Page 20 of 32 Days in May

Marco’s eyes travel over me, his mouth curving up into that smile. That damn smile. Then he lifts his sleeve to reveal his triceps. In the center of his skin is a white square.

A nicotine patch.

Marco grins, firing off all kilowatts, and he actually looks happy. “Already on it.”

Marco insists on walking me to my bike after I pack up my bag. He carries the produce that didn’t sell—two totes of leftover lettuce and a box of nectarines—and I’m extremely grateful for the extra set of hands, considering mine are swollen and useless.

We walk in silence, a crimson sunset dripping off the vinyl-clad row homes and cloaking us in the last of the day’s warmth. We pass the record store where someone has propped open the door with a box of freebie CDs. Willie Nelson’s voice twists on the air followed by the smell of coffee from the doughnut shop next door. Suddenly, I feel like I’ve slipped through a crack in time and found myself back in my childhood. Wandering around Evergreen with my bike for hours, every street feeling like the next page of a storybook where I am the protagonist—a wayward knight; a powerful witch flying on her broom; a thief on the lam.

I spend our walk alternating between two thoughts: Tonight is quite literally a perfect night and Wait, wasn’t there an episode of Dude’s Ranch where someone kisses their first cousin?

“So,” I pipe up, when the silence suddenly feels too saturated. “You have a mullet.”

“Oh. Yeah, I do.” Marco laughs, knocking his hat back with a knuckle and ruffling his free hand through the business part. “Isn’t it awful? It was for a role.”

“Was?”

His mouth falls completely straight, brown eyes pulling away from mine. “I don’t think it’s going to work out.”

“I’m sorry,” I say quietly. From what I know about Marco, he hasn’t worked in years. Not that he needs to. Not that I am personally one to talk. “For what it’s worth, that’s a very impressive mullet. I’d believe you were a constable or a trucker or maybe a white Christian nationalist.”

“Thanks?” He laughs again, furrowing his brow at me. “It’s been a fun experiment. After having to have the same haircut for seven years, it’s nice to take risks now.”

“Can I know what role the mullet was for?”

“For a play. Ever heard of Brokeback Mountain?”

“Of course.” I perk up, like a dog. “It’s my favorite short story, barring a few crucial Alice Munro hits. It just crushes me.” Then, I add, “I sort of like things that make me sad.”

Marco nods. “Me too. I love being sad. I love having a reason to sit on my couch and cry.”

“Do you like to sob or do a wide-eyed, stone-faced thing?”

“Sob. One hundred percent. You?”

“I’m stone-faced every time.”

We’re talking in that higher pitch, increased speed that happens when two people realize they like the same things.

“So, the stage play—”

“Right, they’re doing this Broadway revival with a young director from Edinburgh. I was so excited about it—but they went with someone . . . younger, I think. Everything happens for a reason and all that.” There it is again. The switch in his voice; the distance he so easily puts between himself and his life.

I point at my beach cruiser chained to a parking meter at the end of the road, in front of The Billiards.

“That’s me.”

Marco’s mouth twitches. “Of course it is.”

He helps me secure the leftover lettuce into the crate I’ve MacGyvered onto the back of my bike. His hands are steady and strong, his forearms thick and vascular, muscles flexing with effort.

He steps back and observes his handiwork with his fists pressed into his waist. “Let me know, okay?” This question is directed at my bike’s tires.

“About what?” I ask, buckling my helmet under my chin.

Marco licks his lips slowly, pivoting in front of me, as if he knows taking that exact half step will bring the setting sun into perfect alignment with his eyes, turning them from chocolate brown to crystallized amber. “Dating.”

He brings a finger to my cheek; quick and vibrant warmth percolates in my chest, making my next breath snag. This, he must notice. He holds up his finger. “Eyelash.”