Page 7 of 32 Days in May

Calling Marco a celebrity is incredibly generous. He’s somewhere between disgraced child star and YouTuber, but also neither. Marco was on one of those network comedies that runs seven seasons without anyone noticing for, well, seven years. Then, he’d gotten a minor role in one of those Chicago shows. Chicago: Pet Detective or something.

After that, he’d gotten arrested for bringing a bunch of party drugs to an airport. Then, he disappeared.

No art house films to relaunch his career. No PR relationships to help reframe the bad press. Just a kid from Jersey whose luck ran out so he counted his blessings and slipped through the door when no one was looking.

Sounds familiar.

“I can’t believe your hot doctor has a famous cousin,” Allie marvels. “The world is so small.”

I grimace. “He used the pervy smile.”

“You have to meet up with him, are you insane?”

“It could be a different Marco,” Soph reminds us—mostly Allie, who is now doing a demented little dance in place, long limbs vibrating while she does neck rolls.

“Exactly.” I try to sound confident, but suddenly I’m vibrating, too. “It’s gotta be a totally different Marco.”

“What’re you gonna say?” Allie has circled the table, back now hovering over my shoulder, buzzing like a magpie.

“I don’t know. I was really looking forward to the galette—”

“I can save you a piece,” Allie shrieks. It’s a satanic sound and very close to my ear.

“Fuck, man. Fine, I guess I’ll just . . . say something like, wrong number sorry blocked.” Soph and I both dissolve into laughter while Allie melts to her knees. She crawls toward me, then grips my ankle with one of her bony, cold hands.

“You. Wouldn’t. Dare.”

I’m hanging out with Marco Antoniou. I’m hanging out with Marco Antoniou. I’m hanging—

No. No. We already have a mantra, I remind myself. Words have always had a lot of power over me. I have to be careful.

I thunder up the wooden steps to my apartment, determined to de–jump scare myself. My hair has still found a way to frizz, despite being trimmed down to the quick.

Water. Gel. Water. Gel.

I put on a headband and sort of look like a baby. I take it off. I put on too much eye shadow and remind myself of an iguana, huge wet eyes swirling around in opposite directions. I tell myself that my eyes are hazel, the rarest eye color. Suddenly, I doubt myself and google it. Not the rarest.

I have nothing.

I take off the eye shadow and smear on some peach-colored war paint. I’m hot and sweating and my head is starting to pound. I haven’t taken my medicine yet. Shit. I take a shaky handful of chalky pills, nearly spilling them twice.

I run out onto the apartment balcony, which hangs over the front porch. “I need more coffee!” I shout down, full Stanley Kowalski.

Allie pops her head out the window below, twisting her freckled face up to look up at me. “On it!”

What am I even going to wear? I haven’t had to care in months.

I yank a sundress out of my closet, then remember that the fabric tends to irritate my skin, resulting in a painful rash.

I pull out an old, loved pair of white overalls and a cropped T-shirt, also white.

I didn’t plan to, but I look angelic. Blame the iguana eyes.

“You look nice,” I say to my reflection. My delivery is a little Full Metal Jacket, but nevertheless, sincere. Maybe I’m not hot enough to be on Chicago: Freelance Graphic Designers, but who is? Even the cast looks confused.

I rush down the steps. Allie thrusts a mug into my chest. I lean forward and chug while she cheers me on.

It’s not until I am three blocks from the boardwalk, waiting at a red light while death-gripping my steering wheel, that I realize I never even texted him back.