Chapter 33 Emery
You said ‘Campbell,’ ” I say, wincing as we step onto our own porch.
Luca does a tiny double take in confusion. “What?”
“Betty’s last name is Caldwell, not Campbell. That’s not something you’d ever get wrong, and she knows it.”
“Okay, well, that explains the weird vibe at the end there.” With a shrug, Luca moves past me and into the house.
He’s distracted, and I get it—we have bigger things to worry about with Honey gone. But the last thing I want is for Betty to ramp up her nosiness again and bring the police back into the picture.
I follow him through the empty house. It’s so quiet. How was it just the two of us for so long?
“We’ll find her,” Luca says, opening his phone to Google. “I’m going to call the local vets and see if anyone’s brought her in. Maybe you could check with Annie?”
“Good idea.” Standing in the kitchen, I chew on my index fingernail while I look out the window into the backyard. I do a double take. “Luca…”
“Yeah?”
I walk to the door. When I don’t answer, he follows my gaze. Honey. Our big, silly dog is standing near the vegetable patch, tongue out, tail wagging enthusiastically. She woofs when she sees us.
Luca takes off toward her and I follow, kneeling beside him as he hugs her. Our eyes meet over the top of her head and the invitation is there. I throw my arms around them both, hugging my little family and working to not sob. “You goober dog, where did you go?”
“Was she here the whole time?”
I look up and the gate is closed again, fully latched. “Maybe? Am I losing my mind? Wasn’t the gate open?”
“It was, but we might have closed it when we left? Maybe she was just in the bushes or the shed and we didn’t see her?” He groans. “I’ve never been so scared. Is this what having kids is like?”
I feel along her body, making sure she’s okay. She seems completely fine. But then I feel a tiny patch on her front left leg where some hair is missing. “What’s this?”
Luca bends to inspect. “Looks like she got snagged somewhere.” He smooths it with his thumb, laughing. “Like the time Crash got his hair caught in his bike chain.”
I check the area, too. Not snagged, I think, shaved, with a tiny puncture mark and the beginnings of a bruise, almost like someone has drawn blood. But why—
And then Luca’s words catch up with me. “What did you say?”
“About Crash?”
“Yeah. When did that happen?”
“Junior high.”
“Oh my God.”
He looks up at me, brow furrowed. “What?”
“Did you just remember something from before the accident?”
His blue eyes go wide, a smile erupting. “Holy shit. I did. I actually remember.”
“Do you remember more?”
He closes his eyes for a breath before looking at me again. “His mom had to shave his head, so it didn’t look like he had a giant bald patch. And then she grounded him for being a dumbass.”
I’ve never heard this story before, so I know he didn’t hear it from me in the past several days. I throw my arms around his neck, squeezing him so tight. He’s coming back to me.
He lets me hug him for a moment before he straightens, eyes searching mine. Without another word, he leans in and kisses me.
When he stands, he brings me with him, picking me up. With heat pulsing through my body, I wrap my legs around his waist, drape my arms around his neck, and gaze at him, loving to be eye level with him like this.
“Hungry?” he asks.
“Depends.”
He smiles, giving me a light kiss. “On what?”
I give him a long look, letting my potential answers bubble up between us—depends on whether you want to kiss some more, depends on whether there’s something else I’d rather taste, depends on whether we’re going to have sex instead—before answering with a grin, “Depends on who’s cooking.”
Afternoon has turned into evening, and I’m sure we’re both starving. Laughing, Luca gives me a loud smooch, saying, “All right, then.” He turns and gives a sharp whistle, jerking his chin toward the house, and Honey follows us inside.
In the kitchen, Luca slowly sets me down, teasingly sliding me down his body and bending again to kiss me, his lips playful with promise. “As if there’s any question who’s cooking.”
“I just like pretending to be useful.”
He tilts his head to the kitchen table. “Go be useful by getting out of my way.”
I laugh. “Ooh, he’s bossy.”
Luca smiles at me, walking to the cabinet to retrieve a wineglass, then to get the bottle of red from the counter, and he pours a glass, setting it down in front of me with a kiss to the top of my head.
“He’s bossy but sweet,” I amend.
With another smile, he puts the wine away and then crouches to give Honey another once-over before gently murmuring, “Go to bed now.” She jogs out of the kitchen, disappearing to the living room and her dog bed.
I am completely transfixed by this capable man in the kitchen, watching him wash his hands at the sink, gather the final ingredients from the fridge, get a pot of water boiling.
While the ragù simmers lazily on the stove, Luca easily rolls out the batch of thawed, fresh pasta dough.
He coaxes it through his pasta machine, hanging it to dry briefly while he seasons the sauce.
He’s Luca, but he’s someone else, too, somehow even more captivating. The reveal of my true career has probably taken some of the shine off his eternal optimism, but the clarity in his eyes seems to only add to the internal strength he’s always carried.
He’s quietly whistling, so soft I can’t hear it very well, but when he turns to get the pasta from the rack, I catch a few notes and realize what it is: “First Day of My Life” by Bright Eyes.
Heat burns at the back of my throat, and my eyes sting with tears.
Our first night together, in his hotel room, we spoke on and off during rounds of lovemaking, sharing our favorite songs, movies, cities.
We were excited to find out that this song was one of our shared favorites; only a couple months later, we danced to it at our wedding.
“Do you remember the name of that song?” I ask.
