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.”
“Ireallydidn’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.”
34EMERY
After we finish and sit to let our dinners settle in our full bellies, I clear the plates and make my way to the sink. Luca moves around behind me—packing up leftovers, clearing the linens from the table, putting away unused ingredients—while I start washing the dishes. We move around each other in easy silence, the comforting sounds of home and music playing through the kitchen speaker in the background.
Before all of this, I honestly can’t remember the last time we ate together in such a leisurely manner, cleaning up the kitchen as a team. Being so domestic. I’ve left the cooking and cleaning to Luca so many times in the past, I find myself adding it to the mental list of Reasons I Was a Shitty Wife.
With a slow exhale, I wipe down the counters and then rinse the sponge, staring out the window at the side yard my husband has so perfectly cultivated. The lawn is neat and a healthy green; foxglove, dahlias, and zinnias border the house… bright, stunning flowers whose names I only know because he’s always talking about plants, and I must absorb details even when I’m not actively listening. Another reason.
I startle when Luca steps up behind me, kissing my shoulder.
“What’re you thinking about?”
“Thinking how awesome you are and how not awesome I’ve been.”
Luca turns me to face him and cages me against the kitchen counter. “I’ve only ever known you to be awesome.”
I grin at him wryly. “Don’t worry, your memory is returning.”
He doesn’t laugh or even smile at this. He stares at me like I’m a frustrating mystery and then leans in, pressing his lips to mine. Things are so good right now, but if he remembers how many times I disappointed him—
“Let it go,” he says into the kiss. “Emery, you have to let all that go.”
“I want to. I really do. But one day you’ll remember, andyoumight not want to let it go,” I say, and my eyes flutter closed as he kisses me again. “I think I’m worried about getting my hopes up that we can really start over.”