Page 26 of 32 Days in May

“Seven and a half miles?” Marco lets out a low whistle. “What was your split?”

“I don’t know, eight minutes?”

“Damn, you are fast.”

Heat springs up from my neckline.

“But we all need a change of pace sometimes.” Soph jumps in and saves me, a preternatural empath despite their best efforts. “Nadia makes all my chalkboard signs.”

I’m actually, fully blushing now—a good sign that the conversation needs to move on. I bury my nose in my menu and announce, “You know, Marco grew up in Evergreen.”

Allie perks up immediately. “Did you go to Malaga County? Are you in our hall of fame? Do you want to come talk to my first-period freshmen? They desperately need a mentor.”

“No, unfortunately,” Marco responds, weariness edging into his voice. “We moved to LA when I was fourteen—my mom and me?”

“Did you always want to be an actor?”

“I really wanted to play professional baseball. But I wasn’t good enough. And my mom was big into . . . ” He pauses for a moment, carefully selecting his next word. “Hollywood. It worked out.”

Sensing we may have accidentally wandered into unpleasant territory, the table falls quiet as we turn our attention back to our menus. Soph and Allie slip into their own private world, giggling and arguing under their breath, so I lean close to Marco and say, “You’re going to order the meatloaf, aren’t you?”

“Well,” he whispers back, nudging the corner of his menu into mine. “It comes with green beans and mashed potatoes. Not a bad deal.”

“It’s almost ten p.m.”

He snaps his menu shut. “I love a digestive challenge. What about you?”

“I don’t know . . .” I chew at my bottom lip. I don’t have much of an appetite these days. “Maybe I’ll just have a coffee.”

“C’mon,” he says gently. “You have to eat. Let’s split the meatloaf.”

“Mmm. Pure romance.”

“You seem like you have a hard time committing,” he ribs me.

“Oh?” I arch a brow at him. “So, you’ll just help me out, then?”

“Mmm-hmm.” He nods. “I’m a nice guy, aren’t I?”

“According to who?”

We place our orders and receive only a moderate amount of horror when Marco tells the waitress, “One meatloaf, two straws.”

Our food arrives and everyone falls quiet, until Allie has half a milkshake in her.

“So, you’re just back for thirty days, huh?” she barbs, Midwesternly.

Marco quirks a brow at this. The specificity, the intent of the comment, it’s not lost on him—or me. I try to kick Allie under the table, but instead Soph lets out a little yelp and my ears turn pink.

He nods, pushing a spoonful of mashed potatoes toward my half of the oblong, trough-sized dinner plate. “More or less, yeah. I’m looking after my uncle’s place while he’s in Greece, but I’m back and forth to New York every few days, working on some big projects. Just living in the moment.”

I make a conscious effort not to roll my eyes.

“And your mom?”

“Allie,” I hiss.

“It’s okay.” Marco laughs. “She’s in Florida now. Retired.”