Monday, May 8
On Mondays, Soph and I deliver produce to a few restaurants around the island. Our day starts at the ass crack of dawn with an hour drive inland to Soph’s farm. There, we load the flatbed of their truck with hand-packed crates filled with lettuce, broccoli, peppers, potatoes, and lots of herbs. We work in silence, only pausing to take steaming-hot sips of coffee from our thermoses. When Soph agreed to let me work with them, we’d talked at length about my energy levels—how much physical labor could I handle and how frequently. I promised them over and over that I could do this, I could handle it. I wanted to be able to handle it.
I’d been a biker and a runner for years. I’d always dreamed of a more physical job, one where I got to use more than my brain and my wrists. The months I’d spent languishing in bed, doing nothing but staring longingly at the ledge off my fifteenth-floor apartment window, had ruined me almost as badly as the months leading up to getting fired.
I needed to move. I needed to feel useful.
As I’m rearranging the back of the truck, I can feel Soph watching me from underneath their furrowed sandy-brown brows. The sun has barely broken above the horizon. We’ve been moving through the inky, indigo dawn in almost complete silence, as we usually do on these Monday-morning shifts.
I pull off my gloves and turn toward them with my hands on my hips. “You’re staring at me, babe.”
They push up their glasses with the back of a ruddy hand. “Nuh-uh.”
“Yuh-huh.”
They shrug, averting their guilty, anxious gaze. “You look a little tired.”
“It’s five-fifty in the morning, Soph. You look a little tired, too.”
“I don’t want you to get hurt o-or, you know—”
“Sick?” I joke, but Soph doesn’t laugh. They’re very serious. A Capricorn. “Look.” I hold up my hands and flex my fingers. “Dexterous.”
“If you felt like shit, you wouldn’t even say anything,” they accuse before taking the world’s fastest sip of coffee from their thermos. “You’d just let yourself get hurt.”
I press my lips together. Soph is right; I can’t even pretend to be offended. “Exactly, so why worry? No matter what, I’m going to just power through.” I turn back toward the last stack of crates we need to load up before heading back to town.
“Because you were out late last night.”
“I got home at nine-thirty.”
“If you need to take a break, it’s okay. Just let me know.”
I stuff back a groan. They’re just looking out for you, I tell myself. Accept their kindness. I take a moment to collect myself then nod. “Thanks. There’s two more cases of chamomile in the greenhouse that I couldn’t carry. Too heavy for me. Can you grab them?”
Soph looks satisfied with that. “Sure. Of course.”
“Do you miss being a writer?” Soph asks.
The question throws me off for a second. We’re stopped in late morning traffic on the Malaga Bay Bridge, a soft hazy sunlight falling over the road.
I’m still a writer. I write every day. Even on the days when I’m too tired to put pen to paper. On my phone before I fall asleep, I capture a few words. In my mind, I write poems and sketches and jokes. If I could play an instrument, I’d be writing songs. I don’t love writing; it’s just writing is the only way I know how to make sense of anything well enough to know how it’s really made me feel. It’s the only way I know how to let go.
If I hadn’t been able to write down how the last few months have made me feel, I’d still be lying in bed in my apartment in Philly, staring at my shaking hands, paralyzed by the thick, inky pull of shame and self-loathing. But when I found out I had lupus, I documented all my symptoms. Then, what I did in a day and how it made me feel. Eventually, all the conversations I had with different doctors. The meals I ate, the dreams I had.
“I still write,” I say simply.
“I mean writing commercials. Do you miss seeing your writing on TV?”
“Yeah.” I kind of laugh. “Actually, I think I miss being able to tell people my writing’s on TV.”
They smirk. “You hotshot. Now what do you tell people?”
“That I’m a fucking farmer.”
Soph laughs. And I laugh. We laugh all the way to Rucci’s Pizzeria, where we deliver twenty-seven pounds of red onion.
“You got a package,” Allie sings out to me as Soph and I bust through the front door, jackets heavy with morning dew and sweat.
I pull off my work boots. “Moi?”
“Yoi.” Allie holds the package out to me. Weird. It’s not in any sort of delivery service parcel; it’s a brown-paper-wrapped box with a little white note card taped to the top. There, in ransom note handwriting, someone has written NADIA.
“Why aren’t you at work?” I wash the grime off my hands before drying them on the hem of my sweaty T-shirt. “Did you see who dropped it off?”
Allie leans a hip into the kitchen island and takes an enormous bite of her apple. “It’s state testing day. And no, they left it in the carport, and I almost ran over it.”
“Awesome. How normal. Do we think this is a bomb or something only vaguely threatening, like a picture of me showering?” I rip open the note card. Figured you need a new one. No signature. “What the fuck.”
