Page 9 of 32 Days in May

He tilts his head and smiles, golden sun winking in his chocolate-brown eyes. “Whoa, never mind. Definitely not jealous.”

Does he see it—the dark storm cloud hanging over my head? Surely he can smell the last dredges of depression on me. Why else would a single woman in her thirties move from a major metropolitan area to a freckle of an island hanging onto New Jersey by a hope and a prayer? Maybe it’s my own myopia, but I can’t think of a single positive reason.

Don’t I ooze the frenetic energy of someone spiraling through a personal crisis? If you asked Liv, she’d say absolutely. I almost wish I could ask him.

“I needed some time away, too,” he adds quickly before flashing me a heartless smile. Or maybe there’s too much heart. Something about the way he’s looking at me feels pained. Pulled tight and double wrapped in masking tape.

Marco is a natural conversationalist. He knows exactly how to pivot us away from the perilous territory of why he and I are both free, at the beach, on a Thursday.

Marco asks me all about Soph and Allie, the produce stand, New Jersey farming laws, how many different variations of basil we sell, whether or not I think organic is a scam. Is rhubarb really poisonous?

I feel, vaguely, that I am being entertained—masterfully guided through The Marco Antoniou Experience. After each question, he cocks his head to the side and listens like it’s his job, like I might quiz him afterward. The rhythms of this back-and-forth that feel tenuous to me, at best, are hard-coded into his beautiful head. When I falter because I haven’t made small talk in six months, he flashes me another smile and asks another question.

How many types of parsley do you carry? Which one’s your favorite?

You’re famous, I want to remind him. You don’t have to do this.

Marco’s character on TV was a wise-cracking New Yorker, a lothario dum-dum. He played that character for so long that the entire world assumed Marco and he were one in the same. Never mind the fact that Marco isn’t even from New York. He’s from Evergreen. Of all places on Earth, he’s from this strange little beach town.

And Marco doesn’t seem like a dum-dum. He seems fairly thoughtful. When I trip on a loose plank, he grabs ahold of my arm without a second of hesitation. Then, he mutters about how they absolutely need to fix that. “You could have broken your ankle,” he tuts. For the moments his fingers curl around my biceps to steady me, a montage flashes before my eyes: I do break my ankle, actually. And Marco has to lift me into his strong, capable, famous arms and rush me off to the hospital. As I lie there, monitors beeping around me, he strokes my hair away from my face. You’re so brave, Nadia.

I let out a beautiful, ragged cough. I’m sorry . . . I was . . . so . . . cough . . . awkward on the boardwalk. I’m . . . kind of . . . poorly . . . cough . . . socialized . . . like a Chihuahua . . .

He laughs and says, No. You’re perfect. Then, we get married.

“All good?” Marco’s voice punches through my fantasy, a fist through drywall.

I dust at the knees of my extremely white overalls, trying to avoid revealing eye contact. Celebrities can read minds, right?

“Good as gravy!” I croak.

Horrible.

The boardwalk is mostly empty now, except for a group of young moms pushing strollers at a brisk pace and some teens congregating on the benches across from the Bel Sol condos. One of them kicks a soccer ball and it goes flying up onto the roof and everyone breaks out into a huge burst of laughter, a sound that feels altogether too much for Evergreen in the springtime.

Marco smiles, too, laughter rolling through his chest as he moves a hand back and forth over his heart. Like he has to physically work the joy out of his chest.

I used to laugh so hard. I could laugh until I nearly peed my pants. Laughter would incapacitate me, knock me over. Sometimes I’d even laugh in my sleep. When did I stop laughing like that?

Loosen up, Fabiola. I shake out my shoulders and force my mouth into a tight, unconvincing smile.

Beyond the Bel Sol, the boardwalk turns into a long jetty that extends almost the length of a football field out into the ocean. At the end, the blue-black silhouettes of three men and their fishing lines sway in the wind.

I fold my arms over my chest and lean over the railing. “So, what else did Dr. Antoniou tell you about me?”

“That you’re a writer. That’s about it.” Marco does the same, and the soft folds of his mullet ruffle like lotus petals in the ocean breeze. “Do you miss Philly?”

The question shocks me, and I inhale sharply. “Philly?”

“Yeah, I mean, you’re from there, right?”

“Sebastian also told you that, then,” I say, an edge of anxiety in my voice. Please, please let that be all.

Marco drops his head in mock shame, shoulders bouncing with deep, smooth laughter. “Alright, yes, he also told me that. But only because I asked.”

My smile, maybe a little less forced, comes back again. Bigger. I feel the wind on my teeth. “Nah, I don’t think I do. Philly will always be there. Evergreen’s what I need right now.”

Marco makes an appraising noise in the back of his throat, his gaze finding mine under the heavy umbrella of his brows. “You sound like a politician.”