Throwing the car in reverse, I peel out of the lot and turn without looking onto the street. A horn blares behind me.
“Sorry!” I yell, and wave in apology before hitting the gas. The last text from Luca hangs in my vision like an afterburn:Changed the reservation again, 8 p.m. now. Think you’ll make it home in time?
Garbage. I am absolute garbage. I imagine Luca doing little things around the house to kill time—folding laundry, wiping down the kitchen counters, organizing the spice drawer—but know I’m late enough by now that he’s probably given up on me entirely and gone outside to tinker in the yard or worse, changed to go for a run. I lose myself in datasets when I’m mad. My sweet, attentive husband runs until he’s so exhausted he can’t think. I know that it’s his coping mechanism, and if I had less of my own baggage, I’d call him out on it.
Alas.
Glancing at the time, I swear again. I’m so late I can’t even pretend I was caught up in something unavoidable. Not that that excuse would work tonight. It’s ouranniversary.
I let out a frustrated growl, pressing my foot down more heavily on the accelerator and contemplating what I’ll tell the police when I’m inevitably pulled over for speeding.
Sorry, officer, my colleague is basically a cartoon villain who probably cost me my secret job, and I was so preoccupied with getting dresseddown by an international board of rich, powerful people that time lost all meaning.
But it’s my anniversary, and I was supposed to be home hours ago.
I’m a terrible wife and a garbage human and deserve ten tickets.
Please just write them quickly.
With a death grip on the steering wheel, I glance over my shoulder to the back seat, where the small, unassuming cooler now sits, outwardly innocent, inwardly containing one of the most classified compounds known to man. Never in my professional life have I done something like this, but what choice did I have?
Eyes on the road again, I take a deep breath. One catastrophe at a time, I remind myself, and ask Siri to dial the most immediate one: my husband. Not that I have any idea what to tell him.I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean to be late. Today was shitty. I love you. Next year I’ll take the whole day off. I promise to do better.
Butwhen? Tomorrow or a week from now or next month? Maybe it’s time to admit that nothing is going to change unlessIchange it. I’ve already done one insane thing tonight; why not just rip off the Band-Aid and tell him the truth? Not all of it, obviously. I can’t be specific. But I have to tell himsomething. I can’t do this anymore, it’s not fair to either of us.
My stomach rejects this realization, and I think there’s a distinct possibility I might throw up when the call is answered and Luca’s clipped voice cuts through my thoughts.
There’s no crooning,Ciao, amore mio. Just, “Hey.”
Shit.
“Oh my God, Lukey, I’m so—”
“Where are you?” He’s winded, his breath coming in short bursts through the receiver. He’s definitely out for a run.
I glance at my surroundings. “Just turning onto Ninth.”
“My phone’s about to die,” he says, “so wait for me at the bottom ofthe street and I’ll meet you there. We can take your car to the beach.” Quiet fills the line and there’s a moment where I think everything will be fine. He wants to go to the beach—maybe we can salvage this night after all.
But then he adds, “We need to talk.”
I’m not sure I’ve ever heard that sentence come out of my husband’s mouth. Luca never wants to talk, not about hard things. It’s a personality quirk of his that has served me well over the years, I’ll admit. But not anymore.
Tonight, I’m doing it. I’m going to tell him about BioNEX.
“Okay,” I say, and slow to a stop at the intersection at the bottom of our street. “See you in a second.”
Luca ends the call, and I shift into park, glad at least that we’re not going to do this in our driveway. Betty would probably record and make a transcript of the entire conversation.
Anxiously chewing my nails, I look around, waiting for Luca. Aside from a few contemporary remodels, the homes are typical of most in this part of Del Mar: Spanish-inspired, with low, pitched roofs, asymmetrical facades, and arched doorways and windows. We probably have the smallest house in our neighborhood, but I’m willing to bet it’s most people’s favorite. Luca has seen to that, having lovingly overhauled almost every square inch of it, babying the yard so it blooms robustly year-round. I’ve never had the time or interest in that sort of thing, but Luca is happiest when he’s taking care of something. People or houses, if I’m being honest.
The streetlights are on, which makes it easy to finally spot him at the end of the road. He’s in light gray shorts and a T-shirt, and he has his head down, leaving his face in shadow. Even knowing what I’m about to do, my heart does a familiar lurch just like it always does when I see him. I love him endlessly.
And even if he knows deep down how I feel, he deserves to be mad at me, and I deserve whatever tongue-lashing is coming.
But most of all, he deserves to know the truth.
At the sound of a car blowing past me, I look over. If someone asked me later to describe the car or the person driving it, I couldn’t, but I’ll never forget what happens next. One second Luca is stepping off the sidewalk to cross the street to me, and the next second he looks up—just as the car hits him. I can’t even scream as his feet come out from under him and his body goes up and over the roof of the car to land with a sickening thud on the street below. When time snaps back, I’m fumbling out of my own car, tripping as my feet try to move while my brain goes haywire, finally getting my footing, finally screaming his name.
