Page 47 of 32 Days in May

“We haven’t lived together in a decade.”

She gives my arm a squeeze. “We can change that.” I’m not sure if I should roll my eyes or cry.

Her car’s packed and ready to go. There’s nothing left for her to do but leave. We dust the sand from our feet and she puts on her shoes.

We hug one last time, and when I let her go, pushing her toward her car, I yell after her, “Go on. Get out of here. Go home to your loving fiancé, the poor sucker.”

Liv smiles at that, rolling down her window and shouting back at me, “Luckiest man on Earth!” while she drives away.

I don’t have too much time to pine after my sister. I have bigger, bolder matters on my mind, such as: What does a person even wear on a date to eat sushi with their K-list celebrity fake boyfriend? If I knew, I probably wouldn’t be standing in front of my closet, completely naked, heart racing, thirty-five minutes before I have to be at the bus station. All I know is that I definitely cannot wear my bucket hat, lest he begin to think that I’ve had it surgically attached to my head.

I grab a slinky black dress and some gold jewelry, which I carefully pack into a bag alongside an unnecessarily cute pajama set, skin-care necessities, my medicine, a toothbrush, and a paperback historical romance titled Her First Duking. Because if I’m not having sex, someone should be.

Just to be safe, I booked myself a last-minute hotel room. And also, to be safe, I’ve shaved my entire body.

I’m still unsure of how deep the waters of our relationship cosplay are. How much Marco has decided to go method with his role. Is he actually excited to see me? Has he missed me over the last couple of days? Or does this fantasy only work if he plays out every part of it—romance included? Because if Marco just wanted to have sex with a woman for thirty days and then fuck off out of her life forever, he could have easily done that—with a more easy-going accomplice, might I add.

He’d said it himself: I’m stand-offish. And when I want to be, I can be as frigid and inhospitable as the arctic. Maybe that was part of the appeal—my appeal—to him. Traversing a hostile environment, struggling to reach the summit, and then, ultimately—uh—planting his flag in frozen earth. Of course that would appeal to a certain thrill-seeking type, wouldn’t it?

With five minutes to spare, I pull into the Atlantic City bus station and book it to my terminal, where an ungodly long line has formed. Perfect, I’ll be seated somewhere close to the toilets in the back, sandwiched between a teenage runaway and a man in khakis with pamphlets. Despite the temperate, sunny weather, I’m a sweaty, sticky mess.

Finally, I settle into a seat—not as close to the toilets as I thought I’d be—and attempt to stuff my overnight bag down between my legs. A young woman slides into the seat next to me and immediately pops in her AirPods. Thank God. It’s one thing to be a chatty passenger on a cushy Amtrak ride, but on a charter bus? There simply is not enough oxygen for that type of behavior.

As the bus lurches out of the parking lot, I open my conversation with Marco and shoot him a text: Made it onto the bus with 37 seconds to spare. If you wanted to ghost me, you’re too late.

Marco: Just got out of my last meeting of the day, thank fucking God.

Nadia: Do I get to hear about this top-secret job that’s kept you so busy?

Marco: Maybe. Do I get to hear about your week?

Nadia: I’ve got two hours and a king-size Snickers bar. AMA.

Then, suddenly, my phone’s buzzing in my hand.

His name appears on my screen: Marco Antoniou. What kind of person has the confidence to cold-call people multiple times? Sociopath.

Stunned, I pick up. “Hello?”

“Why are you eating a king-size Snickers bar when you’re two and a half hours away from the best meal of your life?” His voice is light and airy, like a perfectly whipped Italian meringue, a stark contrast to the immediate punch of city noise it’s set against. It sounds like somewhere very close to Marco, someone has fallen asleep with their forehead against their car horn.

“Don’t you snack-shame me. That’s twice in twenty-four hours.”

“Someone has to,” he says. “If you leave me hanging tonight because you ate too much caramel and peanut—”

“It was a joke, I swear. The only thing I’ve had today is a thimble of water and a single arugula leaf.”

“Man,” he laughs, “I wonder what it would be like to know one, actual thing about you.”

The ribbing about me being a dark horse is nearing dangerous frequency. Is it that obvious I’m holding something back? We’ve agreed to spend a month together, approximately one-third the lifespan of your average American egg. What do I really owe the guy? But I can offer one, small truth. I gnaw at my lip. “I’m wearing the cardigan you gave me. There ya go.”

“Yeah, right. You’re probably wearing a T-shirt that says I hate Marco Antoniou.”

“I swear! I’m wearing your cardigan, jean shorts, and no bucket hat.”

“Damn, baby,” he jokes, but I still feel a twinge deep in my stomach. “What else you have on?”

“Chaps, lasso, big red honky nose.”