Page 58 of 32 Days in May

“Nice.” I laugh. “Doesn’t sound like you.”

Marco shrugs, threading an arm around my shoulder and redirecting me toward the exit. “I’m an introverted extrovert. I like doing things on my own terms.”

“Wait.” I dig my heels in, craning to get one last look at the woman. Is she singing? Is she yelling? Five more minutes and I think I could figure it out. “I wanna buy a print.”

Marco hesitates before trailing a hand down my arm. “How about I give you one of mine? We gotta have our picnic before the sun sets.”

We spend half an hour running around the Whole Foods in Dumbo, filling a basket with an array of cheeses, crackers, and olives. Turns out Marco is very particular about his snack foods, with an undeniable allegiance to his heritage. Our relationship almost implodes over a very heated asiago versus feta decision.

We won’t make it to Central Park before the sun sets, so Marco picks a grassy knoll in Brooklyn Bridge Park and we spread out with our spoils. It’s even more magical than Central Park, honestly. Better than any picnic I’d imagined for myself. Marco takes over snack arrangement, leaving me to sip my sparkling kombucha and watch the sun halfway behind the Brooklyn Bridge. My contribution is yelling out fake names for all the dogs that go trotting by on the path below.

I pull the cardigan Marco gave me out from my bag and slip it on while he prepares us a makeshift charcuterie on the paper plates we splurged on. When he catches me wrapping myself in the material, his eyes flash with a smile.

Suddenly, my phone pings. I tap the screen to life and find two notifications that nearly send me into cardiac arrest: 1) a calendar alert that my bus home leaves in twenty minutes and 2) a text from Soph asking if I’ll be home in time for my shift tomorrow. A jarring reminder of my reality; that this is not my reality.

“Ah, shit,” I mutter, stumbling to my feet. “Shit, shit, shit.”

“You okay?”

“No, I’m a total idiot.” I dust my hands off on my thighs and begin throwing together a message to Soph. It’s 50 percent apology, 50 percent incoherent ramble. My hands are shaking and I can’t stop misspelling words. “My bus leaves in twenty minutes and I’m supposed to work tomorrow morning.” I stare back longingly at the garlic-stuffed olives Marco has arranged lovingly on my plate. “Shit.”

“At the farmers market?”

I nod. “Yeah. Soph’s gonna kill me. I’m already the world’s most lackluster fruit vendor.”

“Hey, no sweat.” Marco lifts his chin toward the plate he’s put together, now balancing on the palm of his hand. “I’ll make sure you get home in time.”

I frown at him. “What?”

“Stay the night with me and I’ll make sure you’re home in time. We’ll leave tomorrow morning. Bright and early. Four a.m. No way you’ll be late.”

I return to my spot next to him, taking the plate off his hand. “You’re okay with that?”

Marco leans back against the hill, popping an olive into his mouth. “I was never going to let you take the bus home.”

“Oh.” I fiddle with my phone, then revise my text to Soph to a way simpler yes boss! With the saluting emoji. “Thanks.”

He shrugs a shoulder, lifting the bill of his hat to run his fingers through his hair. “Just what a good boyfriend does.”

“I guess it is.” An evening breeze ruffles the trees above our heads and I bring my knees closer to my chest. “I wouldn’t really know.”

Marco watches me for a moment, nervousness pulling at his mouth. “You’ve never dated anyone before?”

I point a finger gun at him. “You said good boyfriend.”

He makes a noise in his throat I can’t decipher then falls completely quiet, which, I’m starting to pick up, is pretty rare for Marco. He’s always making some kind of noise—talking, laughing, humming. I’ve realized in just one day that this nonchalance doesn’t really sit in his face. If anything, his features are worn and wise, in direct contrast to his bouncing walk and quick, dangerous smile. Now, Marco lies on his side, head propped up on his hand, pulling at strands of grass, his food untouched.

“Hey.” I toss a kalamata olive at his head, purposefully aiming over his shoulder. “Did I say something wrong?”

“Not at all.” He reaches for my ankle, giving me a quick squeeze. His fingers linger. “I’m thinking about how nice this is.”

It is so nice. Pure decadence, and I don’t want to stay to watch it spoil. I nod in the direction of Manhattan. “Let’s go home.”

“Home?” He smirks, pushing himself back up to sit. “Do I need to clear a drawer for you?”

I roll my eyes. “You know what I mean, nerd.”

We clean up and leave the grassy knoll in pristine condition. There’s not even an ass print left in the soft ground. It’s like Marco and I were never even there, and with a last look back at the spot where we were lying, it dawns on me that this is what my life will be like, too.