Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 100561 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100561 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
My stomach rejects this realization, and I think there’s a distinct possibility I might throw up when the call is answered and Luca’s clipped voice cuts through my thoughts.
There’s no crooning, Ciao, amore mio. Just, “Hey.”
Shit.
“Oh my God, Lukey, I’m so—”
“Where are you?” He’s winded, his breath coming in short bursts through the receiver. He’s definitely out for a run.
I glance at my surroundings. “Just turning onto Ninth.”
“My phone’s about to die,” he says, “so wait for me at the bottom of the street and I’ll meet you there. We can take your car to the beach.” Quiet fills the line and there’s a moment where I think everything will be fine. He wants to go to the beach—maybe we can salvage this night after all.
But then he adds, “We need to talk.”
* * *
I’m not sure I’ve ever heard that sentence come out of my husband’s mouth. Luca never wants to talk, not about hard things. It’s a personality quirk of his that has served me well over the years, I’ll admit. But not anymore.
Tonight, I’m doing it. I’m going to tell him about BioNEX.
“Okay,” I say, and slow to a stop at the intersection at the bottom of our street. “See you in a second.”
Luca ends the call, and I shift into park, glad at least that we’re not going to do this in our driveway. Betty would probably record and make a transcript of the entire conversation.
Anxiously chewing my nails, I look around, waiting for Luca. Aside from a few contemporary remodels, the homes are typical of most in this part of Del Mar: Spanish-inspired, with low, pitched roofs, asymmetrical facades, and arched doorways and windows. We probably have the smallest house in our neighborhood, but I’m willing to bet it’s most people’s favorite. Luca has seen to that, having lovingly overhauled almost every square inch of it, babying the yard so it blooms robustly year-round. I’ve never had the time or interest in that sort of thing, but Luca is happiest when he’s taking care of something. People or houses, if I’m being honest.
The streetlights are on, which makes it easy to finally spot him at the end of the road. He’s in light gray shorts and a T-shirt, and he has his head down, leaving his face in shadow. Even knowing what I’m about to do, my heart does a familiar lurch just like it always does when I see him. I love him endlessly.
And even if he knows deep down how I feel, he deserves to be mad at me, and I deserve whatever tongue-lashing is coming.
But most of all, he deserves to know the truth.
At the sound of a car blowing past me, I look over. If someone asked me later to describe the car or the person driving it, I couldn’t, but I’ll never forget what happens next. One second Luca is stepping off the sidewalk to cross the street to me, and the next second he looks up—just as the car hits him. I can’t even scream as his feet come out from under him and his body goes up and over the roof of the car to land with a sickening thud on the street below. When time snaps back, I’m fumbling out of my own car, tripping as my feet try to move while my brain goes haywire, finally getting my footing, finally screaming his name.
The car is gone, but Luca is there in the intersection, completely still.
I’ve been tormented by the idea of my mother bleeding out in her car a million times. I’ve drawn blood from thousands of people. The notion of spilled blood haunts me, it drives me, and as I stare at the growing pool of liquid and broken glass on the asphalt, even in the dark, Luca’s blood seems so much redder than any I’ve ever seen.
“Luca?” I gently shake him. “Luca!”
No response.
Panicking and trembling violently, I scan his body. His right side, from his hip to his foot, is soaked in blood. Carefully, I roll him over, locating an enormous slash on his thigh. His femoral artery has been punctured, and I tear off my blazer, using it as a tourniquet around his upper thigh.
I press a hand to his face, crying out when his eyes flutter open. “Luca? Luca, look at me.”
“Em?”
I nod frantically. “I’m here. Don’t close your eyes. Stay with me.” My hands shake as I quickly run them over his body, looking for other injuries.
“I can’t feel…”
“Can’t feel what?” I’m trembling violently. “Luca, honey. You can’t feel what? No. No. Don’t close your eyes. No, no, no, no.” I shake him, but they don’t open again.
The air grows trapped in my lungs; I’m unable to inhale or exhale. I try to scream, but nothing comes out. I can’t move, frozen in the moment, frozen in fear. Shoving my breath out, I force myself to focus. If I panic, I can’t help him. There will be time to fall apart later.