Page 12 of 32 Days in May

Marco thinks he can work me, doesn’t he? He looks at me and sees another sorta-cute local girl armed with a tristate, tough-girl attitude he knows all too well, well enough to kick right through.

But he has no idea what he’s up against. Deep in the crevices of my mind, my own chaos demon rattles her chains.

“Fine.” I tap my fingernails on the tabletop. “Put out that stupid cigarette, and I’ll tell you.”

The corners of his mouth flick down in a look of world-weary appreciation. “Fine.” Then, he drains his water down to a quarter of an inch and drops the cigarette into his glass. “Happy?”

I grit my teeth. “Sweet November. It’s not technically a good movie, so don’t even bother looking up how many stars it has. But it’s—I don’t know, I can’t stop watching it.”

“Keanu Reeves, right? He’s in it?” Marco lifts his beer to his lips. “I was almost cast as his body double once.”

“No way. Really?” I laugh. “He’s way taller than you.”

“He is not way taller.”

“At least five inches. What are you—like, five-nine on the dating apps?”

Suddenly, he narrows his eyes at me. “I’m five-ten, kid.”

I grin. He hates that he just had to tell me his real height, not whatever’s listed on IMDb.

Our waitress returns with the pitcher, and we fill our glasses in a reverent silence. We both know this is not how tonight was supposed to go. When I set down the pitcher, Marco’s leaning forward, big bovine eyes burrowing into me. “I gotta be honest with you, Nadia.”

I take a sip, then brush some particularly stubborn granules of salt from my lips. Has he been saying my name like that this whole time? “Okay, sure.”

“I’m sure you’re a really nice person—” No way. Dumped before dinner? A new personal low, even for moi. I lean forward, too, shoulders curving toward Marco, the last splashes of big, bright afternoon sun falling over my shoulder blades. My chaos demon flaps her wings and insane joy floods my chest, and I almost feel a flicker of my old self. The Nadia who lived for the plot. “But I’m on a little bit of a mission tonight,” Marco continues. “And it’s not a noble one.”

I take a stiff sip of margarita before immediately chasing it with another, more relaxed gulp. “Say more.”

Marco breathes in deeply, locking his eyes on mine. “I’m trying to get fucked up and forget how much of a disaster my life has been lately. And I know that’s not something to be proud of and maybe it’s the most unattractive thing a man can do, but it’s—”

“Counterintuitive,” I cut him off, heart racing. I can feel blood thrumming in my wrists. This is an old dance, but I still remember the steps. “If we get fucked up, won’t we just feel worse tomorrow?”

He quirks a brow. The sun snags on a freckle of lightness in his eye. “We?”

I lean back and fold my arms over my chest. I take him in. All of him. He’s handsome but disheveled; I can see where he missed a spot shaving, right on his cheek. The haircut: obviously an issue. His skin looks a little waxy, like he’s spent the last few days sitting in the dark. Full lips bitten raw. Eyebrows pulled into a frown, even as his smile softens under my gaze. His white T-shirt is perfect—too perfect. In fact, it still has the fold lines in it. Pulled straight from the package, put directly onto his body.

His words on the boardwalk come back to me. He needed some time away, too. Away from what?

“What did your cousin really tell you, when he gave you my number? Because he told me I need to get out more. And I bet if I hadn’t death-stared a hole into his head, he probably would have elaborated.”

A hiss of air shoots through Marco’s teeth. Then, his mouth twists sideways. “Well, Sebastian showed up at my house, told me I look like a divorcé who only eats yogurt, ripped the blinds open, and forced me to shave my beard.”

I have to wince. “Specific.”

“Yeah, it really hurt my feelings and—” He pauses to swipe a hand over his articulated jawline, dotted with a day’s worth of stubble. “I think it worked. Do I look like I eat solids?”

“You’ve definitely microwaved a Hungry-Man dinner.”

Marco laughs. “Great. Progress. Cheers.” He slugs back half his drink.

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding,” I say as a means to keep him from drowning himself in tequila. “I get it. My older sister is like—” I pantomime, as best I can, how far Liv is up my ass. “She thinks I’m constantly on the edge of a psychological implosion. I know she cares, in theory—”

“But you just feel like everyone thinks you’re incompetent,” he says, completing my thought.

I lift my glass. “Bingo.”

“I almost wish I was a divorcé. Then I could point at that trauma and say—I’m allowed to be like this.” He pulls off his hat and runs his fingers through his hair, eyes cast out to the water. “But instead, I’m just like, This is who I am.”