Page 41 of 32 Days in May

Meanwhile, Marco’s in New York working; that means acting or auditioning, being around other famous people at the very least. And I’m going to, what? Show up Wednesday with a raggedy Vera Bradley overnight bag, rattling with the different medications I need to take just to feel like I’m half alive? Not to mention Marco doesn’t even know about my diagnosis. And I have no plan to tell him before the last day of May.

Right now, he sees me the way I want to be seen: healthy.

I come to a stop in front of Allie. “He doesn’t know I have lupus.”

Allie looks confused. “I mean, plenty of people have autoimmune diseases, I’m sure he’d be really understanding.”

“No, Allie. I don’t want him to know. Right now, Marco doesn’t really know anything about me and I . . . I like it. He just thinks I’m some quirky manic-pixie-dream slut that works at a fruit stand and occasionally lashes out about things.”

Suddenly, her brows fall into a frown. “You were planning on going all of May without ever letting him into any part of your life?”

“I was gonna tell him some things.”

“Like?”

“Like I’m . . . a sister. And a daughter.”

“Wow, intimate.”

I collapse into a chair at the end of their kitchen table, flopping forward onto the cool surface. I squeeze my eyes shut. “The first night we went out, he told me he’s a user. He quite literally said: do not trust me. And now, all of this? I don’t think he’s being insincere, but . . . what happens next? What if he’s like, mining me for content? I don’t wanna end up as some anecdote in his memoir or a side character in a movie about his life.”

“Honestly . . . that’s extremely fair, Nads.”

I blink an eye open. “Really?”

“Yeah, I mean . . . ” She pauses to gesture at the discarded box—a wonderful gift, a potential red flag. “He’s a nice guy, but I think your concerns are valid. He’s probably used to getting what he wants, and you’re a little bit of a challenge or a . . . a fun idea.” She reaches across the table and lays her hand over mine. “I support you keeping some secrets.”

Hearing my best friend say this should be a relief—but it isn’t. I want her to tell me I’m being insane and ridiculous, that Marco is clearly and totally in love with me, how could he not be? We’re perfect for each other, as everyone can see.

But that’s just my ego talking.

I fold the sweater and place it back in the box, gathering up the note card. I take the wooden steps that run along the side of the house, leading from Soph and Allie’s floor up to my apartment.

Inside, I finally shower off my long morning. It’s one of those days when my legs are throbbing and the backs of my knees prickle with inflammation, but my mind is wide awake. I certainly haven’t done my nervous systems any favors. I close the blinds, blocking out a wet, windy spring landscape, and crawl under my duvet.

A soft rain falls and each droplet against the window lulls me closer to sleep—or closer to delirium; I have less control over where my mind wanders. Back to the boat, last night. Back to the car ride home.

We should have been too tired to talk, maybe even should have run out of things to say to each other, but the ride home to Evergreen was filled with his laughter, my chatter.

He let me watch him, graciously, never meeting my eye. At the last light before we entered Evergreen, all he did was move a hand from the gearshift to my knee, where he gave me a brief squeeze. A microdose of intimacy that sent my stomach tumbling.

Back on the island, the stars and sky were blotted out with ocean haze and diffused light. Marco turned on our seat heaters and rolled down the windows.

“I love this smell,” I admitted, my head lolled back against the headrest and my eyelids heavy. “I wish they would bottle it and sell it.”

Marco made a small noise in the back of his throat, a hum of agreement. His eyes were narrowed and glassy, fixed straight ahead as he drove down Neptune Avenue, as if he was holding the gaze of someone he loved dearly.

“I’ve missed it here,” he said eventually, pulling his eyes off the street to look at me. I took in the crow’s-feet etched around his eyes, the permanent indents on either side of his mouth. Smile lines. The car slowed to a stop and I looked away.

“Today was really fun,” I said. I hoped he didn’t take it for granted—because it’s a cliché to say something like that. But I don’t really speak in clichés. I hoped he could tell that I really meant it. “Best date I’ve been on.”

I think then he believed me, because he reached over and briefly, so briefly, brought a finger to my chin, running the pad of his thumb over the acute angle of my jaw. Like he wanted to hook his finger underneath and pull me to him.

Instead, he dropped his hand and leaned away. “Ever?” he asked, voice low and deliciously set in the back of his throat.

I couldn’t hold back a small laugh. “Yes, Marco. Best date ever.”

This is where my mind picks up as I lie in bed. Now, while I lie under the perfect weight of my covers, I imagine catching his wrist with my fingers, closing the gap between us. I imagine what Marco’s mouth tastes like, without all the beer and tequila and cigarettes in the way. I wonder what it might be like to actually be with him; I think about it until my thighs ache.