Page 27 of 32 Days in May

“Is your dad still in Evergreen?”

This question hits my stomach like lead. Dad territory can be risky.

“Uh, kinda.” Marco directs this comment toward his meatloaf, which he saws into sixteenths. “He’s a real character, but I think old age has slowed him down. He called me from Montreal last month.”

Sometimes I want to punt the woman into the sun. She has this naivete about how complicated and painful simple things like family can be. It’s obvious, painfully so, that talking about his parents is making Marco itch. I almost want to reach under the booth and take his hand in mine, give him a squeeze. A little hand Morse code: sorry-she-sucks.

Instead, I reach over to take another forkful of buttered green beans from our shared plate. “Dinner food was a good call,” I say. “Hey, why don’t we ever sell any vegetables to the diner?”

Soph furrows their brow at their apple pie. “I don’t think we could keep up with demand. They probably move the same volume of potatoes in one day that we sell in a month.”

“No way,” Allie says. “Even in the offseason?”

Soph nods emphatically. “The people of New Jersey love potatoes. Think about how many french fries a diner serves in a day.”

Marco’s gaze floats to mine, and a soft smile plays at the corners of his mouth.

After settling the check, we all wander out onto the desolate boardwalk, where an icy breeze is coming in off the ocean. If no one else was here, I’d take off my shoes and walk out onto the cold, wet sand. Get close enough to the tide to feel the freezing water whispering against my feet and walk all the way back to the bottom of the island, back home. We only have a few more weeks of cold nights before the season really starts to change, and I want to soak in every moment.

Soph wraps their arm around Allie’s shoulders and they meander away, heads close together, cheek to firecracker-red cheek. I know that, theoretically, they get plenty of time alone together, but I can’t help feeling bad for how much I’ve made myself a part of their life. I hang back, pulling my jacket tighter around me as I face the ocean, cold air stinging my eyes.

Before I can decide how I feel about it, Marco strides into my periphery, setting his elbows down onto the railing that separates us from a substantial fall down onto the sand.

“I think I’m gonna head out,” he says softly. “But I’ll see you tomorrow, right?”

I rake my teeth over my bottom lip. Yes, tomorrow. And the day after. And the day after that.

“Sure.” I nod, letting my eyes meet his. “Thanks for coming tonight.”

“Of course. Thank you for having me.” Marco lingers, shoulders hunched against the wind. His lips open then close, until finally he says, “Let me give you a ride home.” His eyes are so dark, I can almost see the shimmer of my earrings in their reflection.

“You’re not sick of me?”

“Not at all.”

I drop my eyes, smiling softly. “I’m sorry about Allie. I wanna blame it on all the homeschooling, but—”

“I’m a big boy, Nadia,” Marco says, quiet laughter shaking his shoulders. “I can handle a few questions about my family. No feelings hurt, I promise.”

“Good.” A breath of relaxation falls from my lips. “I’d love a ride home.” I tilt my head toward Soph and Allie, locked together in a kiss one streetlight over, their bodies having dissolved into a single shadow. “I think the lovebirds are busy.”

Marco drives me home, carbs and chilly weather lulling us both into an easy, contented silence. We keep our eyes trained on the wide, empty streets of downtown Evergreen, even though the air in the car feels choked and charged with the giddy energy of what next? We’d see each other tomorrow, of course. And then the day after. And the day after that one, and so on and so on. After months of continuously feeling nothing, on a good day, I now couldn’t stop wondering: What would this month bring? Would it always be like this—soft and easy? Would it hurt when we said goodbye?

When he pulls up to my parents’ house, we say good night and he assures me he’ll call. All of this makes my head spin, but I somehow find myself saying okay, see ya.

After brushing my teeth and taking my meds, I settle between my clean, cold sheets, a ball of unspent energy and fiery nerves.

“Fucking Marco,” I say out loud, to my ceiling.

You wish, I think immediately.

I toss and turn, making a good, solid effort to fall asleep. But my mind won’t still, I just know it won’t, until I do it.

With a groan, I roll toward my phone and poke the screen to life. Twice in one day? In a matter of days, this man’s turned me into a pervert of the highest order—a fan.

Nevertheless, I tap open Google and my fingers find the letters of his name. I’d told myself I’d never do this again. And somehow that makes it feel all the more delicious. I can’t believe I’m doing—

A new article. There it is, at the top of the list, a blue link unsullied by my feverish clicking.