The Romance Revival(11)
And while that initial chemistry never faded, I quickly learned that Emery wasn’t just obsessed with her job. Her work-life balance was virtually nonexistent.
Emery’s always been utterly consumed by science. I remember one of our first dates, sitting across from her at a tiny wine bar while she frantically wrote down a series of calculations on the back of a receipt. I’d never met someone who could make physics sound like foreplay. Back then, it felt thrilling, intoxicating. Now, three years in, I’m starting to realize that brilliance doesn’t switch off. Not for anniversaries. Not for me.
I’m used to keeping a plate warm for her in the oven, spending my evenings working on projects while she’s still at work, usually well after dark, and even going to bed alone some nights. But tonight, when seven o’clock, seven thirty, and finally eight o’clock rolls around and I have to call the restaurant for the third time in two hours to ultimately cancel our reservation, I admit to myself that Emery’s lateness this time isn’t just inconvenient, it’s deeply shitty.
Worse, I know she probably doesn’t even realize how late she is, because she hasn’t texted in a panic to let me know she’s on her way home. I occasionally agree when my best friend and business partner audibly wonders what on earth could be so fucking fascinating about surgical lasers, but I never question Emery’s dedication. It’s one of the things I find most attractive about her: not only is she brilliant and stunning, she’s ambitious.
But, goddamn, I’ve given her so many chances to be more present. I’m tired of being alone all the time.
With a sigh, I go to the bedroom and change out of the fancy dress clothes I put on for dinner and into a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. It’s predictably warm for July, and the only thing worse than being stood up for my own anniversary dinner would be doing it while wearing a shirt and tie. Screw that.
I’ve always enjoyed tinkering and remain incapable of using downtime for things like TV or books. Instead, I like the satisfaction that comes from making something and working with my hands. With Emery spending so much of her time at work, I channeled that energy into our house. The bedroom is a perfect example, where I replicated the exposed wood beams in the main living space and installed them on the ceilings in here.
I walk through the house, noticing everything I’ve touched, thinking about what else I want to renovate—the bathroom (awful), the hallway flooring (outdated), the linen closets (microscopic). I pass Emery’s office without bothering to look inside—I long ago stopped going in there. But outside, I’m reminded that no area has seen more change than the backyard, a long stretch of grass and raised beds bursting with vegetables, trees, and flowers. Switching on the outdoor lights, I proudly survey the space: the patio decorated with brightly colored flowerpots, the pergola I built myself, with vibrant wisteria and strands of lights illuminating the garden. The Adirondack chairs we bought for our two-year anniversary and have lounged in together only a handful of times. It’s such an incredible space, but I’m usually the only one who ever enjoys it.
Whatever. I remind myself I’m not stuck; I have options. I’m dealing with it.
I cross to the garden shed, grabbing my toolbox. Kneeling by the side of the house, I work to reattach the rain gutter that’s recently pulled away from the exterior wall.
“Hey.”
I look up at the sound of Crash’s voice and lift my chin in greeting. My best friend reaches over the fence, unlatching the gate and letting himself into the backyard the way he always does.
Since we were kids, only the state of California and his mother have ever called Crash by his real name: Crispin Coppola Barnett.
Crash walks to where I’m working and sets down a black case. “Why are you home?”
“Em’s still at work.”
“Isn’t tonight your—”
“Yep.”
He looks at his watch, eyebrows rising. “Nothing screams ‘celebrating our love’ like fixing a rain gutter.”
“I know.” I turn back to the gutter, tightening the brace around the bottom before leaning back on my heels. He’s not wrong, but there’s relief in repairs; something broken can be fixed. It’s a shame marriage doesn’t work that way. “What are you doing here anyway?”
Crash points to the box. “Brought back the Dremel. Was just going to put it in the shed.”
Standing, I swipe the dirt from my hands and knees. “You could have just brought it in the morning.”
“I know, but I had a feeling you might be here alone.”
Huffing out a dry laugh, I nod. “Yeah.” We sit on the patio and look out at the darkening sky, at the lights coming on in the houses around us.
Ours is the kind of easy silence you can only have with someone you’ve known forever. We met in the fourth grade when my family moved from Turin, Italy, to San Diego. I was a quiet, shy kid, and Crash was the only one who hadn’t continually made fun of my heavily accented, limited English, or yelled spaghetti, pepperoni, or arrivederci whenever I stepped foot on the playground.
Instead, we’d share comics or climb the jungle gym while Crash pointed to things around us. I’d say the word in Italian, Crash would tell me the word in English, and I’d repeat the word after him. Eventually my accent softened, and both of us could tell those guys to fuck off in two languages.