Page 80 of 32 Days in May

“Thank you.” He presses his lips into the crown of my head, pulsing his hands around me. “I needed to hear that.”

Allie answers the door so quickly, I have no choice but to believe she’d been standing there with her ear pressed against the oiled oak, listening to our entire conversation.

“Soph made Cornish hens!” she announces, flinging a long, lissome arm into the air, nearly launching her empty wineglass into the ceiling.

“Oh, wow.” I raise my brows. “And you?”

She waves us into the apartment, giving me a devilish look before holding an empty glass up to one of her icy-blue eyes. “I taste-tested all the wines.”

We shed our jackets before following close behind. I’m reminded why I’ve always preferred to spend time here rather than upstairs; Allie and Soph’s apartment is identical to my family’s unit, except it’s extremely well-decorated and contains exactly zero humiliating photos of me. An eclectic mix of relics from Soph and Allie’s separate and shared lives covers the walls, bringing the small, beige space to life. Art from Allie’s days traveling across South America; pennant flags from Soph’s time on the Jersey City intramural rugby team; an overstuffed couch and a long, wooden table covered in candle wax and water rings. Soph’s behind the island in the kitchen area, basting their hens while bossa nova drifts on the fragrant air.

“Yo, yo,” they call out to us. Marco and Soph shake hands, exchanging strong and dignified looks of approval, and suddenly it really does feel like Marco’s meeting my parents. I blush and twirl my hair while they appraise each other.

“Your home is beautiful,” Marco says, handing over the bottle of Sicilian Merlot we chose entirely based on the design merits of the label. “Thank you so much for having us.”

“Great choice.” Soph palms the bottle. “This will go perfectly with the squash blossom risotto.”

“Oh my God, yum.” Allie sneaks up behind Soph and snags the bottle from their hands. Little wine thief. “It took us way too long to do this. It’s so nice to have another couple to hang out with.”

“Uh, ouch, hello. I’m the not-couple you’re usually hanging out with.” I grab a grape off the expansive charcuterie board laid out on the island and pop it into my mouth. “And you’re serving produce we didn’t even grow. So much betrayal.”

“You should feel honored I hand-selected fruit all the way from Chile, just for you,” Soph teases, heading back to their workstation. Marco follows behind, doing the man thing where he needs to feel useful. If Soph doesn’t give him a potato to peel, he’s going to start jimmying loose handles and analyzing all the caulking.

After Allie has another glass and a half of wine, we move to the table and dig in to a meal so well prepared, Marco is stunned into an awe-filled silence. Every few bites of risotto, he looks at Soph like he wants to kiss them directly on the mouth.

“I’m sure you’ve heard all about Nadia’s illustrious career in Super Bowl–commercial writing,” Allie says, tossing a wink at me between the stemware and taper candles.

“Her specialty,” Soph adds dryly.

“Alright, you two. Don’t make me separate you.” Thank God the lights are dimmed, because there’s a swatch of pink growing up from the neckline of my shirt.

“No, actually.” Marco eyes me from across the table, the corner of his mouth twitching. Since we’ve gotten home from Rome, he hasn’t shaved his face bare and there’s a dark shadow over his cheeks and jaw that makes my stomach clench pleasantly. “I haven’t.”

“I wrote like, five spots. Only two of them went. It’s not a big deal.”

“That’s two more than most people! My favorite was the one for the laundry detergent brand. I sobbed.”

“And there was the one about travel, right?” Soph says, then catches themselves, immediately turning as red as the capicola drying on the charcuterie board between us.

“That one doesn’t count,” I quip, trying to sound casual. As long as Marco doesn’t notice the way the air has changed around us, I tell myself. That’s all that matters.

“What else should I know about Nadia?” Marco directs this question at Allie, the weaker of the two.

“Careful, now,” I warn Allie and Soph. “Remember, we share plumbing. I can make your life really miserable.”

“I don’t know. What’s there to know?” Allie is looking at me with drunken, glassy-eyed wonder. “She looks like a sexy mermaid and Shakira had a baby. She’s funny and thoughtful and snores. Her favorite color is pink.”

“Favorite cake is carrot,” Soph chimes in. “Or anything with cream cheese frosting.”

I feel Marco’s legs shift closer to mine under the table. He bumps his knee against mine, but I can’t look up from my plate. I’m absolutely burning up with the humiliation that usually accompanies genuine praise. “Marco knows plenty now. Thank you all so much.”

“What about you?” Allie demands, wagging a fork heavy with salad at Marco. Tiny little droplets of oil fling toward his white T-shirt. “Now it’s your turn to talk.”

We finish out the meal talking about our favorite viral videos and swapping stories about where we were on 9/11. There’s never a moment of silence, and as we clear the table—Marco pulling on a pair of yellow gloves and filling the sink with sudsy, hot water—I’m struck down to my core with how much fun I’m having. It’s a warm, safe fun that nestles into my chest like nostalgia. I already miss this moment—Marco laughing while Allie throws herself around, telling a story about one of her students, Soph looking on and chuckling in their nervous way. As it happens, I feel myself pulling away, unable to silence the voice in my head that whispers that soon this will all be gone.

Marco’s phone rings and he excuses himself, and I take over at the sink, pulling on the rubber gloves and submerging my arms into the water.

“God, how cute is he? And he’s obsessed with you. You two are practically married,” Allie swoons, pressing a hand to her heart. “It’s fucking adorable.”