Page 38 of 32 Days in May

Marco drops down next me, so close I can feel the warmth of his chest, the flapping fabric of his T-shirt. His arm slips around me.

“Why whales?” he asks.

“I don’t know. I’ve just always felt connected to them. They’re beautiful and powerful, but hunted—constantly in danger. You know how sometimes kids think all dogs are boys and all cats are girls? I think I’ve always felt like all whales are women.”

“All whales are women,” Marco repeats with a nod, pushing out his bottom lip, satisfied.

“Yeah,” I say, my voice soft. Knowing he’s there, I let my eyes fall shut, let myself sink deep into the moment. “All whales are women. Boats are also women. Stingrays are men.”

He lets out a soft laugh. Memories from today flicker through my mind. Marco lifting Emmett to see the ocean, Marco managing and handling Jen over the phone, keeping her calm. Marco popping the tab on my soda. It’s all too much to resist, isn’t it? And it’s nice to know sometimes you aren’t facing a crisis alone. That if you’re tired, you can lean on someone.

So, I lean back into his chest. Immediately, I feel Marco shift to welcome me, the rise and fall of his chest against my back. He doesn’t touch me; he lets me fall into him.

“Tired?” His voice is warm, gentle against my ear.

I nod, only a sliver of the ocean visible now through my closing eyes.

As I lie perfectly still, I feel his arms snake around me. I’ll let myself pretend, I think. Just for now. Just until we reach the shore.

Monday, May 8

On Mondays, Soph and I deliver produce to a few restaurants around the island. Our day starts at the ass crack of dawn with an hour drive inland to Soph’s farm. There, we load the flatbed of their truck with hand-packed crates filled with lettuce, broccoli, peppers, potatoes, and lots of herbs. We work in silence, only pausing to take steaming-hot sips of coffee from our thermoses. When Soph agreed to let me work with them, we’d talked at length about my energy levels—how much physical labor could I handle and how frequently. I promised them over and over that I could do this, I could handle it. I wanted to be able to handle it.

I’d been a biker and a runner for years. I’d always dreamed of a more physical job, one where I got to use more than my brain and my wrists. The months I’d spent languishing in bed, doing nothing but staring longingly at the ledge off my fifteenth-floor apartment window, had ruined me almost as badly as the months leading up to getting fired.

I needed to move. I needed to feel useful.

As I’m rearranging the back of the truck, I can feel Soph watching me from underneath their furrowed sandy-brown brows. The sun has barely broken above the horizon. We’ve been moving through the inky, indigo dawn in almost complete silence, as we usually do on these Monday-morning shifts.

I pull off my gloves and turn toward them with my hands on my hips. “You’re staring at me, babe.”

They push up their glasses with the back of a ruddy hand. “Nuh-uh.”

“Yuh-huh.”

They shrug, averting their guilty, anxious gaze. “You look a little tired.”

“It’s five-fifty in the morning, Soph. You look a little tired, too.”

“I don’t want you to get hurt o-or, you know—”

“Sick?” I joke, but Soph doesn’t laugh. They’re very serious. A Capricorn. “Look.” I hold up my hands and flex my fingers. “Dexterous.”

“If you felt like shit, you wouldn’t even say anything,” they accuse before taking the world’s fastest sip of coffee from their thermos. “You’d just let yourself get hurt.”

I press my lips together. Soph is right; I can’t even pretend to be offended. “Exactly, so why worry? No matter what, I’m going to just power through.” I turn back toward the last stack of crates we need to load up before heading back to town.

“Because you were out late last night.”

“I got home at nine-thirty.”

“If you need to take a break, it’s okay. Just let me know.”

I stuff back a groan. They’re just looking out for you, I tell myself. Accept their kindness. I take a moment to collect myself then nod. “Thanks. There’s two more cases of chamomile in the greenhouse that I couldn’t carry. Too heavy for me. Can you grab them?”

Soph looks satisfied with that. “Sure. Of course.”

“Do you miss being a writer?” Soph asks.