The Romance Revival(36)

Emery disappears into the kitchen, and I look around at the living room. If it wasn’t already obvious that we don’t have children, the answer would be right in front of me, because everything in here is white. White furniture, white area rug. White accent tables. A huge TV. A handful of thriving potted plants. The art on the walls is a colorful mix of landscape photographs and paintings. Did we want children? Did I? Did we ever talk about them? A gut instinct tells me I do want kids someday, but I have no context for how they’d fit in my life.

It’s a small house, but comfortable, clean, and well-maintained. We’re clearly doing okay to even have a house, but the furniture definitely isn’t Ikea, and a glance out the window confirms we’re in a nice area. There are several palm trees in the neighboring yards and expensive cars in the driveways. The houses are older but still modern, with clean lines and earth-tone color palettes. From the look of the neighborhood and landscaping, I’d say we aren’t far from the ocean. If I breathe in, I think I can smell it. Is that possible?

I hear Emery on the phone, and—with Honey’s supervision—carefully shuffle down the hall, peeking into rooms as I go. The bathroom and bedroom I know, but the second bedroom beside it is unfamiliar. I can tell instantly that it’s an office and, knowing that my office is the outdoors, I assume it’s Emery’s.

It’s starkly tidy; there’s only a desk, a chair, and a bookshelf. On the wall hang two black-and-white photos in frames: the Golden Gate Bridge and the Coronado Bridge.

I close my eyes, digging around for more specifics.

My brain blanks again.

There’s nothing on the surface of her desk besides a lamp and a framed candid of me looking away from the camera. No laptop or iPad. No Post-its, pens, paper clips. The desk doesn’t even have a drawer. There’s nothing out of place on the shelves, no random knickknacks or personal touches, just an even row of books on project management and medical lasers. Props, I think with a frown.

Honestly, her office looks like a staged room on a TV set. I can’t imagine she does any actual work here. If she does, she’s careful to put it all away when she’s done. I don’t need my memory to know that that’s weird. Gut, remember?

And I’m right, because when I look closer, I realize that one of the frames is slightly crooked. Limping over, I reach to adjust it but stop when I catch a glimpse of something behind it on the wall. I slide it higher and recognition lands: it’s a safe, hidden behind the picture.

Is this where she keeps everything?

Did I know this was here?

Footsteps sound down the hallway, and I quickly slide the frame back into place.

“Our white knight, Annie, is headed to the Apple Store to get you a new phone,” she calls out. “And more good news—and thank fuck, because I think we deserve it. It was insured! A small win but still a win!”

I step back, making sure the photo hangs evenly.

“Luca?”

“In here.”

She appears in the doorway and manages to tuck away her surprise—or is it fear?—over finding me in here. I’d wager I never go in her office.

“Just poking around,” I say, watching her reaction carefully.

“Of course,” she says, then adds, “It’s just as much your house as it is mine. Poke around as much as you like.”

She sounds sincere when she says it, but her eyes are guarded, soft, and anxious.

I can’t help but wonder if there’s even more than her day job that Emery has been keeping from me.





17 EMERY




For the thousandth time, I wish I could hit rewind and take us back to the morning of our anniversary. I’d have remembered our dinner plans, I’d have kept Vince from running his mouth, I’d have made it home in time, and Luca would be fine.

Why am I thinking of this right now? Because after catching Luca very obviously straightening the framed photo hiding my safe, gone is any relief I felt, replaced by the sensation of absolutely drowning in guilt. Guilt over not having told Luca the truth about my job, guilt over having been a shitty partner for the past three years, guilt over being late and literally getting him killed. It’s a lot.

Luca looks back at me from inside my office, his expression for once completely unreadable. For the first time since he woke up, he’s a stranger to me, and the realization hits me like a physical shove.

I want to clear it away, want to return to the space of familiarity—even if it’s just me, even if it’s one-sided. I want him to crack a joke about True Lies or Mission: Impossible and ease the tension again.

And then another realization lands: I’m expecting Luca to fix everything between us, like he always does.

Time to step the fuck up, Emery.

I walk over to the framed photo and Luca steps aside, watching as I shift it out of the way, revealing the safe.

“To answer the question I know you probably don’t want to ask: No, you didn’t know this was here. Or maybe you did, but you never said anything to me about it.”

There’s a long pause before he asks: “Would that be like me? To just let something like this slide?”

I enter the combination, a seven-digit code, before pressing my right thumb to the fingerprint scan. With a beep, the steel door swings open. Stepping back so Luca can look inside, I hold my breath, considering his question.