The Romance Revival(35)

This information is so unfamiliar to me, I wouldn’t be surprised to find out she was making it up entirely. And yes, my mom is beautiful. Stunning, actually.

“Do you remember any Italian?” she asks, wincing.

The words are immediate and come out with a huff of defensiveness that surprises me: “Certo che mi ricordo la mia lingua madre.”

Emery laughs. “Silly me,” she says, and there’s a sparkle in her eye. “I should have known you’d never forget your mother tongue.” She tilts her head, smiling shyly at me. “But I admit I’m relieved. I’d miss it.” She pulls one corner of her lip between her teeth, and heat rockets down my torso as I register her meaning.

I must speak Italian to her in bed.

Suddenly aware I’m wearing sweatpants, I redirect: “How did we end up in the States?”

She clucks her tongue as she shifts her attention to the framed photos. “Your dad got a job with Qualcomm. His older brother, your uncle Jose-Antonio, lived in Orange County, so he wanted to be close to him. Both of their parents died years ago.”

I stare at the photo and then move to the next one. It’s a picture of my mother, me, and two women standing on a beach. “Sisters?”

“Mm-hmm. Sofia and Ana Maria. Ana lives in Boston. Sofia and her husband live in Northern California.”

“Am I close to them?”

“You basically raised them, so yeah, but you’re closer to Ana. She’s great. She’s studying biology—she wants to be a food scientist. She just got a huge job offer from McDonald’s.”

“McDonald’s?” I lean in, looking more closely. I can definitely see the resemblance. “Cool. But weird.”

Emery laughs. “Yeah. And, hmm. You’re not very close to Sofia these days.”

“Why not?”

“Honestly? She’s kind of a brat. Your words, not mine.”

I cough out a laugh at this, shocked, and Emery shrugs sheepishly. “She’s a bit of a diva with you. The baby who never grew up. You’re good to her, but we don’t really go out of our way to get together with her and Dan, her husband.” Emery tilts her head from side to side, like she’s measuring how many words to give her answer, finally settling on, “It took you a while to cut that tie a bit. I don’t know. She’s just a lot.”

Nodding, I register that there’s probably more here to know, but I’m already filling up fast on names and connections. We can deal with family drama later.

I move in the other direction, looking at the frames on that side of the wedding photo. Me again, standing with a shirtless guy. He’s tall and lanky, with jet-black hair, tattoos, and vibrant blue eyes. I’ve got a foot on a lawn mower; he’s got what looks like some sort of electric hedge tool resting on his shoulder. Something about the mischief in his eyes tugs at a thread inside my mind, and I try to chase it, but it’s like seeing in pitch-black. It vanishes the second something begins to take shape. “Who’s that?”

Emery sighs, laughing. “That’s Crash. Always smiling, usually shirtless.”

“His name is Crash?”

“His name is Crispin, but you joke that no one calls him that except for the State of California and his mother. In fact, he’s the one I’m most worried about right now.”

I turn, looking at her. “Why’s that?”

“Because he’s your business partner, and you’ve been best friends since you were in elementary school.” She twists her full mouth into a thoughtful frown. “Some would argue he knows you even better than I do.”



* * *



There are a few more photos scattered around the room—a black-and-white one of Emery in her wedding dress; a color photo of the two of us together on a beach, wearing swimsuits; an older one of a giggling, snaggletoothed Emery and a beautiful woman at Disneyland wearing a HAPPY BIRTHDAY button with the name DENISE written across it. This has to be Emery’s mom, because the likeness is so striking it’s like seeing grown-up Emery in another timeline. Next to that is a four-panel photo booth set of Emery and me at what appears to be a costume party—we’re dressed as… I don’t actually know. We both have mustaches, but her outfit is red and mine is green. She’s on my lap and in one, we’re making crazy faces. In the second panel, we’re grinning at the camera. In the third, we’re grinning at each other. In the bottom panel, we’re kissing passionately. I’m not going to lie, it’s hot.

“Who are we supposed to be?”

“Mario and Luigi,” she says, and, nope, doesn’t even ring a bell.

“Who?”

“They’re video game characters. Ostensibly Italian American.” She waves this off. “We were being silly.”

I turn back, feeling something in me unknot. Looking at pictures helps. It’s a little like filling in a coloring book.

“Do we have photo albums or anything?”

“On our phones,” she says with a wince. “Mine are a disorganized mess, but you were always good about keeping yours in albums. The problem is that I can’t find your phone anywhere.” She sucks in a breath. “Shit, that reminds me. I still haven’t texted Crash. I’m going to tell him you lost your phone and are still sick. Be right back.”