Page 62 of 32 Days in May

“You’d die to have a guy like Mike, you cantankerous old cun—”

No. We cannot cross the cunt Rubicon.

“Olivia,” I shout into the phone. Loud enough to get her to shut up and loud enough to turn a few heads from the stands around me. I turn away from the growing crowd of post-brunch retirees and grit my teeth. “I cannot do this right now. This conversation is over. I am at work, at my job. I cannot take extended breaks in order to scream at you. So, please, shut the fuck up.”

“Work.” She huffs. “You’re playing farmer with your friends. Great use of that college degree.”

It takes everything in me to not bash my head against the stone side of the church. “Look, I’m sorry it is so personally offensive to you that I don’t want to go from being an art director at one of the most well-respected ad agencies on the East Coast to making memes for some fucking pill mill.”

“There it is. The truth comes out. You think this is below you.”

“It’s not below me! It’s just—look, it’s not what I want right now, okay? God. I’m sorry if that hurts your feelings.”

“What do you want, then?” she demands. “If you don’t want to come back to Philly, then what do you want?”

“I have no fucking idea, Olivia! But you know what’s not going to help me figure it out? You calling me in the middle of the day to berate me.”

“I’m not calling you to berate you. I was calling to do you a huge favor.”

“I don’t need favors! I’m fine!”

“Fine!” she shouts back. “Be an asshole! Goodbye!”

My whole body shakes with rage. My entire skull aches from how hard I’ve been clenching my teeth together. I look down at my phone, trembling in my hand. My fingertips are pink from how hard I’m gripping the device while my heart hammers against my rib cage. I still have more fight in me. Why? I want to text her. Why are you acting like this?

But I don’t. Instead, without a third of another thought, I’m calling Marco.

He answers on the first ring. “Nadia?”

“Hey,” I say, but I have to clear my throat to hide the way it cracks, still raw with emotion. “I’m in for tomorrow. You can buy me a plane ticket.”

“Really?” He’s ecstatic, the thrum of his voice matching the city noise around him. He’s a shooting star of energy, a punch of alkyl nitrites right up the nose. For the first time in my life, I have someone to call when everything is going wrong. Someone who can immediately and totally make my pain go away.

“Fuck yeah,” I exhale, slumping back against the church.

“Fuck yeah,” he repeats. “You’ll be ready to fly out tomorrow night?”

“One thousand percent.”

Saturday, May 13

Marco lands in Rome at 3 a.m. Evergreen time, and I wake up to fifteen texts about our hotel room, including a video of Marco struggling then succeeding to set his phone up while he posed with an espresso cup, completely nude save for one of those souvenir aprons with David’s stone torso and tiny, flaccid penis. Marco looked very satisfied with himself. Just when I thought it couldn’t get any better, he turned around—all firm ass and defined back muscles. For the first time ever, I notice a little tattoo above his right knee and another on the inside of his left arm. I must have missed them, the last time I saw him naked. We’d been very preoccupied.

Disgusting, I reply, sinking my teeth into my bottom lip, nervous jitters keeping me on the verge of a very-out-of-character giggle. Blocked and reported.

But then I keep replying to every picture.

Holy shit.

Holy shit.

Omg.

Omg.

Marco takes a little while to reply, but when he does, it’s all heart emojis and the Italian flag.

Bring at least two fancy outfits, he tells me.