The Romance Revival(18)

“Open it.” The voice is thicker, shaking, unformed.

“Not yet, Em.”

“I need to see him!” There’s pain in the voice, desperation. It tugs at some impulse deep inside me.

“Go sit down over there. My God, you’re driving me crazy.”

I close my eyes again and focus on the sensation of pulling breaths in, pushing them out. I try moving my fingers, my toes. I think about what I am—a human, a person, a man. I wonder where I am. I wonder whether this is how we’re born. Into blackness, with words and thoughts and language.

I don’t think that’s right.

I’m not born, but I’m not… whole yet, either.

“Okay, I’m opening the pod. No, Em, stay put. Just—fucking chill.”

There’s a louder beep, then a slight jerk beneath me as the surface on which I lie begins to shift.

The air cools, the sun bright overhead. It’s blinding, painful, and I groan.

“Dim the lights, Em.”

Not the sun, then.

The light dims and the relief is immediate. A woman moves into view. Which voice is she? Her eyes are red-rimmed, so I think she’s the one who’s been crying. Even with watery eyes, she’s beautiful. Her hair is dark and pinned on top of her head, a few strands escaping confinement and falling softly around her face. Her eyes are brown with a streak of copper in the right one. It makes me think of a penny at the bottom of a fountain, a slash of sunlight reflected in its shiny surface.

“Luca?”

I frown. I don’t know this word, but then I realize: It isn’t a word. It’s a name.

“Luca, can you hear me?”

“I can hear you.” I’m surprised by my own voice. It’s deep, scratchy. It rumbles through me.

Another woman moves into view, setting a blanket over me. I’m distracted by the sharp, astringent smell in the air, the sudden tightness all over my body. Stickers, everywhere. When I try to lift my hand, it’s weighted down by tubes and wires, a heaviness that seems to go straight to my bones.

“Luca, sweetie.” The beautiful one kneels beside me. “Hi.”

“Hi.” I swallow again and it’s easier this time. I wonder if it’s rude, but I need to ask. Clearing my throat, I press the words out: “Who are you?”





9 LUCA




The two women exchange looks, and tears well in the red-rimmed eyes closest to me. She blinks quickly like she doesn’t want me to see.

“My name is Emery. I’ll explain everything in a minute.” Her voice is calming, almost enough to douse the spark of panic taking shape in my chest. “But I need you to answer a few questions first, okay?”

“Were you calling me Luca?”

Another look passes between them.

“You don’t remember your name?” the other woman asks, worried. She’s a little younger than the one named Emery, I think, with hair that’s gold in some light, then more strawberry when she turns the other way. Her eyes are blue, her skin so pale she looks like she might burn just thinking too hard about the sun.

“Of course I know my name, it’s—” The answer is right there on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t seem to grasp anything after Luca. “My name…”

“Do you know what day it is?” Emery asks.

Again, the answer is there but it’s like my brain is a sieve, and the word keeps draining out the bottom. “No.”

“Do you remember anything that happened today?” she asks.

I try to think back but can’t find anything. Everything behind me is blankness. My head is a black hole. The spark of panic swells, and the sound of beeping intensifies. Emery leans in and touches my arm. Her skin is as warm as it looks, and the contact calms me.

She takes my hand and squeezes and the sensation turns painful—overwhelming, too much stimulation. It must show on my face, because she immediately releases it. “Sorry. Sorry.” She glances at the other woman, who nods at her. “You were hurt,” Emery tells me. “But you’re okay now. You’re safe here. Just breathe, slow—good. Yes.”

“I’m freaking out,” I whisper.

“A normal reaction considering the circumstances.”

“I’m Luca?”

“Yes. Luca Tómas Martín.”

“And you’re Emery?”

She nods.

“Nice to meet you, I think.”

She laughs, a watery sound, and her eyes fill with tears again.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

She presses a hand to her chest. “Me?”

“You’ve been crying.”

“We were worried about you.”

“What’s her name?” I ask, nodding to the other woman.

“That’s Annabella. We call her Annie.”

“And I know you both?”

Emery glances at Annie, who steps forward. “Yes, you know us both,” she says. “You had an accident. You just came back.”

“Came back—?” She nods. “Where was I?”


A new book can wait quietly in the background.

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They exchange another look, and my surroundings penetrate the fog of confusion. I’m in a machine. I’m in a sterile, clinical space. There’s still a sharp, medicinal scent to the air, but there’s something else now, too. Roses and coffee, maybe.