Page 40 of 32 Days in May

“He wants me to meet him at Taigen Izakaya? Spike Lee eats there. Kate Winslet loves their nigiri.” My voice is trembling, as if he’s invited me to be his date to the Oscars.

“Awwww!” Allie yanks the card out of my hand and presses it to her chest. “You love Japanese food.”

“I didn’t tell him that. I didn’t tell him my shirt size, either.”

Allie rolls her eyes at me. “Because that’s so hard to guess?”

“Then explain the Japanese food!”

“Dude.” Allie takes me by the shoulders and forces me to look at her, directly into her icy-blue eyes. “He guessed.”

I find myself shrinking underneath her touch until I’m leaning fully against one of her bony shoulders. “We went whale watching last night. He took a picture of me—with a whale.”

“Okay.” Allie laughs, running a soothing hand up and down my back. “What’s the problem with that? You agreed to this whole November thing, didn’t you? He seems like he just kind of likes being thoughtful.”

I pull away from her, anxiety brimming in my voice. “No, he doesn’t. He’s a vampire. I’m being sucked.”

“Poetic.” She peels the cardigan off and flops it over my shoulders. “Make sure you say thank you.”

“I told you, I’m not keeping it.” I grab my phone off the kitchen island and scroll for what feels like eons, trying to find his number while keeping up my rant: “He’s playing games—mind games, emotional games. I’ve been playing checkers, meanwhile he’s playing 4D chess. This is a strategy, and I will get to the bottom of it.” When I finally find the number and manage to call him, it immediately goes to voicemail. “That little fucker.”

Allie watches me with an eyebrow cocked before returning to her apple, flipping lazily through her favorite piece of literature: the Vermont Country Store catalog. “Poor baby, you’re just gonna have to keep the fancy cashmere and eat the fancy tuna.”

I examine my new sweater with its elegant ribbing and soft tag that reads Handmade in Peru, before reluctantly holding it to my nose. It does smell like him—faintly. Like maybe he’d held it to his chest for a moment while browsing the rest of the cardigans, unsure if this was the one, or maybe he’d draped it over his arm as he walked to the cash register. Maybe Marco had flashed the cashier one of his full-throttle, lopsided smiles and said, I can box it myself.

When had he even had the chance to buy me a new sweater? Soph and I had pulled into the driveway a little after eleven; half the island was still drinking their morning coffee. Had he driven onto the mainland, to the mall? Or had he pulled it from an enormous pile of hashtag-gifted cashmere in the back of his closet? Marco, like most wealthy people, moves through his life in a way I can barely conceptualize, unburdened by store hours and the omnipresent concern of coming on too strong.

I drop the cardigan onto the island and grab my phone, crafting the beginnings of a text to Marco.

Nadia: Why in the name of God

No, too dramatic.

Nadia: Ok very smooth but

Backspace, backspace, backspace.

Nadia: Listen here, idiot

Too mean. Way too mean.

I slam my phone down and address the sky. “Why is he being so nice to me?”

I’m pacing the width of Allie and Soph’s kitchen, from the sink to the balcony doors, gnawing at my lip. I haven’t left Evergreen in months—not since I moved here in January. I’d resigned myself to being a townie—the type of person who shows up to zoning committee meetings with a tub of caramel corn and a codified personal vendetta against anyone who has ever parked in my spot.

Allie’s shoulders bounce with poorly suppressed laughter. She’s trying to hide the fact that she finds me pathetic by taking an inordinate amount of time to throw out her apple core. “Because he’s not some mid-level advertising executive with a Medusa tattoo and a face that screams, I ate lunch at the peanut allergy table.”

I knew Allie hated Kai, but—damn. Perhaps she’s on to something.

I stop pacing but keep chewing at my lip. “How do I get to New York?”

“You could drive into Philly—”

“No shot in hell.”

Allie rolls her eyes. “You take a bus from Atlantic City?”

To think I’d been so content with the idea of never reentering polite society ever again that I’d cut all of my hair off. I figured: maybe I’ll move back to Philly, maybe I’ll get a job at Trader Joe’s for the health insurance, maybe I’ll join one of those acoustic guitar churches where I can contribute with enthusiasm to a monthly potluck.