Page 71 of 32 Days in May

“Can’t sleep,” I say to Marco.

“Jet lag?”

“Headache.” I pull the rag off my face completely. Blue moonlight falls in from the balcony, cutting a harsh pattern across the stone floor. The entire room has an otherworldly glow. A hard knot seizes in my chest. I don’t want Liv to be right. “Get in.”

Marco listens; he slides out of his boxers and into the tub opposite me. The water surges and overflows then settles around our shoulders as he weaves his legs between mine.

He looks tired, eyes heavy and soft. He reaches beneath the surface and takes one of my feet in his hands and I sink lower, until the soap bubbles lap at my chin.

We don’t speak at first. Not until I say: “I keep thinking about your speech.”

He lets out a hum. “Was it okay?”

I nod. “I think I get it now . . . why you wanted to do this.”

“Tell me.”

“Nothing in life has ever been effortless for me . . . ever. I thought I did everything right. And it didn’t get me anywhere. Actually—” I laugh. “It almost killed me. And I think . . . I think you’re like that, too.” He nods, so I keep talking. “It feels like there are some people—me and you—that no matter what, we’re always gonna be on the outside. Even if we do everything right, we’re always going to feel wrong. And it becomes this self-fulfilling prophecy. We feel so lonely and then we make ourselves unreachable. We realize we’ll never be enough. We’ll never be everything for everyone. Or we’ll never be the right person for our right person. So . . . so, you just said fuck it. And I guess I did, too.”

“That’s . . . that’s exactly it,” Marco says, his voice soft and urgent. “When we met, all I could think was, what if? What if it wasn’t so fucking hard to make something good or even something mediocre? What if I just chose to be okay? What if I just chose a person and went with it?” I lift my eyes from the glistening surface and look at him. His eyes are tearing into me, dark tunnels that press me against the porcelain. “I know that’s not romantic.”

“I think it’s . . .” I swallow roughly. “Very romantic. Or maybe there’s something better than romance and we’re the only people who’ve ever found it.”

“I’d like that. To have something that’s all our own.”

I sit up and reach for Marco. He drops my foot and lets me into his arms, sending a tidal wave of water lapping at the edge of the bathtub. He pulls my mouth to his, gentle yet hungry. Famished. He kisses me like he wants to sink through me, and I kiss him like I want to give him every ounce of me. Every secret I’ve ever held inside me. I kiss him like shame doesn’t control me.

“Tell me something true,” he whispers against my skin, his voice wavering under the weight of restraint or emotion or maybe both.

My body is shaking; it’s like I’ve just had my mind read, every piece of myself pulled out and laid bare. What else is there left to say? Isn’t it all obvious? I’m in love with you. I’m not okay, and maybe I never will be, but I love you. More than anything I want to ask him why I can’t feel the way I looked in his photo.

I close my eyes and press my forehead to his temple. “I feel . . . like I’m in love with you. But I don’t know if that’s just because I’m finally remembering how much I love being alive.”

He tightens his grip on my waist. “We could find out,” he whispers back.

“Marco,” I say softly, pressing my face into his hair. “If you broke my heart, I would never recover. If you left me, if you hurt me . . . Worse, if I hurt you. I don’t know how I’d—”

“Hey.” He pulls back, tilting his head so he can look at me. The moon glints off his eyes, heavy-lidded with desire, carving a hard edge over his features—the long slope of his nose, the hollows of his cheeks, the square pout of his mouth. He runs his thumb over my chin. “Me too, okay? Me too.”

Then, his thumb keeps moving, slipping over the slick skin at the base of my throat, over my collarbones, and down between my breasts. Underneath the water, I feel him hardening against me, pushing into me. Around us the water cools, and I shiver. His touch is so light, yet persistent and firm. A groan, a raw bid of desire, builds in his chest as he touches me. Under my breasts, around my waist, his fingers travel, his mouth following. Marco takes his time, teasing every inch of my skin until I’m vibrating with desire, every hair follicle on my body raised. His tongue finds the soft, sensitive spot on the side of my neck and his fingers slip between my thighs. A sound catches in my throat, and I arch my back.

“You’re sexy when you moan,” he breathes into my ear. “Why do you try to keep quiet?”

“I’m trying . . .” My voice comes out in a pant. “I’m trying to let go.”

“Stop biting your lip, then,” he commands. His voice is rough, deep in the back of his throat.

“I have to hold back. I have to . . .” But I’m not holding back, not anymore.

“That’s it,” he whispers into my skin, smoothing my hair away from my face. “Much better.”

Wednesday, May 17

We sleep late, tangled together in a towel on top of the sheets. When I blink my eyes open Marco’s still dozing, sun-kissed cheek flat against his pillow and the soft sound of his breathing. That’s when I realize that I’m staring at someone I love.

He blinks his eyes open, as if he can feel the realization settling in my stomach.

I love you, I mouth.