Emery laughs. “Yeah. And, hmm. You’re not very close to Sofia these days.”
“Why not?”
“Honestly? She’s kind of a brat. Your words, not mine.”
I cough out a laugh at this, shocked, and Emery shrugs sheepishly. “She’s a bit of a diva with you. The baby who never grew up. You’re good to her, but we don’t really go out of our way to get together with her and Dan, her husband.” Emery tilts her head from side to side, like she’s measuring how many words to give her answer, finally settling on, “It took you a while to cut that tie a bit. I don’t know. She’s just a lot.”
Nodding, I register that there’s probably more here to know, but I’m already filling up fast on names and connections. We can deal with family drama later.
I move in the other direction, looking at the frames on that side of the wedding photo. Me again, standing with a shirtless guy. He’s tall and lanky, with jet-black hair, tattoos, and vibrant blue eyes. I’ve got a foot on a lawn mower; he’s got what looks like some sort of electric hedge tool resting on his shoulder. Something about the mischief in his eyes tugs at a thread inside my mind, and I try to chase it, but it’s like seeing in pitch-black. It vanishes the second something begins to take shape. “Who’s that?”
Emery sighs, laughing. “That’s Crash. Always smiling, usually shirtless.”
“His name isCrash?”
“His name is Crispin, but you joke that no one calls him that except for the State of California and his mother. In fact, he’s the one I’m most worried about right now.”
I turn, looking at her. “Why’s that?”
“Because he’s your business partner, and you’ve been best friends since you were in elementary school.” She twists her full mouth into a thoughtful frown. “Some would argue he knows you even better than I do.”
There are a few more photos scattered around the room—a black-and-white one of Emery in her wedding dress; a color photo of the two of us together on a beach, wearing swimsuits; an older one of a giggling, snaggletoothed Emery and a beautiful woman at Disneyland wearing aHAPPY BIRTHDAYbutton with the nameDENISEwritten across it. This has to be Emery’s mom, because the likeness is so striking it’s like seeing grown-up Emery in another timeline. Next to that is a four-panel photo booth set of Emery and me at what appears to be a costume party—we’re dressed as… I don’t actually know. We both have mustaches, but her outfit is red and mine is green. She’s on my lap and in one, we’re making crazy faces. In the second panel, we’re grinning at the camera. In the third, we’re grinning at each other. In the bottom panel, we’re kissing passionately. I’m not going to lie, it’s hot.
“Who are we supposed to be?”
“Mario and Luigi,” she says, and, nope, doesn’t even ring a bell.
“Who?”
“They’re video game characters. Ostensibly Italian American.” She waves this off. “We were being silly.”
I turn back, feeling something in me unknot. Looking at pictures helps. It’s a little like filling in a coloring book.
“Do we have photo albums or anything?”
“On our phones,” she says with a wince. “Mine are a disorganized mess, but you were always good about keeping yours in albums. The problem is that I can’t find your phone anywhere.” She sucks in a breath. “Shit, that reminds me. I still haven’t texted Crash. I’m going to tell him you lost your phone and are still sick. Be right back.”
Emery disappears into the kitchen, and I look around at the living room. If it wasn’t already obvious that we don’t have children, the answer would be right in front of me, because everything in here is white. White furniture, white area rug. White accent tables. A huge TV. A handful of thriving potted plants. The art on the walls is a colorful mix of landscape photographs and paintings. Did we want children? Did I? Did we ever talk about them? A gut instinct tells me I do want kids someday, but I have no context for how they’d fit in my life.
It’s a small house, but comfortable, clean, and well-maintained. We’re clearly doing okay to even have a house, but the furniture definitely isn’t Ikea, and a glance out the window confirms we’re in a nice area. There are several palm trees in the neighboring yards and expensive cars in the driveways. The houses are older but still modern, with clean lines and earth-tone color palettes. From the look of the neighborhood and landscaping, I’d say we aren’t far from the ocean. If I breathe in, I think I can smell it. Is that possible?
I hear Emery on the phone, and—with Honey’s supervision—carefully shuffle down the hall, peeking into rooms as I go. The bathroom and bedroom I know, but the second bedroom beside it is unfamiliar. I can tell instantly that it’s an office and, knowing that my office is the outdoors, I assume it’s Emery’s.
It’s starkly tidy; there’s only a desk, a chair, and a bookshelf. On the wall hang two black-and-white photos in frames: the Golden Gate Bridge and the Coronado Bridge.
I close my eyes, digging around for more specifics.
My brain blanks again.
There’s nothing on the surface of her desk besides a lamp and a framed candid of me looking away from the camera. No laptop or iPad. No Post-its, pens, paper clips. The desk doesn’t even have a drawer. There’s nothing out of place on the shelves, no random knickknacks or personal touches, just an even row of books on project management and medical lasers.Props, I think with a frown.
Honestly, her office looks like a staged room on a TV set. I can’t imagine she does any actual work here. If she does, she’s careful to put it all away when she’s done. I don’t need my memory to know that that’s weird. Gut, remember?
And I’m right, because when I look closer, I realize that one of the frames is slightly crooked. Limping over, I reach to adjust it but stop when I catch a glimpse of something behind it on the wall. I slide it higher and recognition lands: it’s a safe, hidden behind the picture.
Is this where she keeps everything?
Did I know this was here?
