever met.”
“And the cutest.”
She gives a little curtsy, and I work to tear my gaze away from her gin-warmed cheeks. She’s so fucking beautiful.
On the table, I have a shot with my final stripe, but barely. As I bend to aim, Emery steps in behind me, crowding my space, and leans over to exhale softly into the back of my neck.
“Do you mind?” I ask, laughing.
“Just trying to help.”
I glance at her over my shoulder. “Help me how, Em? By pressing your boobs into my back?”
She lifts her chin. “You’re aiming a little high.”
“Trust, darlin’, I know right where to strike.” I give her a big smile. “I think most guys probably aim too low.”
Emery straightens, smacking my arm. “Filthy little shit.”
“Am I wrong?”
She giggles, walking around the table to face me. “I wouldn’t know. I never met a guy before you who tried very hard to strike the right spot at all.”
“That’s a shame,” I say, feeling proud as hell to hear this. “But just so we’re clear, that won’t count as your secret.”
She watches while I take the shot, sinking the ten stripe into the side pocket before pointing my cue at the eight and indicating that I’m going for the far corner.
“That’s a tough shot,” she says, shaking her head.
“Get your secret ready.” I pull back and look up at her as I strike, smiling at the satisfying sound of the ball hitting the heart of the pocket. “And make it good.”
Emery rubs the chalk over her cue tip while she appears to think. “Everything about me is a secret to you,” she says, finally meeting my eyes across the pool table.
“Don’t tell me something about him, then,” I say, meaning the other version of me, the one she knows but I don’t. “Tell me something about me. Tell me something you think about this Luca.”
Emery sits back on a barstool and thanks the bartender when she brings her another drink. Music filters through the speakers in every corner, a rock song that pings something familiar in my memory.
After taking a long sip, she sets the glass down and says, “I don’t know how it’s possible, but I think you’re sexier than ever.”
I give myself a mental high five. “That right?” She nods. “How so?”
“I think it’s sexy that you’re not letting me off the hook about things.”
I lean against my pool cue, crossing one ankle over the other while this penetrates. “Yeah?”
Emery nods again.
“Is that something you didn’t like about me before?” I ask, feeling mildly queasy. “That I didn’t press you?”
She shrugs, rounding the table again to come closer to me. That guilt is back, creating those parallel lines between her eyes. I reach up, rubbing them with my thumb, murmuring, “I’m not mad, Emmy. Just asking.”
Her gaze darts to mine. “I like that nickname.”
“Emmy?”
She nods.
“Good.” I reach forward, briefly rubbing my thumb over her chin. I also like that there’s something between us that’s just mine. “Answer my question, though.”
“It’s not that there was anything I didn’t like about you,” she hedges.
“Okay, but?”
“But,” she says, anxiously searching my expression, “in hindsight, I think I wonder how you didn’t notice all the strange things and secrecy. And if you did, why you didn’t ask me about it. I wonder if you didn’t care, or if you just didn’t like the idea of fighting about it.”
I sit back against a barstool, and she follows, stepping between my legs, seeming uneasy about letting any distance come between us. I’m quiet, letting her words settle in, and she gives me time to do it, but I can feel the vibrating anxiety coming off her in waves.
I don’t like the sensation in my chest right now—this tight, uneasy feeling of a conversation that might take us somewhere ugly. I close my eyes, trying to name this reaction, realizing I have a strange urge to get up and simply walk away or change the subject. Make a joke to lighten the mood.
I fight it, searching for words.
“We don’t have to talk about it,” she says quickly. “We’re having so much fun, and I don’t want—”
I open my eyes and stop her with my hand on her arm. “We do have to talk about it. Right? Like, this is how we move forward?”
After a pause, she nods.
“Tell me,” I say, lifting my beer and finishing it in a gulp, “did we ever have serious conversations? Intense ones?” I tilt my head. “Did we ever fight?”
Emery’s gaze breaks away to the right as she thinks. Finally, she looks back at me and says, “Not really.”
“So… we’ve been married for three years, but we never fought?”
She exhales slowly. “I honestly can’t think of a single time we even argued.”
“That seems…”
“Maladaptive?” she finishes for me.
It’s my turn to nod.
With a sheepish shrug, she admits, “I think maybe we’re both a bit nonconfrontational.”
Grinning at her, I murmur, “You think?”
Emery laughs, and the breaking of the tension feels so good, I reach around her waist, pulling her into a hug. She stretches, pressing her face to my neck, and I do the same, for once letting myself take a deep, full breath of her.
Longing blooms hot and expansive in my chest, and I tighten my hold on her, taking one more huff before releasing her. “You good?” I ask.
“Yeah. You?”
“Ready to kick your ass again,” I tell her.
Emery tilts her head back and laughs. “Oh, Lukey, I gave you that one.” She tucks a wayward curl of hair back into her updo. “Just so you know.”
“Is that right.”
With another laugh, she reaches for the rack and arranges the balls in the triangle, sliding it back and forth into position. Chalking her cue again, she looks up at me. “Am I good to break?”
“Go for it.”
Emery bends over, her brows pulling down in concentration, and I’m instantly transfixed.
Enamored. There’s an entire world outside that I need to explore, but I can’t imagine wanting to be anywhere else.
I love hanging out with Emery. I wonder if, before, on our Sunny Sundays, we were like this—relishing the day, playful, flirty, without a care in the world. I fucking hope so.
But somehow, I sense this is different than what we had in that other life. Because, despite my fevered attraction to her, this time we’re becoming friends. Emery is slowly becoming my best friend, and I have the strong belief that I’d never had that thought before.