Page 25 of 32 Days in May

But, to my surprise, Marco spends the entire run of the musical pinned to his chair, eyes wide. He laughs loudly, claps graciously, and even leans forward, elbows pressed into his thighs and hands clasped under his chin, when Donna and Sophie finally reconcile. During the thirty-minute intermission he immediately turns to me in his seat and asks, “What about that Rosie?”

Afterward, he personally congratulates Donna on her performance—then, he takes a picture with her mother, who recognizes him almost immediately.

“Elder millennial moms. That’s your demo,” I tell him. I’ve been waiting for him by the trash cans near the back of the theater, raincoat draped over my arm, while a group of red-cheeked women fawned over him.

“Oh, yeah. Big-time.” Marco trashes his second—third?—can of Diet Coke. “Walking home? Or did you bring your hot wheels? I’m guessing no.” His gaze skates over my dress again—short, flowy, slightly too feminine to be sophisticated, and in no way built for bike riding.

“If you’re talking about my bike—no, I did not bring my hot wheels. Soph gave me a ride.”

His eyebrows jump. “Well, then, can I give you a ride home?”

“Of course you can.”

Shockingly, this consent does not come from me. I turn toward the voice—Allie’s over my shoulder in her black show blazer and pointy flats, looking sweaty and professional. “So nice to finally meet you, Marco.”

I glare at her. Finally?

“Hey, sure. Likewise.” His brow quirks for a moment and his eyes briefly connect with mine—Finally?

“Alison, I thought we were going to get dinner—”

“Well, then Marco can join us.” She shrugs and grins, because she’s so proud of herself, but she also flinches because she knows I’m mentally throwing knives at her. “Marco, do you like dinner?”

He’s standing there with his hands in his pockets, mouth pulled into a flat, observant line. His eyelashes are so long that under the dim theater lights, they cast long shadows over his cheeks that look like the delicate, angular legs of a spider. “I love dinner,” he says earnestly. His voice is deep but sweet. Suddenly, I want to kiss him again. I want to hug him and feel his chest muscles tense underneath me and then bite into his tan skin. I believe this is what they call cute aggression.

“No one loves dinner.” The words leave my mouth before I can stop them.

Marco lifts his chin at me, bemused, and crosses his arms over his chest. “Excuse me? I absolutely love dinner. Meatloaf? Mashed potatoes? These are top-tier foods.”

Now I’m angry—unthinkably angry. “Breakfast is the only meal that is even worth making an argument for. You’d take meatloaf over waffles? Over an omelet?”

“Yes,” Marco says plainly.

I throw my hands up in the air and announce loud enough to turn some heads: “Well, then, I guess I’ll just go fuck myself.”

Allie grimaces, tossing an apologetic look Marco’s way. “Sorry, she doesn’t get out much.”

Marco, Soph, and I wait patiently while Allie collects her well-earned congratulations from proud parents and grocery store bouquets from giddy, glassy-eyed teens before we all decide on dinner at the Pier Point Diner situated at the very end of the boardwalk. The diner’s brightly lit interior is mostly empty, save for what appears to be a very chaste double date and a few waitresses in cobalt blue polo shirts, swiping crumbs off the breakfast counter and clearing out the cake display case. We all slide into a booth, Soph and Allie shoulder to shoulder, looking pink and eager in their humid coats. Marco climbs in next to me, struggling to pull off his jacket without elbowing me in the throat.

“We didn’t even get a chance to tell you how amazing tonight was.” I reach across the table and give Allie’s wrist a squeeze. “Another impeccably directed masterpiece.”

“Your best work yet,” Soph joins in, giving her a hug around the waist. “Incredible job, babe.”

“Really? Y’all don’t have to lie, you know that. I felt like the chorus was a little low energy in the first half. I kept telling them—if you’re not having fun, the audience won’t be either!”

“They were perfect. Everyone was,” Marco chimes in. He folds his hands on the table and his elbow grazes mine. “Consider me an unbiased third party. Best performance I’ve seen this year, maybe.”

“Oh jeez.” Allie smooths a hand over her cheek, strategically hiding the sudden flush blooming there. “Well, I guess I have to believe you, then.”

Oh, no, even Allie, gay as they come, is charmed. Is no one immune to this man? Soph and I swap a quick, bemused look before our waitress drops off a stack of sticky plastic menus and four ice waters.

“So, how’d you all meet?” Marco asks, skimming past the section dedicated to regional tragedies like creamed chipped beef and disco fries. Thank God.

“We’re neighbors,” I say casually, eyeing Allie and Soph over my menu. I’m sending them paragraphs of data with just my irises. “We share a duplex.” He doesn’t know I have lupus or that I lost my job or that I’m living at my parents’. Well, he kind of knows that part but anyway, please don’t say anything too—

“We moved into the downstairs apartment like, two summers ago?” Allie says. “Back then Nadia was too cosmopolitan to be our friend. She’d show up Saturday morning, run ten miles, then she’d be gone. She was way too important for little old Evergreen.”

“I did not run ten miles. I’d run like, seven and a half.”