Page 44 of 32 Days in May

“Jesus, Olivia.” I give her a shove strong enough to send her stumbling toward the water. “Let me talk!”

“You know, when most people go fancy-dress shopping, they don’t usually stop for Auntie Anne’s and Nathan’s Hot Dogs first.”

“That’s because most people are fucking boring,” Liv replies, handing me my cinnamon-sugar pretzel and my coveted frozen lemonade. Around us, the Surf City Mall glistens and glitters with midmorning energy as we settle onto a bench by the fountain, mismatched snacks in hand.

Big to-dos go against everything we believe in, but Liv has a particular affinity for keeping things utilitarian and pragmatic. It’s why she’s worn OPI Bubble Bath on her nails for the last ten years, and also why one day, she will run a small totalitarian ethno-state. She hates bridal parties, vanilla cake, overpaying for mediocre food, and saying hi to family members who can’t recall her birthday off the top of their head. Needless to say, this puts us all in a very tricky position when it comes to anything matrimonial.

So far, she’s handled all of the planning in the most Liv way I can imagine: I was unceremoniously dubbed maid of honor via text message; a bridal shower was declared ILLEGAL at Sunday dinner; then we were all asked, via email, to keep Halloween free.

And now, we’re dress shopping at a living shrine to the late nineties.

“Should I take a picture of you deep-throating that dog and send it to your soon-to-be husband?”

Liv gives me the finger. “Should I take a picture of you in your Crocs and send it to Marco fucking Antoniou?”

“Ugh,” I scoff, dusting my sticky fingers off on my bike shorts. “He’d probably write back something like: wow smiley-face emoji nice feet heart-eyes emoji.”

After wiping some relish off her maw, Liv cocks a brow. “He’s that into you?

I let out a small, noncommittal grunt. “I don’t think he’s actually into me. I think he’s into the idea of me or maybe just women in general.”

“I have no sympathy, Nads. You have a rich, famous hottie in your DMs and your pants for a month.” We start meandering with our food and drinks.

“He’s not really in my pants,” I murmur, trying to suppress the sudden memory of my overalls on his bathroom floor.

“But he could be—or would be—if you stopped being such a tight-ass about everything.”

“Oh, hi, kettle. You look great in black.”

“Oh, come on. I’m less of a tight-ass than you.”

“You have the tightest ass out of everyone in our family. You could crack a fucking coconut with your ass, that’s how tight it is.”

I don’t realize how loud we’re being until a group of women in matching Lycra outfits across the fountain silence their chatter to glare at us.

“I don’t know why you’re hesitating so much. Don’t you love flings?” Liv says, pulling me by my wrist in the direction of the boutique where we have an eleven o’clock appointment.

I did, or I used to prefer flings. My reservations about Marco are almost entirely wrapped up in the simple truth that there is a chasm in my life—a before and an after. I know how fragile I am now. I know how easily I can break, how delicately my body and mind are connected. I’d just gone through that, and I’d only just barely glued myself back together.

Liv has always known exactly what to say (and how to say it) to make me feel like I’m being exceedingly childish and thoughtlessly overdramatic, even when I know I’m heeding to my own deep-rooted instincts. Whatever Marco’s intentions—even if they are just to have a real and true no-strings-attached month of fun—I would hold on tight to my right to be scrupulous, and I would hold my diagnosis as close to my chest as I possibly could.

But before I can think of a succinct way to shut my sister down, she’s yanking me through the doorway of a brightly lit storefront sandwiched between a toy store and the restrooms. The shop window showcases a veritable explosion of tulle and sequins, mermaid dresses and mermaid-y colors.

“This is where they buried Liz Claiborne’s final Horcrux.”

“Shhhhhh, shut up,” Liv stage-whispers, death-glaring me into submission. “Mike’s mom knows the shop owner. Do not misbehave.”

“Me?” I hiss back. “You’re the one who looks like a bug just flew into your mouth.”

“So?” Liv retorts while glowering at an enormous peach-pink organza mess strapped to a mannequin. “At least I’m not being a smart-ass.”

I respond by miming that I’m locking my mouth up and throwing away the key.

Eventually, after thumbing through an entire wall of hot-pink prom dresses, we’re approached by a woman with a very geometric haircut, corralled into a dressing room, and interrogated to the point of perspiration and dehydration.

“You have to know at least one thing you want in a bridesmaid’s dress,” she chastises Liv, dressing her down in a way that brings me so much joy.

“Uh, black? Satin, maybe?”