Page 14 of 32 Days in May

I haven’t run in months.

The night feels like silk, briny and sweet and featherlight around my body. I lift my arms and throw back my head. I don’t even hear the jangle of Marco’s keys behind me anymore. I’m winning.

My feet hit the sand and I double over, breathless and drunk and dizzy. I’m also laughing; I hadn’t noticed I was laughing. Inertia carries me, head over feet, straight into the reeds. I let out a little yelp, then make an OOFT! sound when my shoulder connects with the sand.

“Nadia!”

“I’m ’kay!” I shout, rolling over to face the sky.

“Nadia!” This time his voice is above me.

“I’m oh-kay!”

Marco’s head pops into my line of sight. He’s standing over me—one foot on either side of my hips—eyebrows knit in concern, chest heaving with the effort of running.

“Nadia, holy shit.”

I’m still trying to catch my own breath. I point up at him, closing only my left eye to keep his head from bobbing and weaving in front of me.

“What is it? Are you okay?” He steps around me and brings a knee down to the sand, a hand to my forehead, the pads of his fingers sweeping down my cheek. His touch is warm, maybe a little clammy.

“I—”

“You’re hurt.”

I shake my head. “I won,” I croak.

His shoulders sag with instant relief. “Jesus Christ, Nadia. Yeah, you won.”

Marco insists there’s a scratch on my forehead that must be disinfected, and no, spit is not good enough. He yanks me to my feet and keeps a steadying hand on my lower back as we walk the block and a half to his uncle’s place, zigzagging and bumping into each other.

“What about my car?” I whine, tossing a pouty look over my shoulder.

“You”—Marco loops his arms around my waist, securing me to his side. He smells like sweet sweat and ocean air—“aren’t driving anywhere tonight.”

While we walk, he keeps his arm around my hips. I push my fingers through the party part of his mullet. He leans his head back into my hand, eyes fluttering shut when my fingernails meet his scalp.

His uncle’s house is an uber-modern, split-level behemoth made of glass and concrete. Marco lets us in through the garage.

“I didn’t even know they had houses like this in Evergreen,” I whisper.

“Rich assholes are an invasive species.”

He leads me to the bathroom in the garage—a bathroom in the garage! I bite my lip to keep from revealing just how gauche I really am while Marco digs around in the cabinet underneath the sink, hunting for antiseptic and a Band-Aid.

“Seriously, I’m fine,” I tell him. “I’m not even drunk anymore.”

Marco pops up out of a squat, eyebrow cocked. “I’m not sending you home with blood on your forehead.”

I sit on the closed lid of the toilet, face turned up toward him. I close my eyes and let the room swim around me, grounded by the pressure of Marco’s fingertips against my jaw. His shoes squeak on the tiled floor as he adjusts his position. When he speaks, his voice is closer.

“I’m a bad influence on you, kid.”

The alcohol-soaked towelette makes contact with a tender patch between my eyebrows and I recoil at the cold. “Of course you want all the credit for tonight.”

“Stop squirming.”

“We’re in this together. We’re both misbehaving—ow!” I throw my eyes open.