Page 10 of 32 Days in May

I snap my eyes away from his; heat prickles in my cheeks. I’m still smiling. “I’m going to take that as a compliment.”

There’s a natural lull in our conversation and maybe a lesser man would use this moment to say, Well, this has been great—see you never! But instead, Marco clears his throat and says, “You hungry?”

I’m starving, my stomach is symphonic, but I say something tragic like, “I could eat.”

Across town, in an old cottage on the bay, Ernie’s Crab Shack offers its “World Famous Shrimp Basket for Two” and a raucous patio with enough seating for a large family reunion or a very small Italian wedding. They seat us outside at the tiniest table ever created in the middle of two enormous parties: a bachelorette weekend (or maybe a group of penis straw salespeople?) and a group of young parents and their writhing children. We’re in a sea of noise. The air buckles, overburdened with vibrations.

Marco studies the menu while biting at his bottom lip. I try not to focus on how dark his eyes are, how smooth his skin is, while, under the table, the rubber tips of our shoes touch.

“Jeez, lot of options.”

As soon as the words leave my lips, I want to disappear. Just, poof. Into the ocean. Lot of options? I could have said anything—anything at all—and what I do is make the most milquetoast observation possible.

“I have a strategy for ordering at places like this,” Marco says with a bro-ish head nod toward the menu in my hands. He fiddles with his lighter, rotating it back and forth between his fingers. He’s been antsy ever since we sat down, seemingly out of his element in the middle of such a crowded space. I can feel how badly he wants to get up and walk out. He doesn’t like crowds. Or maybe he doesn’t like this crowd. “No page twos.”

“No page twos?”

“You heard me. You can only pick from the first page of the menu.” He reaches across the table and yanks the paper menu out of my hand, flipping it over then replacing it faster than I can protest. “Humans love boundaries.”

Why does this simple statement turn me on so much?

Regardless, his trick works. No page two has me ordering fish tacos with the confidence of a sitting president. Our waitress bounces over on her toes, eyes constantly moving around the patio, checking for empty glasses that need filling and empty plates that need clearing. Her hairline glistens with remnants of high-noon sweat. Then, her eyes flit to Marco and she stills. It all happens so quickly and yet slow enough to send every muscle in my body into a cringe.

“Weird question—” she starts. Marco’s fingers freeze on his lighter. She loses her nerve. “Um, did you say no bun on the veggie burger?”

Marco stuns her with his smile. It’s sideways, sloping, devastating, and makes my throat dry. “That’s right. No bun.”

“Drinks?” she breathes.

He orders a beer and a shot of whiskey.

Oh? I stare at Marco, eyes wide.

He stares back, mirroring my expression. “Nadia? Anything to drink?”

“Just water for me,” I say, but it doesn’t matter—our waitress is already running at full speed toward the kitchen.

And I don’t blame her. This is probably the craziest thing that’s ever happened at Ernie’s Crab Shack, barring a few debaucherous bachelor parties featuring some vacationing sex pests. The front-of-house staff is about to come alive with intrigue.

And Marco knows it. He’s tearing at his bottom lip, jiggling his knee so hard I can feel the table bouncing. His gaze has a vise grip on something over my shoulder, past the docked boats and all the couples taking pictures on the edge of the jetty. He’s staring, potentially, directly into the sun.

“I’m sorry she recognized you. It’s annoying, I’m sure.”

There’s a microscopic quiver in the corner of his mouth as he ignites his lighter. “Yeah, no. I’m sorry. I’ve always really hated that.”

“Don’t apologize, I don’t mind at all. We can leave—”

He pulls his eyes away from the sky and looks at me. My stomach rocks side to side—he looks hurt, nearly torn open. “Did you recognize me?” This question is different from all the other questions he’s asked me tonight. Marco actually wants to know the answer.

“Well, sure.” I shrug, unfolding the napkin-wrapped bundle of silverware in front of me, doing my best impression of someone capable of relaxing. “I guess I did, in a way.”

“You watched Dude’s Ranch?”

That’s what his show was called! Dude’s Ranch. Two estranged brothers come together to save their father’s ranch and like, raise a baby or something. I can picture the promotional artwork perfectly. Marco in a denim jacket, smile on full display. His character was the fish out of water—a Sonny LoSpecchio type from Queens or maybe the Bronx. You were supposed to look at him and think, This pretty boy? Doing a real man’s job? In the real man’s America? Now, that’s hilarious.

I scoff, a hiccup of incredulity. “You wish.”

He smirks. “You’re too sophisticated.”