Page 4 of 32 Days in May

I scoff to keep from blushing. Sebastian is handsome and Greek, both visually and emotionally. He loves his family. There are photos of his beautiful Mediterranean wife plastered all over the place. She has long, artisanal hair extensions and the most luminous fake tan. Together, they’re bronzed and perfect. I imagine their chiseled, strong bodies clanging together while they fuck. Nothing but their hitched breath and the knocking of marble against marble.

“Can you imagine if I took some time to do anything? Four weeks to kick in at my job? Six months to kick in and pay my phone bill?” I swing my freezing feet back and forth from where I’m pouting on the table, the world’s most enormous baby.

“That’s a very funny observation.”

Thanks, I’m a writer.

I want to say it so badly. But I’ve actually forsaken that title. Have I written anything of note in the last week? The last month?

Okay, wait. On Sunday I texted stay clam to Soph instead of stay calm and we laughed and laughed, for at least three minutes.

I used to write everyone’s favorite commercials. It was a bit formulaic but what isn’t? It went something like: peculiar animal with funny name + oblivious white guy. I used to write things like Int. Day. Beach Bungalow. WIFE walks in on NAKED HUSBAND and get the types of laughs Joan Rivers could only dream of.

Am I looking better? He can’t just say that, can he? God, I want to feel better. Yesterday, I managed to bike three blocks (one and a half in each direction) to pick up sushi for dinner. Afterward, I had an epic energy crash. Today, I woke up feeling like I’d gone a few rounds through one of those old-school washing machines. Ridden hard, put away wet.

I squeeze my eyes shut. “Let’s just do it. Let’s increase my dose. What’s the worst that can happen?”

“I’m sorry. I know you hate being on so many medications.” He flashes me a mournful, sweet smile. Dr. Sebastian Antoniou puts the bed in bedside manner.

“How’s your urine?” he asks with a gentle sincerity I find simultaneously arousing and degrading.

“Normal,” I say, defensive. Then I shrug. “Sort of a . . . mustard yellow?”

“Any foam or froth?”

What am I, a cappuccino machine? “Everything’s better. I told you,” I lie. I love to lie. It’s the only rush I get these days. “I think it—the, uh, foam and you know . . . blood . . . was just a onetime thing.”

Dr. Antoniou works a hand over his chin. “I know that’s what you want. And I know your situation is a rough one. Your dad and I”—I always forget that my father and Dr. Antoniou both frequent the same country club, where Sebastian, no doubt, enjoys the tennis court and pool while my father stuffs as much of the free breakfast buffet into the pockets of his supermarket jeans as possible, then drains the bunghole of cucumber water at record-breaking speed—“have discussed your work ethic. Your passion. He calls you his bull.” Dr. Antoniou clenches one of his enormous hands in a fist and holds it up between our faces.

“Jeez. Dramatic.”

Doc laughs and nods. “Given your symptoms and that your urinary protein levels were elevated, we’ll need to seriously monitor your kidneys for the next six months. Lupus nephritis is a frequent progression of systemic lupus erythematosus, and we do not want that for you, okay? We need to protect your internal organs as much as we can. If we don’t keep this disease under our thumb, you’re going to start to feel it”—Sebastian raises an inky brow at me—“more than you already do.” He taps an uncapped pen against his clipboard, waiting for me to say something.

I don’t. What’s there to say?

“I’ll order another round of labs for you.” Scribble, scribble. “By the way, my cousin’s coming into town for a month.”

“From Eretria?” I’m desperate for a topic change. Enough of the piss talk. Enough of the organ talk. Ask me about the goddamn weather for once, won’t you?

Dr. Antoniou’s face lights up. He loves that I’ve remembered Greece, something Americans so often forget to do. “No. He lives in New York. Is it okay if I give him your number? Talia and I are headed out of town for a little while, and you know all the cool, hip spots in Evergreen.”

“It’s like, five streets and a boardwalk.”

Dr. Antoniou crosses the room and places a heavy hand on my shoulder. Only for a moment before pulling away. “You really need to make an effort to get out more.”

There it is.

Out. Everyone’s obsessed with out.

“Or what? I’ll get sick?”

“Nadia.” He says my name so sweetly I almost fall in love. “Self-care is healthcare.” Jesus. I grimace. Never mind. “Lupus is not a death sentence. As long as you wear a hat and your SPF—don’t roll your eyes at me. You Italians think you’re invincible!” Classic Southern European diaspora banter. I laugh to show I’m good-natured, but instead I show that it is possible to sound humorless and vacant, even while your mouth is producing a ha ha ha sound.

“Fine.” I hop down off the table, angling to make a quick exit through the door Antoniou has propped open with a long, leather-clad foot. “I’d be happy to. Just don’t tell him about . . .” I gesture vaguely at my body.

Sebastian laughs, the hardest he has yet. “That would be a HIPAA violation. As far as he’ll know, you are one hundred percent healthy. Oh, and . . .” He waves a hand around his head. “Love the haircut.”

A nurse leads me to another room, where he takes an ungodly amount of blood from my left arm. I make a joke about him being an extremely hungry vampire.