Page 70 of 32 Days in May

“I . . . I love it, Marco,” I manage. “I can’t believe that . . . that’s me. I look so peaceful.”

His mouth tugs to the side. “That’s definitely you.” He lifts his chin toward the sunset. “You and your whale. Two beautiful women.”

The walls of the exhibit are filled with photos of people from Marco’s life—his mother and his aunts sunbathing all in a row like roasting ducks; his little brother face down on a tattoo bed, vibrating needle pressed into his spine; a man with pierced ears and a face etched with heavy lines appears over and over, and it dawns on me that Marco definitely has a best friend—other than me, of course. There are other women on display. I don’t know who they are—how long they were in Marco’s life and how deeply he felt for them. There’s the woman who dances, her hair fanning around her in a sunbeam of joy. There’s another woman asleep in an armchair, a book draped over her thigh and a dog at her feet.

It’s a patchwork quilt of small moments, a story of how easy it is for Marco to slip into people’s lives and warm them. On the other end of his lens, we all look at peace.

Am I special to Marco? I don’t know anymore. I don’t know how I fit into the landscape of his life—am I as big to him as I am in this gallery? The thought hounds me as I move from photo to photo, turning over each piece of his work like ancient artifacts. I hunt for meaning, for clues. Has he done this before—tricked a regular woman with a silly, little life into falling head over heels into his world?

I don’t mean to, but I drink my whole glass of prosecco.

Eventually there’s a dimming of lights and lots of shushing and a thin woman with a loose, low bun steps into the center of the room with a microphone.

I don’t really understand Italian, but I gather that she’s introducing Marco, whom she gestures at continuously. He ducks his head as all the eyes in the room turn to him, and suddenly I am extremely grateful for my glass of prosecco. I’ve been to enough weddings to know what’s coming—one of us is going to have to make a speech. And like hell will it be me.

For the first time all night, Marco leaves my side and the crowd erupts into boisterous applause that ricochets off the walls and comes back twice as cacophonous.

“Good evening, everyone. Buona sera a tutti.” I find myself thinking, When did Marco learn Italian? But it’s a dumb thought because Marco could have known Italian his whole life. I’ve only known him for less than two weeks. What else don’t I know? So much. A pang of anxiety strikes me in the back of my throat and travels down to my stomach. I’m on the edge of a spiral when he clears his throat and begins:

“Thank you all so much being here. I’ve dreamed of tonight for many months—ironically, I’ve lost countless nights of sleep, terrified and exhilarated at the idea of finally sharing all these images in one place as ‘Rest.’” He pauses politely, pulling a tan hand down over the angle of his chin, while laughter ripples through the crowd. When he looks up again, there’s a new emotion in his eyes. “All the photos on display tonight are candids, moments I was lucky enough to actually witness. When I was deep in my battle with addiction, I never slept. Sleep terrified me. Sleep was, in my mind, a tiny stream with many precarious mouths that all opened up to a violent river that could sweep me away. I thought about death constantly. I thought about my value, my legacy—who would remember me, why would they remember me? I couldn’t sleep because if I did die, I would die a loser. A failure. That shame controlled my life.” Marco’s gaze is pure fire, yet perfectly still. No fear, no nervous energy. I know that gaze. I’d seen it in myself, weeks ago, when I’d lifted the shears and held them to my hair and made the first cut. Pure purpose.

“When I found sobriety, I finally found the beauty in rest. In closing my eyes and handing a part of myself over. Once I found that beauty, once I recognized it, I saw it everywhere. All the small moments we hand ourselves over—the quiet moments when we let ourselves become vulnerable. I recently had a small setback, and all I could think about was how I never want to live in a world where I can’t see that beauty. That was scarier to me than death. Bigger to me than shame. The people in these photos changed my life. They taught me this lesson. So, please—” Marco pantomimed lifting a glass. “Join me in thanking them.”

I’m introduced to dozens of people and each time Marco tells me one thing about them he appreciates.

“This is Paola, she’s a genius winemaker—she’s always giving me great ideas.

“This is Pierdavide. He runs a small press, I owe so much to him.

“This is Tia—the best curator in the world.

And then, he introduces me in Italian. This is Nadia, from the photo.

It hurts how badly I want to be more.

I slip out of bed, the cold terrazzo stinging the bottoms of my feet as I creep into the bathroom. Just the sound of my thighs brushing together and toes cracking. I shut the door behind me and start the bath, water bubbling and tumbling noisily with no respect for the sanctity of night. My head is pounding from what feels like a toxic mixture of prosecco, medicine on an empty stomach, and Marco’s speech.

When the deep, white basin is full I slip into the water, barely suppressing a moan of relief as the water melts me inch by inch.

Months ago, this sort of midnight madness took everything out of me. I was still learning the rhythms of a sick body—how I could physically be so exhausted while my mind was so awake from the pain. It was tedious and boring, especially when it already felt like life was being wasted on me. What about all those fathers taken from sons too soon? All the mothers who went out for groceries and never came back?

Now I understand the pain, anticipate it, even wait for it. These moments are deeply lucid, and I feel incredibly awake.

I sink down deep into the bath until my hair is wet, warmth seeping into me through the back of my skull. Then, I wet a washcloth and place it over my eyes, throbbing in their sockets with every jolt of blood routed through my veins. Sickness has a way of making you aware of every dimension of yourself; I swear I can feel the difference between tissue and bone. I’ve never felt more 3D than when I hurt.

Fragments of the night move through my mind intermixed with sunbursts of color, a private little light show from my brain. Marco’s eyes on me. Marco talking about shame, shame controlling his life.

Me too.

Shame has an iron grip on me. There are many reasons why I can’t tell Marco about my life, but none of them as compelling as the shame I feel. Maybe I’m not afraid to fall asleep, but—worse yet—for all those months, I’d been afraid of being awake.

And even still, I thought we could find a way to make this work. Without any form of confrontation with my reality. How idiotic.

Now, I see exactly how far away Marco is from me, how finite our time together is, how easy intimacy is to cultivate when you’re beautiful and charming and find someone as starved as I am for something I’ll probably never really have.

Liv was right. She’s always right.

“You okay?” a hoarse, sleepy voice says from the doorway. Moonlight slips over his broad shoulders. I make out the soft swish of skin as he crosses his arms.