Page 23 of 32 Days in May

“It’s not, though, I lied. It’s a fucked-up movie about . . . about people making weird, selfish decisions instead of just being normal. Poor Nelson’s probably still in therapy. And the little boy with no dad? No way he made it out unscathed.”

Marco’s laughing at everything I say, and I’m also losing a slow battle against my own smile. “Well, I watched the movie and I liked it. I thought it was very romantic.”

“What if we did separate movies? You can Sweet November me, and I’ll 50 First Dates you.”

Marco sighs. “Feels like that’s already what’s happening. You texted me, remember? You agreed.” Years in California haven’t taken any edge off his accent, and every vowel rolls around the entirety of his mouth before finding its way out of his mouth.

“We were . . . very naughty the other night. This . . . this is rightfully earned skepticism.”

“Naughty, huh?”

“Very naughty.”

A low laugh rumbles from him.

I wonder if Marco would care about the Bracken house—about Eleanor and Victor. I think he would; I think the way I’d tell it, he’d even cry. “Did you mean what you said? About keeping our lives separate?”

“I did. I’m not looking for anything serious,” he replies softly. “But I had fun with you. Real fun. And I want to do it again.”

I used to agree to tons of harebrained ideas, sometimes just for the story of it. Just so I had something interesting or funny to talk about at dinner parties or for the inspiration it might bring me down the road. This would have made a great premise for a commercial. Maybe something for a psoriasis cream. Moderate to severe plaque psoriasis doesn’t have to rule you. Take back your life. Take back spontaneity. “Okay,” I relent. “Meet me at the Daniel G. Hopper Convention Center at six-thirty.”

“Ooooh,” he mews. “Dinner and a show?”

“Yeah, yeah. Make sure you bring cash. And don’t wear a hat.”

We hang up, and when I turn back around, Allie is watching me, rapt.

“I can’t tell if he hates you or wants to marry you.”

I know exactly what I need in order to feel sort of okay.

Three liters of water.

Hydroxychloroquine.

Meloxicam.

Anti-itch lotion.

A double espresso, every three hours.

Multivitamin.

And today, the first pill of a particularly hairy set of steroids, necessitated by my night out with Mr. Antoniou.

This is what it takes to make me feel vaguely human, to keep my brain from lava-lamping and my kidneys from failing and my body from crumbling into a pile of ash. Some of these drugs work daily to make me feel significantly better; others will work over my entire lifetime as a sort of organ insurance.

I need all of them. I can miss one day—max. Anything more and I feel it. My joints will ache and swell. I’ll become exhausted, fatigued, rash-ridden, irritable. And depressed.

Then, who knows what else? I’ve learned I can’t predict what my body will do next.

By six, the rain had eased from a heavy pour into a soothing drizzle and we pile into Soph’s truck, wet shoes and raincoats slipping and squeaking against the leather seats and plastic floor mats.

“Nadia has a boyfriend,” Allie sings as soon as she slams the passenger side door behind her. I’m in the back seat—their large, pouting daughter.

I heckle Allie. “Traitor! I hope Donna eats shit during ‘Chiquitita.’”

“Why would you say that?! Donna has a full ride to Penn State!”