Page 64 of 32 Days in May

“Jesus, slow down. Can we stop for coffee?”

He comes to a complete stop and turns back toward me so fast I almost flat-tire his perfectly white sneakers. Marco takes my face in his hands, improbably gentle and firm all at once, bringing his mouth to mine. When he pulls away, we stay close, foreheads pressed together. It’s disgusting, how sweet it all is. He watches me through heavy lids, mouth curving. I’ve abandoned my luggage and wrapped myself around him. “Certo, amore.”

I squeeze his bicep. “You’ve got worms in your brain.”

He laughs, but doesn’t let go of me. “Si, amore.”

Marco drives us back toward the center of Rome with every window of his rental car rolled down and the radio blasting. He keeps taking his eyes off the road, over and over, to look at me and just smile.

“Stop it.” I laugh, shouting over the wind. “We’re going to crash.”

“You actually came. You’re here.”

“Did you think I wouldn’t?” I raise my eyebrows at him. “Even with a ticket?”

He shakes his head, pressing his lips together. “I never know what’s going to happen with you.”

I look out at the ancient skyline, breaking through the umbrella pines under a wildly clear azure sky. “I’m not an asshole, Marco.”

I sound like Liv. Our argument flashes back like a cold blade over my skin, and I actually shiver—even though it must be eighty-plus degrees. I hate how we left things, but I can’t think about Liv and her obsession with trying to scale me down to a more recognizable shape. I turn back toward Marco. “I’d never go out of my way to hurt you. You know that, right? You know I care about you? Even if this . . . this relationship is fake or temporary or whatever, I’m not pretending I care about you.”

“Hey, of course.” He looks so serious suddenly and I realize it’s because I look serious. “Of course. I was just kidding.”

Rome is like a Renoir. A Matisse.

The air smells like jasmine flowers and honeysuckle, heavy with heat and diesel fumes and melting garbage. Everything’s ancient and rotten and beautiful, lush green life bursting through broken concrete and abandoned buildings alive with wild vines. We park near the Tiber River and step out into the morning rush, immediately absorbed into the pace and rhythm of the city.

There’s so much to look at, I’m not where to start and I think Marco can tell.

He pulls me through the crowds of tourists that clog the narrow, cobblestoned streets of Trastevere, my bag slung over his shoulder. He’s glowing like I’ve never seen before under the late-morning sun. The sky is preternaturally blue, and suddenly I remember that Italians have about eight different words for light blue. All different shades, all different combinations of soft consonants and decadent vowels.

“Coffee!” I remind him, tripping over my feet in an effort to keep up as Marco leads me by the hand down a winding vico, so filled with sunshine it looks like it’s been dipped in saffron.

We stop at a coffee shop en route to our hotel. The building is a faded shade of amber, crowded on either side by nearly identical palazzi, ivy and graffiti mixing together to disguise where one building starts and the other ends. The entrance is bookended by two tables of old men sitting with their newspapers and morning cigarettes. If Marco had a tail, it would have been wagging at the sight of a delicious 8 a.m. smoke. I have to practically pull him away by his collar.

“God, I wish I could just have one vice without taking it too far,” he remarks, running a hand through his hair, jonesing.

“Woof, how personally should I take that?”

Marco rolls his eyes. “Sex isn’t a vice.”

“Oh, no?” I pop a brow. “You’re a very bad Catholic.”

He smirks and says with great pride, “Greek Orthodox, actually. I’m a bad Orthodox Christian.”

We order frozen espresso, shaken out of a liter Coke bottle into shot glasses, and sip them while standing at the bar, no one else around us. The radio crackles over our heads and Marco keeps a hand lazily glued to my lower hip, something I would have never allowed in Evergreen, but the magnetism of his happiness draws me closer and closer. Suddenly, I’m compelled by the spirit of a corporate-girlboss demon to sputter out the sentence, “What . . . are your goals for this trip?”

Marco’s arms find their way around me, his fingers tracing the length of my spine over my linen dress. “What are my goals?”

“Like, what do you want to accomplish?”

“Did you hit your head on the flight?”

“I just . . .” I attempt to shrug out of his arms, but he tightens his grip on me. “This is really romantic.”

“Okay.” He laughs, lifting a hand to smooth my hair away from my face. “And?”

“What about our feelings?” But before he can answer, I course-correct. “Soph and Allie told me I need to be careful with this. They’re worried I’m going to . . .” I lose my nerve, just like the waitress from that very first night at Ernie’s. I roll my lips over my teeth. “You know.”