He looks over at me, then back to the boiling pot of salted water, carefully swirling in the pasta. “Uhhh… I’m not even sure what I was whistling.”
I hum a little, and when he doesn’t seem to recognize it, I start over with the lyrics.
“And I don’t know where I am, I don’t know where I’ve been
But I know where I want to go.”
Luca listens, tilting his head, before shaking it. “I don’t know it. Isn’t that weird?”
“It’s called ‘First Day of My Life,’ ” I tell him. “We danced to it at our wedding.”
His hand stills on the saucepan and he looks over his shoulder at me. “Actually?” he asks, and I nod. “Tell me about that day?”
I feel a lump form in my throat. It’s so strange to me the way his memories are returning. It seems so random. Even with today’s progress, he’s still such a wild mix of familiar and unknowing.
“We got married at the Hughes Cottage at the Torrey Pines Lodge,” I say.
“It’s this cute little place with gorgeous views and a dining room for an intimate dinner.
It was small—only about a dozen of us: Your parents, my aunt, cousin, grandmother.
Annie, Crash. Your sisters and brother-in-law.
Ana Maria officiated it. We had a catered dinner afterward inside and then, outside on the patio, dancing and cocktails and cake. ”
“It sounds perfect.”
I nod, taking a drink of wine. “It really was.” I open Spotify on my phone and stream the song to the kitchen speaker. We both listen to it in comfortable silence for a few moments.
“Tell me about your parents,” he says, rousing me from my mental trip down wedding-memory lane. “That’s your mom with you in the photo at Disneyland, right?”
“It is.”
“She’s gorgeous. I can see where you get it from.”
I laugh. “She really knew how to show out,” I say fondly. “I remember watching her get ready in the morning. Hair, makeup, jewelry. Every day was an event.”
He smiles at me over his shoulder and goes back to check the pasta for doneness.
“What do you want to know?” I ask.
“Jobs, hobbies, vibes. Whatever you want.”
I lean back in my chair, lifting my wineglass to take another sip. “My mom’s name was Denise; my dad was Michael.”
“Michael and Denise…”
“Mike and Neesie, actually.”
“I like that.”
“She was the head of finance for Scripps Health. He was a fifth-grade teacher.”
“Wow. That’s cool.”
Taking another sip of wine, I hum in agreement.
“They were awesome. My dad was super shy unless he was in front of a classroom of students; then he was hilarious. His students freaking loved him. But outside of school, my mom was outgoing enough for them both. They met in high school and were together since they were fifteen.”
“Holy shit.”
“I know.” I take a deep breath, admitting, “In a way, I’m glad they died together. I just wish it had happened when they were so much older.”
“Of course.”
Luca moves to strain the pasta and grabs two wide, shallow bowls from the cupboard, serving everything up.
When he sets it down in front of me, it smells incredible with the umami of the slow-cooked meat, the rich, golden scent of onion, the sun-soaked sweetness of the tomato having slowly melted into velvet.
“Thank you,” I say, and reach to cover his hand with mine. “You’re the best.”
“I hope it’s good.”
“I can tell it is.”
“So, they met in high school,” he says, moving to pour himself a glass of wine. “How old were they when they had you?”
“They were thirty. They didn’t really want kids until they were in their late twenties, and then I think they had a hard time getting pregnant.”
“Is that why you’re an only child?”
“I’m not sure.” I smile at him, swirling some pasta onto my fork. “Either that, or I was such a pain in the ass, they were like, ‘Let’s never do this again.’ ”
Luca laughs. “Or you were so perfect, they were like, ‘We can’t top this one, let’s quit while we’re ahead.’ ”
I raise my glass, toasting him with a grin, and after the quiet clink, I stare through my wineglass, letting myself get lost in thought for a few quiet seconds.
“It’s nice to talk about who they were,” I admit.
“I haven’t done it in so long; so many of my memories of them have centered on the accident and what could have been done differently. ”
“I can see how that overshadowed everything.”
“Yeah. But it’s cool to just remember them before. They’re so much more than just the tragedy of how they died.”
“What was your favorite thing to do with your dad?” he asks.
My answer comes quickly: “Deep-sea fishing. We’d go out with his buddy who had a boat and head way south, to Baja. We’d catch a yellowfin, dorado, wahoo. We’d come home and Mom would cut it up and we’d just eat it right then and there. Sashimi, crudo. Grilled, whatever.”
“So good,” he says, forking up a mouthful of pasta.
“The best. She was a really good cook. Just good, simple food.”
“What was your favorite thing to do with your mom?”
“We both loved to read. We’d head to the park and throw down a blanket and just read all afternoon.”
“I love that.”
I watch him blink away and duck to take a big bite of dinner. For a moment, I’m unable to put into words how much this conversation means to me. “I don’t think we ever talked about this stuff before.”
Luca looks up at me, chewing, swallowing. “Really?”
“Yeah.”
“Why not?”
“I think it was still too raw. Or…” I pause, knowing the next answer is the real one. “You were afraid to ask too much, worried it was too personal or that you were opening a wound.”
“I really didn’t like to push things, did I?”
“It wasn’t just you,” I say. “I think I wasn’t always the easiest to engage in a deeper conversation.”
He hums, studying me for another beat before bending to take another bite. Once he’s finished, he reaches across the table and puts his hand over mine. “Well, then I’m glad we’re not those people anymore.”