The Romance Revival(60)

Emery sits back on a barstool and thanks the bartender when she brings her another drink. Music filters through the speakers in every corner, a rock song that pings something familiar in my memory.

After taking a long sip, she sets the glass down and says, “I don’t know how it’s possible, but I think you’re sexier than ever.”

I give myself a mental high five. “That right?” She nods. “How so?”

“I think it’s sexy that you’re not letting me off the hook about things.”

I lean against my pool cue, crossing one ankle over the other while this penetrates. “Yeah?”

Emery nods again.

“Is that something you didn’t like about me before?” I ask, feeling mildly queasy. “That I didn’t press you?”

She shrugs, rounding the table again to come closer to me. That guilt is back, creating those parallel lines between her eyes. I reach up, rubbing them with my thumb, murmuring, “I’m not mad, Emmy. Just asking.”

Her gaze darts to mine. “I like that nickname.”

“Emmy?”

She nods.

“Good.” I reach forward, briefly rubbing my thumb over her chin. I also like that there’s something between us that’s just mine. “Answer my question, though.”

“It’s not that there was anything I didn’t like about you,” she hedges.

“Okay, but?”

“But,” she says, anxiously searching my expression, “in hindsight, I think I wonder how you didn’t notice all the strange things and secrecy. And if you did, why you didn’t ask me about it. I wonder if you didn’t care, or if you just didn’t like the idea of fighting about it.”

I sit back against a barstool, and she follows, stepping between my legs, seeming uneasy about letting any distance come between us. I’m quiet, letting her words settle in, and she gives me time to do it, but I can feel the vibrating anxiety coming off her in waves.

I don’t like the sensation in my chest right now—this tight, uneasy feeling of a conversation that might take us somewhere ugly. I close my eyes, trying to name this reaction, realizing I have a strange urge to get up and simply walk away or change the subject. Make a joke to lighten the mood.

I fight it, searching for words.

“We don’t have to talk about it,” she says quickly. “We’re having so much fun, and I don’t want—”

I open my eyes and stop her with my hand on her arm. “We do have to talk about it. Right? Like, this is how we move forward?”

After a pause, she nods.

“Tell me,” I say, lifting my beer and finishing it in a gulp, “did we ever have serious conversations? Intense ones?” I tilt my head. “Did we ever fight?”

Emery’s gaze breaks away to the right as she thinks. Finally, she looks back at me and says, “Not really.”

“So… we’ve been married for three years, but we never fought?”

She exhales slowly. “I honestly can’t think of a single time we even argued.”

“That seems…”

“Maladaptive?” she finishes for me.

It’s my turn to nod.

With a sheepish shrug, she admits, “I think maybe we’re both a bit nonconfrontational.”

Grinning at her, I murmur, “You think?”

Emery laughs, and the breaking of the tension feels so good, I reach around her waist, pulling her into a hug. She stretches, pressing her face to my neck, and I do the same, for once letting myself take a deep, full breath of her.

Longing blooms hot and expansive in my chest, and I tighten my hold on her, taking one more huff before releasing her. “You good?” I ask.

“Yeah. You?”

“Ready to kick your ass again,” I tell her.

Emery tilts her head back and laughs. “Oh, Lukey, I gave you that one.” She tucks a wayward curl of hair back into her updo. “Just so you know.”

“Is that right.”

With another laugh, she reaches for the rack and arranges the balls in the triangle, sliding it back and forth into position. Chalking her cue again, she looks up at me. “Am I good to break?”

“Go for it.”

Emery bends over, her brows pulling down in concentration, and I’m instantly transfixed. Enamored. There’s an entire world outside that I need to explore, but I can’t imagine wanting to be anywhere else. I love hanging out with Emery. I wonder if, before, on our Sunny Sundays, we were like this—relishing the day, playful, flirty, without a care in the world. I fucking hope so.

But somehow, I sense this is different than what we had in that other life. Because, despite my fevered attraction to her, this time we’re becoming friends. Emery is slowly becoming my best friend, and I have the strong belief that I’d never had that thought before.





29 LUCA




The moment we get home, exhaustion slaps us both directly in the face. But when Emery goes for her bundle of pillows and blankets for the couch, I feel the words rise up and rocket out of me: “Sleep in the bed. With me.”

Best friend or not, she’s still hot as sin.

She stares at me, eyes a little glassy from her drinks, weighing this.

“You won’t sleep well out here,” I say quietly.