The Romance Revival(31)
“Not really,” I tell him. “We’d gone out a couple of times and he was nice enough for me to ask him if he’d want to go to a wedding in Vegas for a weekend.” I laugh. “Basically, I didn’t want to show up by myself. But then I did anyway.”
I reach for the conditioner and squeeze some into my palm, working it through his thick blond hair. “I made it through the ceremony and told myself I had to stay at the reception long enough to finish my drink, when I heard this laugh across the room.” I tilt my head, swiping a glob of conditioner from his temple, greedily gobbling up every chance to touch him. “Which is saying something, because it was loud: a wedding reception in Vegas, and half the people there were acting like they’d just gotten out on parole.” He laughs at this, and my stomach flips, just like it did the first time I heard it. I’ve never heard a laugh like his before or since. It’s the cadence of it, an infectious rhythm, big and round and joyful.
“I still don’t know what you were laughing about, but I glanced over just as you did and I just… didn’t want to leave anymore.”
“Did I come over to you?”
I look down to find him watching me. His dark lashes are clumped into little spikes, droplets of water running down his skin.
“You did. You asked me to dance. So many people there were looking at you, but you were only looking at me.”
“I believe you.” Steam swirls all around us, and with the shower door closed, it feels a little like we’re locked in a bubble, just the two of us.
For a moment, I feel the way I always have with him: strong, desirable, powerful.
“So how did I convince you to keep me?” he asks, eyes flirting.
I smile down at him. “I didn’t take much convincing. You fit seamlessly into my life. My fridge was suddenly no longer empty. I saw some daylight on weekends. You made me laugh so hard my ribs ached. You cooked things for me I’d never tried before. And I had this perfect, warm body next to me in bed every night.”
Luca studies me, letting out only a quiet “hmm” in response, and I realize I’ve just listed all the ways he was perfect for me, and none of the ways I might have been perfect for him.
“Do you remember the old apartment with the upstairs neighbor who listened to the news on the highest volume possible?” I ask, wiping a streak of soapsuds from his neck. “The fridge that died overnight after we’d splurged on Wagyu for my birthday the next day? Your old beat-up Toyota pickup we named Debbie that we joked hated me?”
He hesitates, and hope rises in my throat. But he shakes his head. The bubble seems to pop.
“It’s okay,” I tell him, tilting his head back for one more rinse. “It’ll come back.”
I don’t say it, and he doesn’t, either, but I know we’re both thinking it: Maybe.
15 EMERY
I help Luca dress in sweatpants and a T-shirt and get him situated on the couch. His pleading eyes beg me to skip the blood pressure cuff and various monitoring devices, but the memory of his cold, clammy skin is enough that I insist, at least, on the blood pressure and a pile of warm blankets. Honey is thrilled by this idea and wastes no time climbing up next to him.
I’ve only managed to get protein shakes, a sandwich, and water in him for the last couple of days, and his stomach gives a healthy rumble. Once I’m sure he’s sufficiently tucked in, I leave him to go poke around in the fridge.
Eggs, some leftovers I should toss, a package of sausage, yogurt. Vials of a miracle resurrection compound.
My pulse rockets at the sight, and I shift the box behind a gallon of milk.
“Don’t get your hopes up,” I say a few minutes later, carrying our plates of eggs, toast, sausage, and some sliced apples into the living room.
“What’s that?” he asks, looking up from the coffee table book on Dolly Parton he’d been flipping through.
“You do most of the cooking,” I explain. “I’m an enthusiastic eater. That’s what I bring to the table.”
“So to speak,” he jokes, and pulls a throw pillow onto his lap for me to set the plate down on. He takes the pills I shake into his palm—antibiotics and pain medication—and washes them down with a swig of water. Setting the glass down on the table, he asks, “What’s your favorite thing that I cook?”
“You’re a stud at the grill—fish, chicken, veggies, you name it. And you make a killer tagine.”
He hums, taking a bite of my sad, overcooked scrambled eggs. “Tagine…”
“Do you remember what that is?”
Luca squints, taking another big bite of food. I’m thrilled to see his appetite has returned. “Like a stew? With meat and dried fruit or something?”
“Exactly. It’s a North African dish that you fell in love with when you traveled there with family.”
“So weird that I remember the tagine but not the family.” He laughs, shaking his head. “Brains are weird, holy shit.”
I curl up in the chair across from the sofa, tucking my feet under me and digging into my breakfast. “They are, for sure. And I guess since we don’t know how long your memory will be affected, we should plan how to manage suspicion about what happened.”
Luca swallows a bite. “Why are we worried about suspicion? Does this have something to do with what Annie said about breaking laws?”