“Here ye go, sir,” Emery says, handing me my phone with a flourish.“Your past.” To Crash, she says, “We thought it might help if he looked through his photo albums.”
“Oh, yeah, Mr. Organized.” Crash slaps his own thighs as he moves to stand. “Okay, I need to get to the Jamshidi house for a bit.” He remembers himself, and explains, “They’re one of our biggest clients. Huge yard, twice-weekly job. Lots of fussy plants.”
“Is she one of the women who hits on you at work?” Annie asks.
Crash laughs. “No. She’s like a hundred years old. She brings us lemonade and cookies.”
“Clients hit on you?” I ask, frowning.
“Come on, who wouldn’t?” He pushes his chest forward, saluting on his way out the door. Annie rolls her eyes. I don’t know the dynamic between her and Crash, but I swear I see a hint of a smile on her face.
Annie leaves not long after Crash does, and when Emery comes back to the couch, she looks absolutely wrecked.
“Tired?” I ask.
She squints, thinking. “A little. I’m used to late nights and not getting much sleep, but it’s like last night broke the seal or something and I haven’t quite caught up.”
“Go take a nap,” I insist.
“If I nap now, I probably won’t be able to fall asleep at a normal time tonight.”
“What’s normal?” I ask, smiling.
Emery groans, laughing. “Touché.”
“No, remember, I actually don’t know.”
She laughs harder. “Well, I said touché because I don’t have a normal bedtime. Sometimes ten, sometimes four.”
“In themorning?”
Nodding, she says, “Yeah.”
When I whistle, I notice the way her eyes dip to my mouth and then immediately away. Crash’s words come back to me:You guys can barely keep your hands off each other.
“You look like you’re about to drop,” I say.
“No, I swear I’m okay.” She pushes her hair out of her eyes. “Do you need anything? Something else to eat? Itriedto make your pastina recipe but—”
“You made me soup?” Maybe it’s the image Crash painted of her—how surprised he was to see her here, insinuating that she was never home and always at work—but that image doesn’t align with the woman in front of me. The one who’s clearly been sick with worry, who’s hovered nonstop and basically nursed me back to health. Fuck, it’s so confusing.
“Triedto make you soup,” she clarifies. “Like I said, I’m not much of a cook.” She glances at her watch. “Not quite time for more meds yet.”
“I don’t need anything,” I tell her. “Maybe we could watch a movie? Bonus for me, I guess, is that all of my favorites will be entirely new again.”
Emery laughs, settling on the other end of the couch. There seems to be a mile of space between us, and I both want to leave it there and also pull her into my lap. Everything feels so overwhelming.
She reaches for the remote, turning on the TV and navigating to the menu of movies we’ve purchased. “Here are some options:Captain America. Baby Driver. Fast and Furious. Shawshank Redemption. Parasite. Um… there’s lots more.” She presses Forward to the next menu. “For TV series, we haveThe Wire, Breaking Bad, The Simpsons…”
“None of these ring a bell.”
“You likedBreaking Bad. AndParasite? But those might be too stressful for this particular day.”
“Were there any shows we were watching together?”
Chewing her lip, she shakes her head. “Not recently, no.”
“Because of schedules?” I guess, and she looks over at me, nodding guiltily.
