Page 48 of 32 Days in May

“Wow. Please, stop, I am about to cum.”

I bite back a laugh. “Tell me about the very important business that stole you away from me.”

“Ahhhh,” he coos. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Well.” I guffaw in response. “Never mind, then.”

“I’m working on a potential project—a nonacting thing that is very cool.”

“A nonacting thing, huh?”

“Yes, but I don’t want to jinx it so . . . that’s the only intel you’re getting.”

“Fair enough. Must be pretty great if you’re willing to sacrifice two perfectly good days of our Sweet November.”

“I hope.” He laughs softly and the noise of the city dims behind his voice. “I’ve missed you,” he adds after a beat.

I compress my mouth to keep from smiling, as if he’s right beside me. “Yeah, right.”

He laughs again, louder. “I wish I could have put money on you saying that.”

“I should go—I think talking on your phone on a Megabus is the last felony they flog people for.”

“Fine.” He sighs. “I’ll see you soon, Nadia.”

“See you very soon, Marco.”

“Text me a picture of you in the cardigan.”

“You really think I’m lying?”

“I just wanna see your face,” he says, a smile on his voice. “But yeah, kinda.”

I can’t hide the smile in my voice anymore, either. I lean my head back against the fabric seat and let my eyes fall shut. “Goodbye, Marco.”

An hour later, we pull to a screeching halt in Port Authority and I begin my official descent into a manic fugue state. I drop my things in my hotel room and quickly change into my carefully packed outfit before ordering a rideshare. I’m rushing, but I still manage to take my meds before heading out—all the usuals, plus my first love: Prozac. I’m like a walking advertisement for the shortcomings of the modern generation.

With a swipe of lip gloss and one last scan of my final look, I head out into a perfect May Manhattan night.

The restaurant is packed—elegant in its soft, dim light and abundance of noise. The lobby’s choked with bodies, clouds of Coco Mademoiselle and Baccarat Rouge rolling in from every direction as I try to navigate my way through martini-clutched hands and sport jacket backs to the hostess stand, flashing apologetic smiles left and right.

It’s amazing that I haven’t forgotten, after months, how to move through a space like this—solipsistic glamour glides, and when you know the rhythm, you can join like a fish to its school. My heart thrums in my chest, my pulse in my neck, and I remember suddenly what was so appealing about the way I lived before. Every night began the same: feeling like it might be the night, so epic as to change the rest of the nights that would follow, for the rest of my life.

There’s more than just designer scents in the air in a place like this; there’s hope.

Marco’s at the bar. Everyone around him is beautiful, finely dressed. But Marco, somehow, glows. He’s sitting with a leg casually extended to rest on the bottom of the stool next to him. His profile in the bar light makes him look like Apollo or Ares, powerful and warm. Full lips curling backward in a winking laughter, eyes crinkling at the corners, biceps strangled by the soft knit fabric of his shirt. His thick, dark hair flows in neat waves away from his face and behind his ears. There’s something so sexy about the muscular curve of where his neck meets his ears that I’m once again overwhelmed with the urge to bite him.

“Hi, welcome. How many in your party?” the hostess asks, pulling my cannibalistic sex-fantasy tangent to a halt.

“Oh, uh, I’m with—” I point at Marco. But then I realize that I’m just some lady pointing vaguely, so I add: “My boyfriend. He made a reservation, I think.” It feels so indulgent to call him that. My boyfriend.

She doesn’t give a shit. Her eyes are already back on the screen built into her kiosk as she pokes away. She dismisses me with a chilly, “Enjoy your dinner.”

I cut through the crowd, and Marco’s still engrossed in conversation with the bartender. But something is happening in my body and now all I care about is ripping him away from everyone else and burying my face in his neck, kissing every tendon that stretches and tightens as he calls me baby. I want to feel his hands in my hair; I want his lips on my throat.

“Jesus Christ,” I mutter to myself, smoothing a hand over my stomach. I’m so horny I might die. That’s also part of being alive, I guess. Desire. It’s a hunger that feels like I’d never possibly be able to satiate. I feel like a vampire, dreaming about his neck and skin and eyes.

How am I even going to say hello? Do I tap him on the shoulder? Do I just slide onto the stool and wait for him to notice? Should I go for a coy hey, you? A jaunty oh, hi? I cannot for the life of me remember how I usually greet people. Is it possible I’ve never said hi to anyone, not even once?