Page 24 of 32 Days in May

Soph’s jaw is locked into a frightening clench. “Ladies, please. I just spent five hours at a soil convention.”

The boardwalk is quiet and dark, except for the buzzing street lamps, and underneath our feet the planks exhale moisture with every step we take. The ocean makes itself known on the air but otherwise, she sleeps.

We walk in comfortable silence, our faces turned toward the misting sky. A rain as fine as glitter covers my face. To our left, the shops and stores are still closed for the offseason. In the distance, on our right, the convention center marquee glows blue. It’s a grand building, an architectural throwback to when Evergreen was a bustling resort town over a hundred years ago. Patinated buttresses cap redbrick columns, arched windows wink in the night sky, speckled keystones and cornices outfit the roof like icing on the edge of a birthday cake. It’s shockingly grand for a place like Evergreen and yet—it’s an extraordinarily comforting sight.

Marco’s already here, leaning against the front double doors, an Eagles hat pulled down low over his eyes, shielding him from the soft rain.

“You wore a hat,” I call out across the planks. Anxiety thrums in my ears, and I can’t think of anything to say that’s more charming or interesting.

He looks up from his phone and a smile breaks across his mouth, traveling to his eyes with the speed of a shooting star. “Hey.”

“You wore a hat,” I say again so he won’t hug me. I cannot be chest to chest with this man. Not right now. Not when he’s pressing his lips together to keep from grinning. He takes a few lazy steps toward me, hands stuffed in his pockets. His gait is languid but swift, like a baseball player’s.

“I had to. I tried to make the mullet work, but it’s beyond help.”

“You need a haircut,” I say. “That can be our date tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow, huh?” Marco smirks. He pulls a hand out of his pocket and I actually flinch, terrified he might pull the whole eyelash thing again. I’m back to my normal, Chihuahua-like self. He’s looking at me with complete amusement.

“Don’t do that with your face. We’re Sweet Novembering. We go on dates.”

“I thought we were also Groundhog Daying and every morning we’d have to have the same fifteen-minute argument before you agreed to see me,” Marco teases. We start to make our way inside, taking refuge under the convention center’s overhang.

“Don’t punish me for being amenable to your terms and conditions,” I warn him, but it’s also a reminder to myself. You will probably be punished for this.

Marco said he was a user, a vampire. But rather than simply believe him, I did my own research.

Is he a cheater? Yes. Allegedly he cheated on a longtime girlfriend named Alix Marie while filming the Dude’s Ranch season-seven holiday special, “Dude’s Ranch: A Very Hawaii Hanukkah,” on location in Maui.

Is he a gambler? Unclear, but his net worth is apparently only six million (gulp), which doesn’t make total sense when one factors in that, at their peak, each principal cast member of Dude’s Ranch was making three hundred thousand dollars per episode (scream).

Is he a drug addict, criminal, general ne’er-do-well? Insert knuckle crack here.

On March 15, 2019, Marco Felix Antoniou was arrested after arriving at LAX intoxicated, carrying enough of the good stuff to make TSA go you’re under arrest and also uhhh, you okay, buddy?

The former sitcom star and once-heartthrob was swiftly cuffed and booked—which, apparently, he took very well. The arresting officer noted that Antoniou was incredibly respectful and even autographed a coffee cup for his thirteen-year-old daughter. He promptly attended a thirty-day in-patient rehabilitation facility in Barbados, went on probation, endured a ghoulish fortnight in the meme circuit, and then mostly disappeared.

Leading up to the whole LAX thing, there were telltale signs that maybe things weren’t going particularly well for the man who played America’s favorite roguish city slicker trying to save his father’s ranch while having every teen girl in a sexual headlock. Marco was a TV actor on a lowly, cringe-worthy sitcom meant for stay-at-home moms and teenyboppers, and his character, Vinny Baldacco, was getting less and less screen time. When Marco crashed his motorcycle into a stop sign in Venice Beach and fled on foot, no one wondered what was really going on with the once-promising young actor.

I’m not some J-list celebrity apologist, but looking at his mug shot—eyes glassy, hairline drenched, lips chapped, skin sallow—I couldn’t ignore flashes of the Marco I now knew, the kind, thoughtful man with eyes like honey and dimples deep enough to swim in.

The man who had agreed to see the junior version of Mamma Mia! The man who now holds the door open for me, even though I spent an entire afternoon cyber-stalking him well beyond what could be considered ethical or necessary.

Warm light and cool air pours out from the lobby, but I’m still standing there in the chilly, wet night, staring at Marco with my hands tucked into my armpits like a moron.

Marco frowns gently. “What’s wrong? Are you mad I made a Groundhog Day joke? Is that your actual favorite movie?”

I gesture at my body. My half-zipped raincoat is so big it covers the entirety of my outfit. I look like I’m wearing a men’s rain slick, Chelsea boots, hoop earrings, and nothing else. “I wore a dress. For you. For the show. I wanted to look nice.”

“Oh.” He tilts his head to the side. “You look great. Very hip-hop. Gwen Stefani.”

“That’s a generous interpretation.” I step inside and pull the rain jacket over my head, smoothing out the ruffled chiffon fabric of my dress. When I look up, Marco’s heavy-lidded gaze is fixed on me. When our eyes connect, he snaps his gaze away.

“You’re beautiful, Nadia. Don’t worry.”

But I have been worrying—and once he calls me beautiful, I worry even more.

Marco doesn’t know it, but his level of enthusiasm as an audience member is a test. I’ve got one iguana eye on the chorus line, high-kicking to “Lay All Your Love On Me,” and the other on Marco, whose bouncing knee keeps coming dangerously close to grazing mine. If I sense anything less than sheer, unbridled joy, he’s done for. Over. Kaput.