He correctly interpreted my tone. “And you, not so much?”
“I like to think of myself asindoorsy.”
Luca laughed and it was that infectious sound again. “What sorts of indoorsy things do you like to do?”
Before I could think better of it, I lifted one eyebrow and his laugh ripped from him again, filling the room and catching the attention of people around us, who smiled. “Okay,” he said, “I walked right into that one.”
“To be honest, I’m a bit of a workaholic,” I admitted.
“Okay, but in all fairness, I bet lasers are fascinating.”
I shrugged. “To me, I guess.”
“What made you get into that line of work?”
I wasn’t sure anyone had ever asked me this before, and it meant I didn’t have time to think of a breezier answer. “My parents died in a car accident, and what I do now is a circuitous way of inventing things that could have saved them.”
My own surprise at my answer was replaced by a vague sensation of relief. Like when you’re carrying something heavy and are finally able to set it down, if only for a minute.There, I thought.That’s a hundred percent true.
“Oh shit,” he said, pausing our movements again. “Actually? Damn. I’m so sorry.”
“Thanks. Yeah.”
“How old were you?”
“Fourteen.”
“Jesus.”
I nodded, and smiled up at him, hoping he read the expression asI’m okay now, I promiserather thanI smile when I talk about my parents’ death.
The song changed to a faster number. Guests flooded the dance floor, screaming in excitement, and we eagerly ducked out of their way. Luca took my hand, leading me to an empty table littered with wineglasses stained with lipstick, cake plates with only scattered crumbs remaining, muslin bags of tooth-breaking Jordan almonds that guests had left behind. He turned a couple of chairs to face the dance floor and we sat down, for a minute just watching the crowd jump around to the song while scream-singing the lyrics.
“Pardon me for assuming you wouldn’t want to do the Macarena,” he said.
“Thank you, you absolute legend.” I toyed with a bag of candy. “This may be a controversial take, but Jordan almonds seem like something invented by dentists to increase business.”
Luca laughed, taking the bag from me and looking at them. “In Italy, we give them in groups of five to symbolize the wishes for the newlyweds: health, wealth, happiness, fertility, longevity.” He opened the bag, popped one into his mouth, crunched, and winced.
I laughed, and then his words registered. That was the accent. “You’re from Italy?”
“I lived there until I was nine, when we moved to the States.” And that explained the subtlety of it.
“Can I ask you something?”
He nodded, mock solemn, but his labored crunching of the almond made it impossible to take him seriously. “Anything.”
Lowering my voice to a whisper, I asked, “Are the Volturi real?”
That perfect laugh, it sent awareness tap-dancing across my skin. “We don’t speak of them, Emery,” he whispered. “We pretend we don’t know they exist. It’s safer that way.”
“That’s what I thought.” Smiling, I looked back out to the crowd. “Who do you know at this wedding?”
He lifted his chin to the groom. “Arlo and I were friends in high school. What about you?”
I mimicked his motion, to the bride. “Justina is my cousin.”
We watched as the newlyweds were lifted in their chairs on the dance floor. In a move that was objectively unwise to a sober witness, the drunk groomsmen struggled to raise the occupied chairs overhead.
