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He stares at me with an unreadable expression. His dark eyes rove the planes of my face—searchingly and achingly slow. He must find what he’s looking for because he just nods. “So I did.”
I settle back again. “How’s your studio coming along?” I ask, genuinely curious. I don’t know if he’s up for talking tonight, or giving up any intimate details about his new life, but it’s worth a try if only to break the tension between us.
He clears his throat softly, no doubt glad about the somewhat neutral topic. “Should be finished in about a month…ish. One of my contractors fucked up the sound booths, so I have to wait for them to fix it before I can make it functional.”
“Sounds exciting.” I look upward, tracing the shape of the little dipper with my eyes. “I can’t believe you're finally going for it. You always talked about having your own studio, but I never could have imagined it would happen this fast.”
He huffs. “You and me both. After Dad—” he cuts off abruptly and my heart squeezes. I know this is a touchy subject. He doesn't even finish what he was about to say, but I desperately want him to. Luca was always close with his dad. They were just alike and I can’t even imagine the kind of pain he felt losing him. I realize that I don't even know how he passed.
We’re silent for a few tense minutes before he puts out his joint and leans forward. “Mom went first. Dad was a fucking mess.”
Glancing at his side profile, I can see the tenseness of his jaw and the frown dipping his brows. I'm afraid to say the wrong thing. If I speak, he might decide not to tell me anything.
“My grandpa took care of me until I turned eighteen, but he just got too old and too tired, so I moved out.” His eyes were far away, still not looking at me, but rather out at the windy night.
“Do you get to see him often?” I ask hesitantly. Tilting my head back and to the side, I watch him patiently. I never met his grandparents, but if they were anything like his parents then they had to be great people.
“Maybe once every six months or so, yeah.” His voice is sad, but I can tell he’s trying to sound nonchalant about it.
“What happened to Angela?” I look away, down at my hands fidgeting in my lap. I’m nervous as hell, because one wrong move and this is over. Again.
His eyes flicker to mine and narrow. “Are we really talking about my mom? Do you even really care, or are you just that fucking awkward?”
I flinch away, a sick pit opening up in my stomach. “You know what? I was trying to be nice. Believe it or not, just because I’ve been gone doesn’t mean I turned into some heartless bitch. I still give a lot of shits about you. Your parents were always good to me, and I had no idea anything happened.” My chest is heaving, trying to hold back tears. “You can tell me how much you hate me and how much you want me gone, but it doesn’t change anything for me. I care about what happens to you whether you like it or not, so just fucking get used to it.”
He’s quiet for a few long moments—almost contemplative. I’m getting restless and nervous, so I make a move to stand. His hand clamps down on my wrist, freezing me in place, so I settle back in my chair reluctantly.
“Cancer,” he breathes out as if it’s physically painful to get out. “She never responded to treatment, but they just kept at it. Dad barely told me about her sessions toward the end, but I could see it all over his face that she was wasting away. They were gone a lot in the end, trying every treatment they could get their hands on but it was too aggressive.” He runs a palm down his face in frustration before reaching down to idly strum the strings of his guitar with his left hand. “Dad killed himself a year after mom died.” I suck in a sharp, painful breath. Staring at him in shock, I blink at him, having no idea what the hell to say. He laughs bitterly. “I guess I wasn’t worth staying behind for. But whatever, Grandpa was here, and so were Carson and River. That’s all I needed.” He looks at me pointedly as he says it, and something cracks inside of me.
I don’t tell him I’m sorry because I know he doesn't want to hear it. I just nod my head and listen to the silence between us. “I’m sure he’s proud of you, though, wherever he is. Your grandpa, too. I know Carson brags about you all the time, it’s actually kind of cute.” Giving him a smile, I'm surprised when his lip almost curls, but he holds it back. “I'm proud of you, too…”
He’s quiet for a few long moments, staring up at the sky with a strange frown on his face. For a second, I wonder if maybe I went too far. Maybe I should have left it there and just told him I was sorry or something generic. Sometimes, my filter disappears when it comes to Luca.
“Did you think about me?” he asks. He looks over, his eyes hard and glassy, but still sharp and shrewd. Somewhere in there is the Luca Perry I've always known and loved, but he’s buried deep.
I don’t know how to answer that. Of course, I thought about him. I thought about him every day. I pictured his face at night when I couldn’t fall asleep for hours. I replayed every single word he’d said to me until I drove myself crazy with it. Did I think of him? The question is preposterous. But he doesn't know that.
“Forget it, I shouldn’t have asked,” he says gruffly.
Sitting up, I swing my legs over the side of the chair and make my way to his, scooting the small distance to the side until I’m practically sitting on his lap. His whole body tightens, going as still as a statue. He even looks like he might be holding his breath. I place a hand on his arm gently and he just stares and stares. “Yes,” I tell him. “I thought about you. YouandRiver. It's not like I got on that plane and suddenly erased you from my life. New York is far away, but not far enough to make me forget…” There’s a gleam in his dark eyes that wasn’t there a moment ago. I hope I said the right thing. I hope I didn’t say too much.
We’re quiet for a few more minutes as he seems to be thinking about what I said. I have no idea if he even believes me, but there’s not much I can do about that. Even if he doesn't, all I can do is say that I tried my best, even if it’s not enough.
“Do you remember that time we got stuck out in the marina on that rinky-dink paddle boat?” he asks out of nowhere. He’s not looking at me, but out at the darkness again as the waves crash on the shore.
Memories flood me and I can’t help but snort. River came down with the flu one week when I was around fifteen. Luca convinced me to take a horrible-looking, little paddle boat out on the water. The thing was rusted and basically looked like a floating death trap, but it was the only one left at the rental place that day. Somehow, he convinced me, but after paddling out for twenty minutes, the pedals broke off. We were stuck out there for two hours before someone realized we weren’t back yet.
“I still haven’t forgiven you for almost killing me,” I tease.
He laughs heartily. The sound is like music to my ears after so many years without it. “I remember how sunburnt you got out there.” His finger goes to my nose and boinks the tip. “Right there on your nose. You were peeling for a week. Fuck, you were so mad.” His shoulders shake as he laughs at the memory.
He’s right, I was livid. He ruined my tan that summer and I had to go back to school looking like a patchy tomato. Still, looking back now I think I’d give anything to be back in that paddle boat with him.
His face sobers. “I wanted to kiss you so badly—”
I go still, not believing it at all. “Liar,” I mutter, pushing on his bicep. His muscles flex under my fingers and I pull away quickly.
Smirking, Luca sits up a little straighter. “I swear, I wanted to kiss the shit out of you, especially since we were stuck and you couldn't run away like I knew you would.” His voice is still lazy from the weed, but I think the high is starting to wear off.
