“The Silvas had a Realtor over yesterday, though I’m not sure how much they think they’ll get after painting their house that terrible, sickly green. They haven’t listed it, so I’m assuming the Realtor said the same thing.”
I smile. “Ah.”
“And I’m trying to get the sheriff’s department to put up one of those digital speed check signs in front of my house. You leave so earlyyou probably don’t see, but there are too many people ignoring the posted limit when they’re running late in the morning.”
“I hope that group doesn’t include Emery,” I say, laughing.
“No, she’susuallyvery conscientious about her speed.” Betty sniffs, casually adding, “I noticed you were home all morning. I hope everything’s all right.”
Beside me, Crash snorts. The woman misses nothing. “She had an important presentation today, so I stuck around to see her off,” I explain.
“That’s lovely, Luca. You are a very thoughtful person.”
“He’s a real sweetie,” Crash adds, and Betty slides her eyes to him, disapproval plain on her face. Crash spends most workdays shirtless, something Betty finds distasteful. Add in his full-sleeve tattoos and she probably thinks he’s planning to break into her house.
“Oh, before I forget.” Betty frowns and leans in as if she fears we’re being overheard. “Have you seen a white electric sedan driving up and down the street today?”
I tilt my head, thinking. “Not that I can recall.”
She sighs, clearly aggrieved. “I saw it at least three times this afternoon but didn’t recognize it or the driver.” She frowns, adding like a curse: “Tinted windows.” Turning to look toward the street, she continues, “I couldn’t catch the plate, but maybe you’ll have better luck if it goes by again.”
“I’ll keep an eye out and let you know.”
“I appreciate that. I don’t like strangers circling around the neighborhood.”
“I know you don’t, Betty.”
“And could you transplant those milkweed plants in my front yard?” she asks, lifting her chin in that direction. “I know you put them there for the butterflies, but they’re looking a little leggy.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll move them this weekend.”
“Patience of a saint, you,” Crash says when we’re alone again.
“She’s lonely,” I say with a shrug.
“And keep an eye out for a white electric sedan? That’s the California state bird.”
I laugh at this, and Crash hooks a thumb over his shoulder. “All right, I’m off.”
“Date tonight?” I ask.
“Nah. Dinner with Mama Leora.”
He’s currently single, but knowing him, that could change at any moment. Crash is a total mama’s boy andloveswomen, going from one relationship to the next with the same frequency most people hit snooze in the morning. But he’s so likeable, there are rarely any hard feelings on either side. He had a thing for Emery’s friend Annie for a while, but apparently he checks too many boxes on her Ick List, so even the most charismatic man I’ve ever known couldn’t win her over.
Glancing at his phone, Crash types out a text before tucking it into his back pocket. “Let me know if you want to do something later. You know…”
If Emery doesn’t get here soon, he means. “I’ll probably head out for a run,” I say, “but will do.”
It’s less than a half mile from our house to the ocean. I take the route every day—through our Rancho Amaro development, down Ninth, across Camino Del Mar, and over to the Sea Cliff Coastal Trail. It’s a gorgeous area, with scrubby, hard-packed earth perched on vertical cliffs. On a good day you can see for miles, from Torrey Pines in one direction and the Del Mar Racetrack in the other. The trail is emptier this time of night, but during daylight, I pass scores of dog walkers and couples with strollers and have a constant view of the surfers below. The tide rolls in, the surfers dive and paddle through it, thewaves attempt to spit them out while also swallowing them whole, and repeat.
The thing is, I used to dream of living near the ocean. I love the smell and the taste of the air. I love the sense of freedom the ocean brings. You can swim as far as your body will take you, no walls, no fences. It’s why I got married here. I never feel lonely looking at the ocean. Tonight, though, I’d feel isolated even if Emery were here.
I startle when my phone rings. I expect it to be Emery but frown when I see my youngest sister’s face filling the screen instead. I’d normally never ignore one of my sisters—I’m hardwired to take care of them, always have been—but I’m not in the mood to explain why I’m out on a run, and not at dinner with my wife on our anniversary. I can’t do it. So even though it goes against my very nature, I silence my phone, turn off the ringer, and run.
6EMERY
Fuck, fuck,fuck!”