“What’s it say?”
I ignore Allie and start tearing away the paper, hungrily palpating the box, trying to get the lid to come away. When it finally does, tissue paper springs back and there, in the middle of the box, is a brand-new gray cardigan.
“No fucking way.”
It’s a lot nicer than the cardigan I wore last night and accidentally left behind, wrapped around Emmett as he slept like a little angel in the back seat of his mom’s SUV. The fabric’s softer—way softer—and the thread is too silky and finely stitched to pull or pill. It smells new and floral, like a department store.
“What is it?” Allie asks, ditching her apple to circle the kitchen island and snoop over my shoulder. “I don’t get it.”
I unravel the sweater from the box, revealing chic monochromatic buttons and drop sleeves. It even has two patch pockets, just like my old cardigan, but these aren’t stretched from holding the weight of my phone and car keys.
“Wait, there’s another note—” Allie pulls an envelope from the box, opens it before I can stop her, and begins reading out loud. “Nadia, I’m sorry I can’t keep my end of the Sweet November deal for the next few days. A work thing came up and I had to head back to New York—Oh my God, this is Marco, isn’t it?”
I’ve basically gnawed my thumbnail off. “Keep reading!”
“I had to head back to New York for a work thing. But you’re still my girlfriend—Jesus Christ, Nadia!”
“Shut up and read, Allie, before I shit myself!”
“But you’re still my girlfriend for the month and I’d love to see you Wednesday at seven P.M.—and then there’s an address for a restaurant in Manhattan.”
“He’s insane. He’s lost his mind.” I snatch the note card out of her hand. “Don’t touch the cardigan. I’m sending it back.”
“Too late.” Allie’s pulling her arms through the sleeves and wrapping herself in the heather-gray fabric, pressing her nose to the collar. “Mmmmm. Smells like famous boyfriend.”
“He’s not my real-goddamn-boyfriend, Allie!” I jump up and immediately start pacing.
“Mmmmm famous. Mmmm musky.”
“He wants me to meet him at Taigen Izakaya? Spike Lee eats there. Kate Winslet loves their nigiri.” My voice is trembling, as if he’s invited me to be his date to the Oscars.
“Awwww!” Allie yanks the card out of my hand and presses it to her chest. “You love Japanese food.”
“I didn’t tell him that. I didn’t tell him my shirt size, either.”
Allie rolls her eyes at me. “Because that’s so hard to guess?”
“Then explain the Japanese food!”
“Dude.” Allie takes me by the shoulders and forces me to look at her, directly into her icy-blue eyes. “He guessed.”
I find myself shrinking underneath her touch until I’m leaning fully against one of her bony shoulders. “We went whale watching last night. He took a picture of me—with a whale.”
“Okay.” Allie laughs, running a soothing hand up and down my back. “What’s the problem with that? You agreed to this whole November thing, didn’t you? He seems like he just kind of likes being thoughtful.”
I pull away from her, anxiety brimming in my voice. “No, he doesn’t. He’s a vampire. I’m being sucked.”
“Poetic.” She peels the cardigan off and flops it over my shoulders. “Make sure you say thank you.”
“I told you, I’m not keeping it.” I grab my phone off the kitchen island and scroll for what feels like eons, trying to find his number while keeping up my rant: “He’s playing games—mind games, emotional games. I’ve been playing checkers, meanwhile he’s playing 4D chess. This is a strategy, and I will get to the bottom of it.” When I finally find the number and manage to call him, it immediately goes to voicemail. “That little fucker.”
Allie watches me with an eyebrow cocked before returning to her apple, flipping lazily through her favorite piece of literature: the Vermont Country Store catalog. “Poor baby, you’re just gonna have to keep the fancy cashmere and eat the fancy tuna.”
I examine my new sweater with its elegant ribbing and soft tag that reads Handmade in Peru, before reluctantly holding it to my nose. It does smell like him—faintly. Like maybe he’d held it to his chest for a moment while browsing the rest of the cardigans, unsure if this was the one, or maybe he’d draped it over his arm as he walked to the cash register. Maybe Marco had flashed the cashier one of his full-throttle, lopsided smiles and said, I can box it myself.
When had he even had the chance to buy me a new sweater? Soph and I had pulled into the driveway a little after eleven; half the island was still drinking their morning coffee. Had he driven onto the mainland, to the mall? Or had he pulled it from an enormous pile of hashtag-gifted cashmere in the back of his closet? Marco, like most wealthy people, moves through his life in a way I can barely conceptualize, unburdened by store hours and the omnipresent concern of coming on too strong.
I drop the cardigan onto the island and grab my phone, crafting the beginnings of a text to Marco.
Nadia: Why in the name of God
No, too dramatic.
