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)
“Go take a nap,” I insist.
“If I nap now, I probably won’t be able to fall asleep at a normal time tonight.”
“What’s normal?” I ask, smiling.
Emery groans, laughing. “Touché.”
“No, remember, I actually don’t know.”
She laughs harder. “Well, I said touché because I don’t have a normal bedtime. Sometimes ten, sometimes four.”
“In the morning?”
Nodding, she says, “Yeah.”
When I whistle, I notice the way her eyes dip to my mouth and then immediately away. Crash’s words come back to me: You guys can barely keep your hands off each other.
“You look like you’re about to drop,” I say.
“No, I swear I’m okay.” She pushes her hair out of her eyes. “Do you need anything? Something else to eat? I tried to make your pastina recipe but—”
“You made me soup?” Maybe it’s the image Crash painted of her—how surprised he was to see her here, insinuating that she was never home and always at work—but that image doesn’t align with the woman in front of me. The one who’s clearly been sick with worry, who’s hovered nonstop and basically nursed me back to health. Fuck, it’s so confusing.
“Tried to make you soup,” she clarifies. “Like I said, I’m not much of a cook.” She glances at her watch. “Not quite time for more meds yet.”
“I don’t need anything,” I tell her. “Maybe we could watch a movie? Bonus for me, I guess, is that all of my favorites will be entirely new again.”
Emery laughs, settling on the other end of the couch. There seems to be a mile of space between us, and I both want to leave it there and also pull her into my lap. Everything feels so overwhelming.
She reaches for the remote, turning on the TV and navigating to the menu of movies we’ve purchased. “Here are some options: Captain America. Baby Driver. Fast and Furious. Shawshank Redemption. Parasite. Um… there’s lots more.” She presses Forward to the next menu. “For TV series, we have The Wire, Breaking Bad, The Simpsons…”
“None of these ring a bell.”
“You liked Breaking Bad. And Parasite? But those might be too stressful for this particular day.”
“Were there any shows we were watching together?”
Chewing her lip, she shakes her head. “Not recently, no.”
“Because of schedules?” I guess, and she looks over at me, nodding guiltily.
The lie about her job. The fact that she was late on our anniversary. Why do Past Emery and Present Emery seem like entirely different people?
“Em—”
“Let’s watch Captain America,” she cuts in with forced brightness, turning back to the television. “It’s fun, and everyone likes looking at Chris Evans. He’s America’s Ass for a reason, you know.”
I nod, and settle in to watch the movie, but I wonder, for the first time, whether this isn’t only my second chance at life, but maybe my second shot at finding the life I really want.
Or is it Emery’s?
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.