Page 43 of 32 Days in May

Apparently, the haircut has stunned Liv so profoundly, I actually overrode her freak-out feature.

I lean against the archway to the hall, watching her spin around the kitchen and living room in an endless huffing frenzy. She yanks open all the blinds, pulls back all the curtains, and tosses open the deck doors.

As much as I hate to admit it, it does feel markedly less dreary in here.

“Aren’t you going to say something?” I demand when she pauses to hunt for a snack—nuts, specifically. Salted, mixed nuts.

“About what?”

“About my hair.”

Liv pulls her head out of the fridge and appraises me for a moment. “I don’t know, it looks good. Can you make me a coffee?”

“That’s it? It looks good?”

Liv pares me with a look of total exhaustion. “Jesus, what do you want me to say? Fine. It looks awesome. Happy?”

Awesome is my least favorite word ever, and Liv knows this. She’s being a bitch—but a different type of bitch than usual.

After brewing a fresh pot of coffee, we fill our mugs and head down to the stretch of quiet beach on the far side of the houses. There, we kick off our shoes and begin walking along the chilly, damp sand.

“So.” Liv eyes me over her mug. “Tell me all about this episode you’re having.”

“An episode? You sound like Mom.”

“Everyone always said I was the dramatic one, but you’re really making up for lost time.”

“You’re not wrong.” I take a sip of my coffee, pressing my toes deeper into the sand. All those frail Englishmen were onto something about the healing properties of ocean air. I’m feeling better almost instantly once we get walking on the solid, sturdy shoreline sand, the muscles in my neck and back relaxing under the soft sun. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about my hair.”

Liv shrugs. “I would have found out from Mom eventually.”

“That’s not true! You always get the news first.”

“Since when? You never told me you got fired or about your nose ring or about that weird mole on your stomach that kept bleeding. Mom had to break the news on all three. You’ve never told me about a single boyfriend—”

“Because I’ve never had a serious boyfriend.” I rush to defend myself and then immediately feel a pang of embarrassment. Ha, gotcha! I’m incapable of emotional intimacy!

“What about that fireman guy from Edison—Dante?”

I roll my eyes. “Unknowingly being someone’s mistress does not count.”

“Oh, yeah.” She giggles into her mug. “He was like, the fourth married fireman that year.”

“Two thousand eighteen was a year of learning and growing,” I confess into my cup of coffee. We’ve organically reached boyfriend talk, and I know what I have to do. My haircut may have been forgiven, but withholding Marco would land me in the Hague. “Speaking of boyfriends . . .”

Without missing a beat, Liv shoots me the eyes. It’s a look that transforms her face into a carbon copy of our father’s. It’s terrifying. Nicky calls this act of eyeball contortion her gobstoppers because no matter what you’re about to say, the eyes stop you in your tracks and make you think twice. A mix of shock and forewarning floods her gaze, then she tilts her head down and arches her eyebrows. “Don’t tell me you’re in love with an Evergreen townie.”

“No,” I say with a nervous laugh, “and I don’t really even have a boyfriend. It’s more like . . . like an arrangement.”

“Oh God.” She comes to a complete stop. “Not another married guy, Nadia.”

“Shockingly, no—”

“You’re a sugar baby?”

“What? No, let me tell my story—”

She gasps. “Oh my God, you’re a sugar mommy.”