Page 11 of 32 Days in May

Yes, I want to say, but instead I play nice. “We weren’t really a cable TV family. And I was a little too old.”

“What kind of family were you, then? Puzzles around the fireplace? Dad reading the newspaper?”

“Oh God, no.” I laugh, shaking my head. “My parents own a butcher shop, they basically work twenty-four/seven. And we had to help as soon as our wrists were strong enough to wield a cleaver.”

Marco’s expression collapses from one of sardonic teasing to a look of genuine interest—perhaps even respect. “You’re joking.”

“No, I’m not.” I take a sip of water, basking in the feeling of finally breaking through the impenetrable haze of niceness hanging around us. “Give me a butter knife, and I could carve you up.”

“Fuck,” he grunts, lifting his water to his lips. Condensation slides down the glass, rolling down his wrist. He places his lips against the cold material and I look away. “A butcher’s daughter hiding out in Evergreen. That sounds like a good TV show.”

Before I have a chance to respond, a different, equally bouncy waitress appears. Her smile is wide, blue eyes hazy with excitement. She’s been sent by her buddy to scope us out, no doubt.

Marco stiffens as she approaches with eager, wide eyes, spine going ramrod straight. He tries to play it off by stretching his arms over his head, locking his fingers together, and turning from side to side. But I know he wants to jump out of his skin.

“Here are your drinks!” she trills. This is directed at Marco and only Marco. He doesn’t even let the shot glass hit the table. He takes it from her and tosses the syrupy, amber liquid back in one smooth gulp—like a cartoon character eating a fish in one bite.

My mouth jumps into another oh shape. Oh, shit. Oh, no. Oh, is this what we’re doing?

I watch him chase down the whiskey shot with two enormous gulps of beer. His entire throat shifts with the effort of getting as much liquid down as possible, and genuine shock ripples through me. Years ago, it had been well-documented that Marco had a certain zest for life. Drugs and women and fast cars. All the usual, predictable ways rich men avoided therapy. I guess I’d just assumed a man with a bad haircut living by the beach was healed.

Ironic. I should know, better than anyone, how wholly untrue that could be.

Or maybe this—this date, this hangout, this whatever—is so very awful that he decided, after settling into his rusted patio chair, that he needed a consciousness shift ASAP.

I should just leave. I should just get up and go, release him from his duties. But I can’t.

I feel so strange—awake and giddy and electric. Horny, but not for sex. Horny for whatever is happening inside his mind.

I’m jealous.

There’s a barely contained recklessness to Marco, itching to break loose. I want what he’s having.

Before the waitress can run off, I press the tips of my fingers to her arm and order us a pitcher of margaritas.

“Two glasses,” I add sweetly, without even a glance Marco’s way. “Please.”

“Salt or sugar on the rim?”

“Salt,” we reply in unison.

And when she walks away, we do not look at each other.

What the hell am I doing? I can’t drink. I haven’t drunk in months. Not since—

I shudder at the memory, and now I want to drink even more. I shouldn’t—I take a lot of medicine and—

Marco’s lighting up a cigarette. In the middle of the outdoor patio, the beautiful man now has a cigarette perched between his lips and he’s holding his lighter, aflame and flickering in the wind, to the end. “So, what did you watch?” A stream of gray smoke shoots from his nose. “Criterion Collection?”

I point at the cigarette. “Really? You’re not above the law just because you’ve been on TV.”

He ignores this comment and keeps pushing. “Come on, you’re a writer, right? You have to have a favorite TV show or a favorite movie.”

Duh, I have a favorite movie but I’m not telling him. It would be too devastating and personal to tell anyone, let alone Marco Antoniou, that Snowpiercer makes me open-mouth sob every time I watch it. “Everyone has a favorite movie. Even people who don’t like movies have a favorite movie.”

“Then tell me.” Under the table he actually kicks me a little bit.

My eyes widen. I kick back. He smirks, bright white canines catching the setting sun. He gives me a look of practiced desire. His body language shifts and everything about him is saying, Come on, baby, have a little fun. The chaos demon locked away inside his brain has broken loose and gained control of the ship.