Page 76 of 32 Days in May

“Not everything has to be complicated, Nadia. Not everything is a deep, treacherous metaphor.”

“Oh, right,” I chuckle. “Silly me.”

Thursday, May 18

Our plane lands safely in Philly and, thankfully, nothing changes between us—not yet at least. That’s what I’m afraid of the entire time we’re in the air; all I can think about is how there are these versions of myself I’ve layered on so thick, like wallpaper in an old home, that the strata of my fakeness are surely starting to show.

I told him I’m a liar. Now he knows.

I barely took my medicine in Rome. A Meloxicam here and there to keep me going, but I mostly left my organ insurance pills rotting in the bottom of my suitcase underneath a few paperbacks and my dirty clothes pile. I knew he’d never go looking in there.

It’s only a matter of time.

I’ll be just like Charlize. Marco will find me, sobbing in my apartment, close to death.

Watching Charlize, you can’t help but think: You don’t even look sick. Just get up and let yourself be loved.

Now, I say this to myself. Just let yourself be loved. You can figure it out. It’s not that complicated.

It’s not. Loving a sick person is quite simple. You just have to be selfless and extremely patient and incredibly flexible. You have to be okay with hearing no and I can’t and not today over and over, coming home to find that the once-vibrant, formerly brilliant person you thought you were dating is now green-gray and wearing the same ratty, foul pajamas you left her in hours ago. You have to know how to worry about the right things, bracing for the pain before it comes, like, What triggers her migraines? And Will she need one of my kidneys?

Marco talks about himself like he’s something difficult: a societal menace that should be covered in caution tape and framed with stop signs. But Marco’s flaws—too honest, too worried he’ll fuck up, too thoughtful, too nervous he won’t be good enough—are things I can help with. Or at least I could try.

There’s no helping me.

When we land, there’s no awkward decision-making conversation. We climb into Marco’s car and drive back to his uncle’s house, on the far side of the bay. We park in the same garage he walked me through the very first night we met and I leave my shoes at the door, no black footprints or forehead blood trailing behind me this time.

I follow him inside as he carries our bags, picking up the mail and the local papers that have accumulated on the porch. Marco’s on the phone talking to someone without any worry if I overhear. He talks about a showcase in LA and a gallery in Miami and an investor. While he orders us dinner, I water his uncle’s plants and replace the empty rolls of toilet paper.

We’ve stitched ourselves to each other. And I’m not ready to lose him yet. I’m not ready to rip myself away.

Friday, May 19

Soph: nadia youre back from la citta eterna right????

Allie: Yes babe it’s on the calendar

Soph: well sorry, I haven’t seen her yet and her cars not here

Allie: That’s because she’s in loooooooooove jail!

Soph: love jail????

Allie: Love jail! You know, the first three months of any relationship where you disappear off the face of the earth spending all your time, energy, and money on your new lover.

Soph: omg no way

Nadia: Good morning, assholes! I am absolutely not in love jail. I am at Marco’s, and I promise everything will be back to normal very soon.

Allie: You’re STILL AT HIS PLACE???

Nadia: Yeah, why? Everything ok?

Soph: hahahahahahhaahahah

Allie: Hahahahhahaha

Nadia: What?!