The lie about her job. The fact that she was late on our anniversary. Why do Past Emery and Present Emery seem like entirely different people?
“Em—”
“Let’s watchCaptain America,” she cuts in with forced brightness, turning back to the television. “It’s fun, and everyone likes looking at Chris Evans. He’s America’s Ass for a reason, you know.”
I nod, and settle in to watch the movie, but I wonder, for the first time, whether this isn’t only my second chance at life, but maybe my second shot at finding the life I really want.
Or is it Emery’s?
22LUCA
It’s barely fifteen minutes into the movie when Emery falls asleep. She must really be out, because there are a hell of a lot of explosions happening on-screen, and she doesn’t even move. As the final credits roll, and Emery continues to snore gently beside me on the sofa, I let myself look at her. Her mouth is half open and there’s a spot of drool on the throw pillow under her head, but she’s so fucking pretty. I try to imagine meeting her now, no history between us, just strangers, maybe bumping into each other or set up on a blind date. I don’t need to wonder whether I’d want to get to know her better, because if I’m honest, I already do. I want to know why she’s so passionate about science. What is she afraid of and what makes her laugh uncontrollably? What is her favorite season, her favorite holiday, her favorite city?
And that’s when I remember my new phone, with what sounds like a lot of very organized photo albums. Maybe I’ll find answers in there.
Turns out everyone was right and I am clearly fastidious about organization. Inside the phone, which opens with face ID—and thank God, because I’d have no idea what my passcode might be, couldn’t even go with a birthday or phone number, since I know neither—are hundreds of digital albums.
There are albums with addresses that I quickly figure out are landscaping projects, and others labeled with random location names or holidays. There’s one with a cake emoji that’s nothing but photos of food. I’m not sure how I feel about being one of those people who takes endless pics of their meals. At least I can dispel any questions abouthow often I see Crash, because he’s with me in most of them. Below that are dozens of albums labeled with dates.
Hoping for a glimpse into my marriage, I start with the ones spanning the last three years. Dinners out. Walks on the beach. Photos of us smiling and backlit by a sunset. Photos of us kissing in front of a cluster of pine trees. Photos of us on the beach, swimming, sunbathing, napping. Most of these dates, I realize after using my calendar app, took place on a Sunday, which tracks with what Emery said about our Sunny Sundays. I’ll tell you one thing; we look crazy about each other in all of them. There are only two folders that seem to include photos from a vacation. I don’t immediately recognize the locations, but a sign that readsSANTA BARBARA SHELLFISH COMPANYappears in one, and a menu with the nameEMBERS RESTAURANTappears in another.
I scroll farther down in the list of albums and my breath locks on an exhale. This album is labeled onlyUS, and when I open it, there are hundreds of naked pictures of Emery, of me, of Emeryandme.
In some, it looks like the phone might be propped up against something. In others, it’s clear one of us is the photographer. In one, she’s looking up the length of my body at me, her hand wrapped around my dick, her mouth curved in a teasing smile. In another, my lips are pressed high up on her inner thigh, my eyes closed in an expression of absolute reverence.
There’s one with Emery on top of me, her head thrown back, a look of sheer ecstasy on her face. My arm is in frame, my hand palming one of her breasts. Her nipple is visible, and the sight of the tight, soft blush tip trapped between two of my fingers sends a blaze of heat straight to my groin.
I try to ignore it, knowing this is not the ideal time to test my cardiovascular system again. Besides, if Emery were to wake up, she’d probably want to document the discovery.
At the thought, I glance over at her. It feels a little wrong, somehow,to be looking at these while she’s asleep, but they areourphotos, and she was clearly a very active participant when they were taken. As I scroll on, a cry of pleasure and murmured encouragements erupt from the phone’s speaker; on-screen, I am enthusiastically fucking her from behind, with her bent over the back of the very couch we’re currently sitting on.
Only then do I register in horror that there are videos in this folder and my volume is turned to max. If there was any doubt about my speaking Italian to her in bed, there isn’t anymore.
Emery jolts, startled, and I fumble to turn the volume down, initially just taking accidental screenshots until I finally manage to get the sound off. I swallow before daring to glance over, feeling the way my face has gone deep red.
She’s blinking awake, swiping a hand across her face. “Whatcha watching over there, Lukey?” The endearment feels familiar.
“Nothing. Just—you know. We finishedCaptain America.” I wave to the TV, which I realize only now has gone to sleep from being idle too long.
“That didn’t sound likeCaptain America,” she says, smiling, and her soft, sleepy eyes give a kick to some emotional nucleus in my gut. “It sounded like porn.”
Tenderness melts into mortification. “No, no. I’m not watching porn.” But as she continues to look at me in question, I relent, “Maybe sort of? I found an album on my phone of… us.”
Her eyes do that thing again, dipping from my gaze to my mouth and back again. She moves to sit up. “Ah.”
Clearing my throat, I tell her, “I didn’t realize there were videos. It just started to play.” I clear my throat. “Loudly.”
Emery fights a laugh. “That must’ve been a surprise.”
“Uh, yeah.”
“You know, I don’t mind if you want to look at any of it. We could even do it together, if you wanted.”
“Did we do that… before?”
“Mm-hmm,” she says, nodding as she runs her fingers through her long hair, sweeping it up and tucking the ends into her bun. “We didn’t like more standard porny stuff, so we made our own. Sort of served two purposes, you know?”
“I think so?” I swallow audibly and can’t stop my gaze from dropping down her neck, to her chest, and back up again.
