Page 1 of 32 Days in May

Prologue

January 10

Months Ago

If ever there were a physical manifestation of depression, it would be the Jersey Shore in the middle of January.

Everything is gray.

The water. The sky. The houses. My skin.

I think of my therapist’s last words before we said goodbye.

You are worth fighting for, Nadia. And if this is how you win the war—then so be it.

In my pocket is a lilac Post-it note from her desk. In her sweet, Catholic school cursive, Audrey had written: you are no one <3

It was the first thing that had made me laugh in weeks. Maybe even since November.

How pathetic am I? I’d said when she handed it to me.

And then she’d said those last words before pulling me into a hug.

For years, I’d tried to be someone. Someone beautiful; someone interesting; someone you remembered from parties; someone you could tell a story about.

Now, my mother drives my car while I try to sleep in the passenger seat. She puts on an Italian song we’ve listened to on every drive to the beach for as long as I can remember. The sentimentality of this gesture makes my body recoil with anger. And the lyrics . . . the lyrics make me livid.

Too much trust ruins love. Now you’re the mystery to me.

I find this to be so true, it makes me sick.

I’d tried to be memorable by making myself scarce. I’d tried to be unforgettable by being impenetrable. I’d tried and tried and tried. I didn’t even get a chance to give up. My body did that for me.

“Do you have all your medicine?” she asks for the hundredth time.

“Yes.”

“Did you take it already?”

“Yes.”

“Do you feel better?”

I grit my teeth. “No.”

We’re at the last light before the bridge into Evergreen.

I count the seconds until it turns green.

* * *

March 5

I’m smoking a cigarette, leaning against the side of the house. I shouldn’t be doing this, but sometimes a cigarette is the only way to stop the panic. Everything about smoking disgusts me—inflames my self-loathing and my GERD.

A tall figure with close-cropped russet hair makes their way down the sidewalk. Fuck. Downstairs neighbor. I’m trying to turn and book it back up the wooden steps that lead to my second-floor entrance when our eyes catch.

They look exhausted; the knees of their jeans are worn and caked with dirt, a pair of filthy gloves tucked into the breast pocket of their flannel jacket. The tip of their nose is bright red.