Page 42 of 32 Days in May

I miss the sound of his voice, rough and unpretentious. I miss the smell of his skin. I miss his laugh and how frequently he does it.

I’m tempted, so tempted, to pull myself from oncoming slumber to send him a message that says exactly that, but even half asleep I know I can’t.

I know there are only so many days in May.

Tuesday, May 9

To Liv’s credit, she’s excellent at making her presence known. The live updates of her drive to Evergreen begin promptly at 7 a.m.

Liv: Loading up the car. Do you have a blowdryer?

Liv: Getting gas

Liv: Stopped to pee. Got coffee.

Liv: [Blurry picture of a rabbit nibbling a leaf outside the Farley Plaza rest stop]

I’m already awake, unloading the dishwasher and trying to figure out what the hell to text Marco. I need to thank him, of course, but I also need to assert my dominance. Reclaim the upper hand in this little fantasy we’re building together. My fortress has never been infallible, but the very least I can do is not swing open the doors, let down the drawbridge, and shout, Come and get my ass! Hurt me so good, baby!

I pour myself another cup of coffee and step out onto my deck.

I settle into a rocking chair and open our text thread. The last thing we’d said to each other had been when Marco was at the snack stand on the Miss Teak Skye, and I’d decided I also wanted a Diet Coke.

Nadia: I changed my mind lol can I have a DC?

Marco: Can you have a DC . . .

Nadia: Pleaaaaaaaaaaaase

Marco: there we go

Another little rush of pressure and warmth through my belly as I reread our texts. The easy intimacy he’s so good at is like toxic waste inching closer, threatening to gobble me up and turn me into someone unrecognizable.

Suddenly, Liv texts me. Omg boardwalk is crowded????

Shit. That means she’s on the island. She’ll be here any minute.

Time’s up. Without thinking, I open my phone’s front-facing camera and take a picture of myself in the loose cardigan, fabric pooling around my wrists, coffee mug in hand. I cut out most of my face except for my tongue, which is poking out between my lips.

She’s beautiful, I caption the photo. Thank you . . . and I’ll see you tomorrow.

Marco replies, immediately, with a heart.

“Rapunzel, Rapunzel! Let down your long hair!” Liv shouts up at the balcony from the carport. I’m still reeling in the bathroom over this damn heart emoji, rubbing skin tint into my face with one hand and gripping my phone with the other, when I hear Liv. She really missed her calling as an opera singer or foghorn.

Also . . . hair.

I look up at my reflection.

“I should have warned her,” I say out loud to my reflection. We stare at each other, terror in our eyes, pixie-length curls and coils smoothed neatly into place. It’s a great look; I’m a huge fan. But I know Liv will take this dramatic physical change very personally.

Whatever. Rip the Band-Aid off. How many Liv meltdowns have I dealt with in my life? You’ll survive, I tell myself. A real rouser of a pump-up speech.

I give myself one last stern, meaningful look before exiting the bathroom and heading toward my fate.

Instead of running out onto the balcony, I jimmy the living room window open and pop my head out. Then I shout, with all the charm of a prison guard: “Ta-daaaaaaa!”

Liv throws her purse onto the couch, kicks off her shoes, opens and slams shut every cabinet, grimaces and scoffs at all my belongings, then asks me a series of questions, including, “Have you seen my hair straightener from middle school? Did you steal it?”