The Romance Revival(70)
He smiles at me over his shoulder and goes back to check the pasta for doneness.
“What do you want to know?” I ask.
“Jobs, hobbies, vibes. Whatever you want.”
I lean back in my chair, lifting my wineglass to take another sip. “My mom’s name was Denise; my dad was Michael.”
“Michael and Denise…”
“Mike and Neesie, actually.”
“I like that.”
“She was the head of finance for Scripps Health. He was a fifth-grade teacher.”
“Wow. That’s cool.”
Taking another sip of wine, I hum in agreement. “They were awesome. My dad was super shy unless he was in front of a classroom of students; then he was hilarious. His students freaking loved him. But outside of school, my mom was outgoing enough for them both. They met in high school and were together since they were fifteen.”
“Holy shit.”
“I know.” I take a deep breath, admitting, “In a way, I’m glad they died together. I just wish it had happened when they were so much older.”
“Of course.”
Luca moves to strain the pasta and grabs two wide, shallow bowls from the cupboard, serving everything up. When he sets it down in front of me, it smells incredible with the umami of the slow-cooked meat, the rich, golden scent of onion, the sun-soaked sweetness of the tomato having slowly melted into velvet.
“Thank you,” I say, and reach to cover his hand with mine. “You’re the best.”
“I hope it’s good.”
“I can tell it is.”
“So, they met in high school,” he says, moving to pour himself a glass of wine. “How old were they when they had you?”
“They were thirty. They didn’t really want kids until they were in their late twenties, and then I think they had a hard time getting pregnant.”
“Is that why you’re an only child?”
“I’m not sure.” I smile at him, swirling some pasta onto my fork. “Either that, or I was such a pain in the ass, they were like, ‘Let’s never do this again.’?”
Luca laughs. “Or you were so perfect, they were like, ‘We can’t top this one, let’s quit while we’re ahead.’?”
I raise my glass, toasting him with a grin, and after the quiet clink, I stare through my wineglass, letting myself get lost in thought for a few quiet seconds. “It’s nice to talk about who they were,” I admit. “I haven’t done it in so long; so many of my memories of them have centered on the accident and what could have been done differently.”
“I can see how that overshadowed everything.”
“Yeah. But it’s cool to just remember them before. They’re so much more than just the tragedy of how they died.”
“What was your favorite thing to do with your dad?” he asks.
My answer comes quickly: “Deep-sea fishing. We’d go out with his buddy who had a boat and head way south, to Baja. We’d catch a yellowfin, dorado, wahoo. We’d come home and Mom would cut it up and we’d just eat it right then and there. Sashimi, crudo. Grilled, whatever.”
“So good,” he says, forking up a mouthful of pasta.
“The best. She was a really good cook. Just good, simple food.”
“What was your favorite thing to do with your mom?”
“We both loved to read. We’d head to the park and throw down a blanket and just read all afternoon.”
“I love that.”
I watch him blink away and duck to take a big bite of dinner. For a moment, I’m unable to put into words how much this conversation means to me. “I don’t think we ever talked about this stuff before.”
Luca looks up at me, chewing, swallowing. “Really?”
“Yeah.”
“Why not?”
“I think it was still too raw. Or…” I pause, knowing the next answer is the real one. “You were afraid to ask too much, worried it was too personal or that you were opening a wound.”
“I really didn’t like to push things, did I?”
“It wasn’t just you,” I say. “I think I wasn’t always the easiest to engage in a deeper conversation.”
He hums, studying me for another beat before bending to take another bite. Once he’s finished, he reaches across the table and puts his hand over mine. “Well, then I’m glad we’re not those people anymore.”
34 EMERY
After we finish and sit to let our dinners settle in our full bellies, I clear the plates and make my way to the sink. Luca moves around behind me—packing up leftovers, clearing the linens from the table, putting away unused ingredients—while I start washing the dishes. We move around each other in easy silence, the comforting sounds of home and music playing through the kitchen speaker in the background.
Before all of this, I honestly can’t remember the last time we ate together in such a leisurely manner, cleaning up the kitchen as a team. Being so domestic. I’ve left the cooking and cleaning to Luca so many times in the past, I find myself adding it to the mental list of Reasons I Was a Shitty Wife.
With a slow exhale, I wipe down the counters and then rinse the sponge, staring out the window at the side yard my husband has so perfectly cultivated. The lawn is neat and a healthy green; foxglove, dahlias, and zinnias border the house… bright, stunning flowers whose names I only know because he’s always talking about plants, and I must absorb details even when I’m not actively listening. Another reason.