Page 74 of 32 Days in May

I nod. “My parents are from the south, Calabria, but I guess I’m not really—”

“But you know a lot about Italy?” Paola jumps in, pushing a perfectly ripe fig in my direction. I’d already eaten one—the sweetest, creamiest fruit that had ever passed between my lips. Was I really allowed to have another?

“Of course she does,” Martina says, with a series of shoulder shrugs. “She can quote Ferrante.”

“That’s because I want to be Ferrante,” I gush suddenly. “I’m hoping to absorb some of her talent through osmosis. If I could just write one single grocery list as beautiful as her prose, I’d die happy.”

“Of course you can,” Martina says, throwing around her favorite phrase. To Martina, everything is of course. She slips another cigarette from her half-empty pack and pushes it between her lips. “You’re Italian.”

Her logic is so simple, it makes instant sense. I want to bottle up Martina’s confidence and carry it around with me forever.

“I don’t know,” I say, nervous laughter dotting my speech. “I guess I haven’t tried.”

Paola bumps her shoulder against mine. “If you ever do, let me read it first.”

“You will.” Marco reappears, plopping back down into the chair next to me. “When you’re ready to, you will.”

“Well, excuse me,” I say, turning in his direction. “How long have you been holding on to that astute little observation?”

He smirks, skimming his fingers over his hair, pushing it away from his eyes. “It took me a minute, but I got a read on you now.”

Before I can come back at him with a clever retort, Martina grabs ahold of my arm and squeezes. “You should write one of those books where the narrator is a liar!”

“I love those,” Paola gasps. I want Martina’s confidence and Paola’s ability to experience the world so orgasmically. “A saucy heroine with a deadly secret!”

Martina and Tia shriek and cackle. “Daje!”

A memoir, I want to say. Instead, I shove another fig in my mouth and let them cook up the perfect story.

With the last sip of grappa drained from Giorgio’s glass, we all kiss and hug goodbye. Marco and Paola take a moment to embrace, and I can hear him thanking her, over and over, for everything.

“Take her to the beach, Marco,” she urges him, under her breath. “You must.”

Thankfully, he listens to her. We drive down to the end of the gravel road, where the pebbles turn to sand.

“That was quite the quote you pulled out,” Marco says, grasping my hand and helping me up the steep incline that leads to the beach. “I’ve never seen Giorgio impressed before.”

“I love your friends. They’re brilliant.” I couldn’t possibly be drunk, but the softness of the evening has seeped into me. With one hand holding on to my shoes and the other wagging in the air to keep my balance, we make our way down toward the nearly silent tide. “Tonight was incredible. Fun and . . . and, I don’t know, electric. I miss being around other artists, I guess.” The shoreline is deep and the sand has retained its warmth from the day, grittier and sturdier than Evergreen’s beach. I can imagine the sea as it looked when we drove by earlier—a lazy swirl of cobalt and aquamarine—but right now it’s a glassy stretch of indigo calm.

The wind keeps us from moving quickly toward the tide, blowing back the fabric of my dress and melding Marco’s T-shirt to the curvature of his frame. We find a spot where the sand turns moist and solid, then we sit.

Marco leans backward onto his elbows, looking up at me with an expression that must mirror my own: a hazy, heavy look of deep satisfaction. “I told you. You’re meant for a world like theirs, for big things. You fit in perfectly.”

For some reason, this hurts more than an actual insult from Marco might. I almost can’t stand that he thinks my life is the way it is because I’m in a stage of transition. I almost can’t stand how well I’ve tricked him into thinking I am still someone who takes great risks and lives an interesting life.

I can’t stand that he thinks he’s just a pit stop on a very long road unfurling ahead of me, filled with just the right amount of twists and turns. To Marco, it’s certainly not a road that ends abruptly, when I’m still young. It’s not a road checkered with gaping potholes or endless loops backward.

No, I want to say, falling in love with you is the greatest thing I will ever do. Being here with you, under all of these stars. This is me peaking.

He takes my silence in stride. Marco is, after all, very good at listening. He takes the quiet the way he takes my words.

I bring my knees into my chest, hugging myself. Finally, I say: “I like living a small life. I like living by the beach and working for Soph. Maybe that sounds sad or pathetic, but when I keep things small . . .”

When I keep things small, I can manage. I can manage my depression. I can manage being sick.

I squeeze my eyes shut and try to find different words. “Getting to where I did in my career before took everything out of me. That job was my life, and I can’t even believe what I missed out on because of it. I wouldn’t see the sun for days sometimes. I’d get to work before the sun rose and leave when it was dark out. I’d fall asleep at my desk. I kept an emergency toothbrush and change of clothes in case I had to stay all night. And doing what?” I shake my head. “Writing commercials? Designing pitch decks?

“Martina and Giorgio . . . your friends. You. You guys are different from me. You’re . . . rich people. You were born to write like Ferrante and take beautiful pictures and eat figs under a Mediterranean sunset. I’m . . . utilitarian.”