She reaches for my hand, and I’m not sure she realizes she’s done it; it seems so instinctive. I twist my fingers with hers so she can’t pull away. “What are you anxious about?” she asks.
“Is ‘everything’ the wrong answer?”
“Of course not.” A beat passes. “Are you anxious aboutus?”
“No,” I say, surprised that it’s the truth. “Today was amazing.”
“It was.”
“I want to remember what we had.” I pull her closer, soaking in the warmth of her skin. “I’m so attracted to you,” I say, and I know she feels it, too. “But—”
“You don’t have to explain,” she says. “I understand. Do you want me to come with you?”
“I think I’d like to go alone?” Other than jerking off in the bathroom, I haven’t done anything alone since I came back—showering, eating, sleeping, dressing. I can see the worry in her eyes—after all, I was out on my own at night when I was hurt—but I need to do this.
“You sure you’re up to it?”
“I feel good,” I tell her. “A little stiff after the drive home, so a walk will be good. Maybe when I’m back we can watch a movie?”
With a nod, she squeezes my hand, her smile mirrored in her dark eyes. “A walk and then a movie. Sounds good.”
I breathe in, filling my lungs. The sun is gone and it’s quiet and cool out, the night air heavy with condensation. I’d been right: it had rained a bit in the afternoon, and the sidewalks are still dark with moisture.
Wearing a sweatshirt with the hood up, I grab my cane and head out in the opposite direction of Betty’s house, careful to make sure I’m not visible from any of her windows.
The moon is high and casts a silver net across the sky. On our street, most of the homes have their porch lights illuminated. A handful have lights on in the front windows, but others are shut up tight, curtains drawn. Crickets seem to be everywhere. A car drives by; a kid on an e-bike whirs past, but it’s mostly quiet. No wonder nobody saw anything Friday night.
At my side, Honey lifts her head at the sound of a dog barking somewhere in the distance but quickly returns her attention to the ground in front of us. She sniffs enthusiastically, like every smell is new and fascinating. I know how she feels. My feet have likely been on this same sidewalk hundreds of times before, but I get to experience it—and everything else—for the first time all over again. A bizarre sort of silver lining.
The walk is slow going, but I don’t care. It feels good to move; it feels even better to be outside. I have no way of knowing, but I’m sure I’ve never spent so much time cooped up as I have this past week. I’m so ready to get back to my life—whatever it was—that even being outside, I can’t shake the vibrating hum of energy inside.
It’s easier to breathe out here. Easier to think, though it feels like that’s all I do lately, trying to remember, trying to figure out how I feel about everything, trying to read Emery, trying to file every detail away.
Sometimes I look at her and don’t need her to explain how or why we fell in love—I can imagine so easily that I fell hard—something inher movements or an expression she makes. But there are other times, when her expression closes down, or she gets in her own head and doesn’t seem to realize there’s someone else nearby, that I wonder how well we actually worked outside of the bedroom.
I meant what I said earlier: that I see her more clearly now. It’s not hard to imagine how her parents’ death ignited the fire that drives her, forged an urgency to stop anyone else from experiencing the same loss. And I can see that maybe she could never fully let go with me, either; she’d be terrified of loss. At least work would never leave her.
I see how hard she’s trying to create something new between us. I get the sense that vulnerability was not something she let me see before, which makes it so much more precious now. I had the not-so-near-death experience, but Emery seems to be the one who’s changing. Or maybe I am, too? It’s odd to learn about yourself from other people, each story a breadcrumb, every detail another puzzle piece. I like past Luca, he seemed like a good guy, but I see his faults as well. Maybe this is how it works, maybe this is how Em and I grow together.
Honey and I walk around the block and down a couple streets before heading in the direction of home. I stop at the corner at the end of my street, and realize where I am. This is where it happened, where I… died. I don’t know what I was expecting, maybe the outline of a body, a neon sign that saysHERE LIES LUCA, white light, and a choir? But it’s just an intersection; there aren’t even skid marks on the road.
It’s a little anticlimactic.
We start walking again and I notice a parked car. Not every house in this neighborhood has a two-car driveway, so I gather that cars parked on the street aren’t unusual, butthisone is familiar. I’m pretty sure it drove by earlier.
Deciding to hang back in the shadow of a large magnolia tree, I give Honey’s leash some slack so she can sniff around a fire hydrant. The car is parked on the same side of the street but facing away fromme. I wouldn’t think much of it, except that the silhouette of the driver is visible inside. A man, just sitting in the dark car, appearing to look straight out the windshield.
Is that weird? I don’t have a clue. But something about it unsettles me.
A few moments later, the driver opens the door, climbs out, and closes the door so carefully that no sound reaches me only about thirty feet away. He hasn’t noticed me yet, his focus entirely on the far end of the street.
On our house.
I know Emery wouldn’t want me to approach him, but a protective instinct flares anyway. He isn’t acting like he lives here and just stopped for a moment on his way home. He looks like he’s surveilling the area.
With a soft click of my tongue, I get Honey’s attention, and we head down the sidewalk toward the car.
“Hey there,” I call out when I’m about ten feet away.
