The Romance Revival(13)
If Emery doesn’t get here soon, he means. “I’ll probably head out for a run,” I say, “but will do.”
* * *
It’s less than a half mile from our house to the ocean. I take the route every day—through our Rancho Amaro development, down Ninth, across Camino Del Mar, and over to the Sea Cliff Coastal Trail. It’s a gorgeous area, with scrubby, hard-packed earth perched on vertical cliffs. On a good day you can see for miles, from Torrey Pines in one direction and the Del Mar Racetrack in the other. The trail is emptier this time of night, but during daylight, I pass scores of dog walkers and couples with strollers and have a constant view of the surfers below. The tide rolls in, the surfers dive and paddle through it, the waves attempt to spit them out while also swallowing them whole, and repeat.
The thing is, I used to dream of living near the ocean. I love the smell and the taste of the air. I love the sense of freedom the ocean brings. You can swim as far as your body will take you, no walls, no fences. It’s why I got married here. I never feel lonely looking at the ocean. Tonight, though, I’d feel isolated even if Emery were here.
I startle when my phone rings. I expect it to be Emery but frown when I see my youngest sister’s face filling the screen instead. I’d normally never ignore one of my sisters—I’m hardwired to take care of them, always have been—but I’m not in the mood to explain why I’m out on a run, and not at dinner with my wife on our anniversary. I can’t do it. So even though it goes against my very nature, I silence my phone, turn off the ringer, and run.
6 EMERY
Fuck, fuck, fuck!”
Throwing the car in reverse, I peel out of the lot and turn without looking onto the street. A horn blares behind me.
“Sorry!” I yell, and wave in apology before hitting the gas. The last text from Luca hangs in my vision like an afterburn: Changed the reservation again, 8 p.m. now. Think you’ll make it home in time?
Garbage. I am absolute garbage. I imagine Luca doing little things around the house to kill time—folding laundry, wiping down the kitchen counters, organizing the spice drawer—but know I’m late enough by now that he’s probably given up on me entirely and gone outside to tinker in the yard or worse, changed to go for a run. I lose myself in datasets when I’m mad. My sweet, attentive husband runs until he’s so exhausted he can’t think. I know that it’s his coping mechanism, and if I had less of my own baggage, I’d call him out on it.
Alas.
Glancing at the time, I swear again. I’m so late I can’t even pretend I was caught up in something unavoidable. Not that that excuse would work tonight. It’s our anniversary.
I let out a frustrated growl, pressing my foot down more heavily on the accelerator and contemplating what I’ll tell the police when I’m inevitably pulled over for speeding.
Sorry, officer, my colleague is basically a cartoon villain who probably cost me my secret job, and I was so preoccupied with getting dressed down by an international board of rich, powerful people that time lost all meaning.
But it’s my anniversary, and I was supposed to be home hours ago.
I’m a terrible wife and a garbage human and deserve ten tickets.
Please just write them quickly.
With a death grip on the steering wheel, I glance over my shoulder to the back seat, where the small, unassuming cooler now sits, outwardly innocent, inwardly containing one of the most classified compounds known to man. Never in my professional life have I done something like this, but what choice did I have?
Eyes on the road again, I take a deep breath. One catastrophe at a time, I remind myself, and ask Siri to dial the most immediate one: my husband. Not that I have any idea what to tell him. I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean to be late. Today was shitty. I love you. Next year I’ll take the whole day off. I promise to do better.
But when? Tomorrow or a week from now or next month? Maybe it’s time to admit that nothing is going to change unless I change it. I’ve already done one insane thing tonight; why not just rip off the Band-Aid and tell him the truth? Not all of it, obviously. I can’t be specific. But I have to tell him something. I can’t do this anymore, it’s not fair to either of us.
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.