Page 79 of 32 Days in May

“I think I’m feeling better now,” I say. “Let’s finish this up.”

Instead of staying at Marco’s, I decide to head home. Alone in his cavernous house on the bay, I pack my bag and leave a note.

I feel it coming. A migraine, a flare-up, a something. My body isn’t recovering like before; each throb through the injured center of my hand reminds me of this. My thoughts are simultaneously foggy and jagged; each one passes through my head like a thunderbolt, rocking me with a red-hot jolt of pain that travels through the nerves on my face, down my neck, into my bloodstream. The pain colonizes my body.

I’m terrified of Marco catching me in my lie like this: walking into the living room to find me green with nausea, dry vomit on my shirt; crying on the bathroom floor, locked up and disoriented by pain.

I’ll tell him tomorrow, I promise myself as I crawl into bed. I need to take my medicine but it’s so far away. I actually don’t even remember where I left it.

Monday, May 22

“Dinner with the family,” Marco jokes, pulling into the carport behind Soph’s truck. “I should have brought flowers.”

I roll my eyes until they land on his. “Save that stunning sense of humor for inside. We’re gonna need it.”

“Should I be more nervous? I’ve met Soph and Allie. They’re great—”

“Yeah, but you didn’t meet them when you were my . . . you know, an actual boyfriend that I spent time with.” I shrug, reapplying a slick coat of lip gloss in the orange light of the car mirror. “You were just some guy with a mullet.”

This gives Marco pause. He crosses his arms over his chest. “They’re gonna be different?”

“Maybe.” I shrug and flip the mirror closed. “They’re very protective of me.”

“So am I! I’m an alpha.”

“Mmmm.” I tilt my head from side to side. “But are you misandrist-oceanside-gays level of protective over me?”

“I can be,” he defends himself. “Just let me google a few things.”

As we make our way around the car and up the front porch steps, Marco laces his fingers with mine and says, “We should stay at your place tonight.”

Without thinking, I scoff. “You do not want that, believe me. The whole place smells like middle-class ennui and gardenia potpourri.”

“Oh, c’mon.” He pulls his hand out of mine. “It can’t be that bad. You’re being dramatic.”

I poke a finger into his chest. “One night in my bed and you’ll be crying for your uncle’s two-thousand-thread-count organic sheets.”

“Hold on.” Marco laughs, rubbing a hand over the spot I poked as he leans back against the old creaky railing. His expression changes, the angles of his face softening. “You don’t really think I’m some shitty satin-slipper-prince type, do you?”

“Satin slipper?” I laugh. “I would love to see you in a pair of satin slippers. Oh, and a leotard.”

“Be serious, Nadia. I know we’re from different backgrounds, but—”

“But what? Marco, you own property on the island of Manhattan. You wear cologne and use a leave-in conditioner. I have an hourly wage job and sports asthma. It’s not a big deal.” I shrug, leaning forward to place my hands on his shoulders. He’s wearing a horribly fashionable bomber jacket; I looked the brand up, contemplating snatching the jacket from his closet for myself, and almost puked when I saw how much it cost. “We sleep at your uncle’s. I love your uncle’s! I love organic sheets!”

He sets his jaw hard, hooking a finger on one of my belt loops and tugging me close. “We’re staying at your place tonight.”

“Why do I have to suffer in order for you to prove a point?”

“Because I want to see where you live.”

I sigh, giving his cheek a swipe before turning back toward the door, but secretly, I feel a rush of new, sparkling emotion in my chest. We’d just had a disagreement that was terrifyingly, thrillingly normal.

I pause before knocking on Soph and Allie’s front door. I can’t stand the idea of going into Soph and Allie’s without seeing Marco one last time—getting in a final word or maybe just pressing my mouth to his and sucking all the good faith out of his soul like a Dementor—so I spin around. To my surprise, Marco is extremely close behind me, mouth hanging open as he, apparently, also had one more thing he needed to say.

But when our eyes connect we both break out into laughter. I lean forward into his arms, letting my forehead fall against his shoulder as his hands slide around my lower back.

“You’re not a satin-slipper prince-bitch,” I murmur against his skin. He smells delicious and familiar, like bar soap and warm skin. I want to spend the entire night making out with him on this porch.