Page 63 of 32 Days in May

What does fancy mean to Marco? Before I can even reflect on the clothes I have in my closet, I’m in a full panic. Is this a red-carpet event? Am I going to be photographed, heaven forbid?

What kind of fancy? I ask in earnest, my terror undoubtedly palpable to Marco. Unwisely, I follow up with: My Cracker Barrel best or Olive Garden chic?

Making a joke was a huge mistake, because the only thing Marco says back is: You scare me.

“You’re wading into the danger zone,” Allie tuts, holding up one of my lacier pairs of underwear before folding it and tucking it into my carry-on.

Soph is draped over my bed as Allie and I carefully pack my suitcase. After some back-and-forth, Marco helped me pick out two outfits for the mystery job–related things we’ll be doing: a white linen pantsuit with wide legs and a flattering high waist and a muted orange dress that still fits perfectly over my curves. It’s a miracle that somehow these items ended up here in Evergreen with me. Otherwise, I’d be showing up in my dad’s fishing boots and Nicky’s altar server robes.

“What danger zone?” I ask, doing my best impression of an absolute moron. I’m so far up my own ass, I’m surprised I don’t emerge from my mouth every time I speak. “We’re going to do the same exact thing that we were doing here, just in Italy.”

Soph rolls over onto their back and lets out a labored sigh. “I hate to say it, but I’m with Allie on this one. You’re heading into a love pressure cooker. An accelerated timeline. If we were in a movie about the multiverse, the version of you and Marco in Italy gets married and sails off into the sunset in a gondola.”

“What? Why? Because Rome is so sexy?” I’m sputtering like an old garden hose, fists pressed into my hips. “They have a very horrible graffiti problem.”

“Are you sure this maybe isn’t some sort of . . . overcorrection?” Allie offers. “With everything that you’ve had going on?”

I throw a pair of sandals into my suitcase a little harder than necessary, fighting off flashbacks from my phone call with Liv. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“We just want you to find a middle ground, sweets. To do what makes you happy—”

“I am happy,” I pout, crossing my arms over my chest. You know, like happy people do. “This makes me happy. Marco makes—we’re happy right now.”

Allie tilts her head to the side and looks at me for a moment like I’m kind of tragic. “But it’s temporary, babe.”

My mouth almost falls open. What an unbelievable argument. “So what? Does that mean I don’t get to have fun? Do you cry while you eat ice cream because you know it won’t last forever?”

Allie shrinks slightly, a flush of pink dotting her fair cheeks, and I can tell I just made a really good point. “We just don’t want you to end up like after Kai—”

“My breakup with Kai had nothing to do with Kai—plus, who is this we?” I cut Allie off viciously, turning my angry gaze on Soph. “Do you think that’s what’s going to happen?”

Soph sits up, pushing their glasses up and off their nose as they rub at their eyes. “I’m not getting involved. But just think before you say or do anything, okay? We don’t want to spend a month scraping you off the bathroom floor.”

Allie nods, pride beaming off her at Soph’s dad-like delivery of that final line. Then, she points at me. “Yeah. Don’t write a check your ass can’t cash.”

That’s a Nadia-ism, used right against me.

Sunday, May 14

On my flight from Philly to Rome I was seated next to an older woman on the way to Basilicata to visit her family. Her English wasn’t great and it seemed like maybe her Italian wasn’t either, after years of living abroad. I fell in love with her watery eyes and soft, thin black hair immediately. She didn’t look anything like my nonna had—a heavy-set, sturdy woman with warm brown eyes and solid forearms—but she seemed cosmically connected to all nonnas, and therefore I had to protect her.

When turbulence hit, we held hands and looked at each other, giggling, embarrassed by our fear.

“It’s okay!” I whispered. “We’re okay!”

“Mamma mia,” she said softly, gripping my hand.

Now I levitate through passport control and baggage claim, basically running to the arrivals hall. I only make one pit stop—into the restroom to pop a handful of pills that will hopefully ease the horrible throb in my back, brush my teeth, and scrub away the old mascara underneath my eyes. I smell a little funky, but Marco’s a big boy. He’ll survive.

I step through the automatic doors and search the crowded, chaotic hall for his face and I find him immediately. While Marco should blend in with his olive skin and dark, wavy hair, there’s something so American about his face. He looks like a gum-chewing, sunflower-seed-spitting baseball player with his square jaw and thick arms crossed over his chest, waiting for me on the other side of the railing that separates arrivals from arrival recipients. I pick up speed toward him, a grin on my face, and I’m still running when he wraps his arms around my waist and hefts me to him.

His teeth are bright and white and his skin is glowing and he looks like the safest place on Earth.

“Buon giornooooooo,” he trills, spinning us in a circle, almost knocking us into a group of discombobulated teenagers. It’s so ridiculous, so over-the-top. Any other person and I would be mortified.

“Put me down, I’m flashing the entire airport!” I shout, trying to keep the shapeless linen sack I traveled in from flying up over my waist.

He obliges, but we don’t stop moving. “This hotel is crazy. I can’t wait for you to see. It’s right in the middle of everything—right in Piazza Trilussa. Oh, and there’s this restaurant we have to try—”