Page 68 of 32 Days in May

“Hm, no.” His eyes dance over my face. “Definitely not better than this. Nothing is.”

Very suddenly I miss Evergreen so much it hurts my chest. I miss the smell of bay and salt air and the way Marco had looked at me the very first time I saw him. I long for that moment, want to crack it open like a walnut, see what lives inside. I miss his nervous eyes and his mullet; I miss the first time I felt like I wanted him, on the dance floor at Ernie’s and maybe even before that, on the boardwalk.

It’s not that days have passed and I know our time will be up; it’s that this is the best thing that has ever happened to me and I want it all over again, from the beginning.

Whether this entire saga ends with us looking at each other on the edge of this bed or if everything ends in ten days or ten years, I would want to replay it all. I’d rewind over and over again, memorizing every moment, charting the course from where we started to where we are right now, so if ever I were to lose my way as profoundly as I lost myself back in November, I’d have a map back to this. Joy. A feeling intense and perilous and so deep and clear, I could drink it and never feel thirsty again.

Marco brings me joy.

“You’re a flirt, Marco Antoniou,” I say into his neck. We’re swaying now, back and forth, to invisible music.

His hand tightens on the small of my back, sending an electric throb through my hips. “Not a flirt. Just personally invested in making you feel amazing.”

I’m not sure how it happens—how it’s possible to have never experienced something before, but to know deep in my stomach, in my soul, that I’m falling in love.

A bumpy, jittery taxi ride where my heart skips with every cobblestone we hit lands us in a piazza somewhere north of Castel Sant’Angelo, which Marco points out to me, sliding across the back seat, a hand lazily draping over my thigh. I’m so fucking nervous, I don’t even care about the enormous, gorgeous stone structure smearing by in a blur of orange streetlights and inky-blue sky. I just want to turn in to his chest and close my eyes.

“Can you give me a hint? Or at least let me know if there’s going to be five thousand cameras or if I’m going to have to give a speech?”

“Nadia.” He laughs, shaking his head as he pays the taxi driver. “This is supposed to be fun, not an acute form of torture. I promise it’ll be worth it, okay?”

The piazza is filled with a post-dinner crowd, couples lounging in chairs that face a brilliant, glittering fountain while the marble terraced steps that lead to the water display fill up with teenagers, tourists, panhandlers, and drug dealers. Marco leads the way to the far end of the square toward a building with enormous carved doors and a boisterous crowd spilling out into the night. I can hear a fluid mix of Italian and English, as I crane my neck to try and parse out the details of what we’re headed into. No red carpet, thank God. No groups of autograph seekers. No cameramen, no microphones, just a single photographer and a security guard standing stone-faced at the top of the marble steps by the door.

As we draw close to the building, I can make out a large fabric sign hanging over the doors. In enormous white letters, it reads:

ADAM WEST

“REST”

MOSTRA IN ANTEPRIMA

16 MAGGIO–1 LUGLIO

We slow to stop, and Marco drops my hand. “Well?”

“Your favorite photographer? We’re here to see his exhibit?” That can’t be right. I guess again. “You modeled for Adam?” That feels wrong, too.

What else could it be? I recognized the photographs from his apartment at the exhibit we went to in Brooklyn. The grainy black-and-white portraits of people sleeping—or looking at least like they wanted to sleep—made sense for an exhibit called “Rest.” All of the photos I’ve seen taken by Adam are candid shots. Maybe it’s a small film premiere?

“No,” I jump in before Marco can correct me. “You’re not a model.”

“Uh, ouch.” He laces his fingers with mine and pulls me along with him.

“You had a mullet when I met you,” I remind him. “Did you model the mullet?”

His eyes glisten as he says, “Let’s think about it—what have I brought on each of our dates?”

“A winsome smile. A huge boner.”

“Besides that.”

“I don’t know . . .” I feel like an absolute idiot. I stop walking and stare at him in horror. “A gun?”

“Nadia.” He takes my face in his hands, laughing. He plants a kiss on my top lip. “I always bring my camera.”

“Wait.” I pull back from him with a gasp. “You’re not Adam West, are you?” Marco responds by pressing his lips together until they disappear. “Holy shit, Marco. You’re Adam West? This is your premiere.” I rip myself out of his hold altogether. “Holy shit!” Then, I throw myself forward, arms circling his neck, laughter exploding out of me. “Adam fucking West.”

“You’re not mad, are you?” he asks through a laugh, stumbling backward at the sudden weight of me against him, his hands coming to gently rest against my hips.