I feel a lump form in my throat. It’s so strange to me the way his memories are returning. It seems so random. Even with today’s progress, he’s still such a wild mix of familiar and unknowing.
“We got married at the Hughes Cottage at the Torrey Pines Lodge,” I say. “It’s this cute little place with gorgeous views and a dining room for an intimate dinner. It was small—only about a dozen of us: Your parents, my aunt, cousin, grandmother. Annie, Crash. Your sisters and brother-in-law. Ana Maria officiated it. We had a catered dinner afterward inside and then, outside on the patio, dancing and cocktails and cake.”
“It sounds perfect.”
I nod, taking a drink of wine. “It really was.” I open Spotify on my phone and stream the song to the kitchen speaker. We both listen to it in comfortable silence for a few moments.
“Tell me about your parents,” he says, rousing me from my mental trip down wedding-memory lane. “That’s your mom with you in the photo at Disneyland, right?”
“It is.”
“She’s gorgeous. I can see where you get it from.”
I laugh. “She really knew how to show out,” I say fondly. “I remember watching her get ready in the morning. Hair, makeup, jewelry. Every day was an event.”
He smiles at me over his shoulder and goes back to check the pasta for doneness.
“What do you want to know?” I ask.
“Jobs, hobbies, vibes. Whatever you want.”
I lean back in my chair, lifting my wineglass to take another sip. “My mom’s name was Denise; my dad was Michael.”
“Michael and Denise…”
“Mike and Neesie, actually.”
“I like that.”
“She was the head of finance for Scripps Health. He was a fifth-grade teacher.”
“Wow. That’s cool.”
Taking another sip of wine, I hum in agreement. “They were awesome. My dad was super shy unless he was in front of a classroom of students; then he was hilarious. His students freakinglovedhim. But outside of school, my mom was outgoing enough for them both. They met in high school and were together since they were fifteen.”
“Holy shit.”
“I know.” I take a deep breath, admitting, “In a way, I’m glad they died together. I just wish it had happened when they were so much older.”
“Of course.”
Luca moves to strain the pasta and grabs two wide, shallow bowls from the cupboard, serving everything up. When he sets it down in front of me, it smells incredible with the umami of the slow-cooked meat, the rich, golden scent of onion, the sun-soaked sweetness of the tomato having slowly melted into velvet.
“Thank you,” I say, and reach to cover his hand with mine. “You’re the best.”
“I hope it’s good.”
“I can tell it is.”
“So, they met in high school,” he says, moving to pour himself a glass of wine. “How old were they when they had you?”
“They were thirty. They didn’t really want kids until they were in their late twenties, and then I think they had a hard time getting pregnant.”
“Is that why you’re an only child?”
“I’m not sure.” I smile at him, swirling some pasta onto my fork. “Either that, or I was such a pain in the ass, they were like, ‘Let’s never do this again.’?”
Luca laughs. “Oryou were so perfect, they were like, ‘We can’t top this one, let’s quit while we’re ahead.’?”