Nadia: Ok very smooth but
Backspace, backspace, backspace.
Nadia: Listen here, idiot
Too mean. Way too mean.
I slam my phone down and address the sky. “Why is he being so nice to me?”
I’m pacing the width of Allie and Soph’s kitchen, from the sink to the balcony doors, gnawing at my lip. I haven’t left Evergreen in months—not since I moved here in January. I’d resigned myself to being a townie—the type of person who shows up to zoning committee meetings with a tub of caramel corn and a codified personal vendetta against anyone who has ever parked in my spot.
Allie’s shoulders bounce with poorly suppressed laughter. She’s trying to hide the fact that she finds me pathetic by taking an inordinate amount of time to throw out her apple core. “Because he’s not some mid-level advertising executive with a Medusa tattoo and a face that screams, I ate lunch at the peanut allergy table.”
I knew Allie hated Kai, but—damn. Perhaps she’s on to something.
I stop pacing but keep chewing at my lip. “How do I get to New York?”
“You could drive into Philly—”
“No shot in hell.”
Allie rolls her eyes. “You take a bus from Atlantic City?”
To think I’d been so content with the idea of never reentering polite society ever again that I’d cut all of my hair off. I figured: maybe I’ll move back to Philly, maybe I’ll get a job at Trader Joe’s for the health insurance, maybe I’ll join one of those acoustic guitar churches where I can contribute with enthusiasm to a monthly potluck.
Meanwhile, Marco’s in New York working; that means acting or auditioning, being around other famous people at the very least. And I’m going to, what? Show up Wednesday with a raggedy Vera Bradley overnight bag, rattling with the different medications I need to take just to feel like I’m half alive? Not to mention Marco doesn’t even know about my diagnosis. And I have no plan to tell him before the last day of May.
Right now, he sees me the way I want to be seen: healthy.
I come to a stop in front of Allie. “He doesn’t know I have lupus.”
Allie looks confused. “I mean, plenty of people have autoimmune diseases, I’m sure he’d be really understanding.”
“No, Allie. I don’t want him to know. Right now, Marco doesn’t really know anything about me and I . . . I like it. He just thinks I’m some quirky manic-pixie-dream slut that works at a fruit stand and occasionally lashes out about things.”
Suddenly, her brows fall into a frown. “You were planning on going all of May without ever letting him into any part of your life?”
“I was gonna tell him some things.”
“Like?”
“Like I’m . . . a sister. And a daughter.”
“Wow, intimate.”
I collapse into a chair at the end of their kitchen table, flopping forward onto the cool surface. I squeeze my eyes shut. “The first night we went out, he told me he’s a user. He quite literally said: do not trust me. And now, all of this? I don’t think he’s being insincere, but . . . what happens next? What if he’s like, mining me for content? I don’t wanna end up as some anecdote in his memoir or a side character in a movie about his life.”
“Honestly . . . that’s extremely fair, Nads.”
I blink an eye open. “Really?”
“Yeah, I mean . . . ” She pauses to gesture at the discarded box—a wonderful gift, a potential red flag. “He’s a nice guy, but I think your concerns are valid. He’s probably used to getting what he wants, and you’re a little bit of a challenge or a . . . a fun idea.” She reaches across the table and lays her hand over mine. “I support you keeping some secrets.”
Hearing my best friend say this should be a relief—but it isn’t. I want her to tell me I’m being insane and ridiculous, that Marco is clearly and totally in love with me, how could he not be? We’re perfect for each other, as everyone can see.
But that’s just my ego talking.
I fold the sweater and place it back in the box, gathering up the note card. I take the wooden steps that run along the side of the house, leading from Soph and Allie’s floor up to my apartment.
Inside, I finally shower off my long morning. It’s one of those days when my legs are throbbing and the backs of my knees prickle with inflammation, but my mind is wide awake. I certainly haven’t done my nervous systems any favors. I close the blinds, blocking out a wet, windy spring landscape, and crawl under my duvet.
A soft rain falls and each droplet against the window lulls me closer to sleep—or closer to delirium; I have less control over where my mind wanders. Back to the boat, last night. Back to the car ride home.
We should have been too tired to talk, maybe even should have run out of things to say to each other, but the ride home to Evergreen was filled with his laughter, my chatter.
He let me watch him, graciously, never meeting my eye. At the last light before we entered Evergreen, all he did was move a hand from the gearshift to my knee, where he gave me a brief squeeze. A microdose of intimacy that sent my stomach tumbling.
Back on the island, the stars and sky were blotted out with ocean haze and diffused light. Marco turned on our seat heaters and rolled down the windows.
“I love this smell,” I admitted, my head lolled back against the headrest and my eyelids heavy. “I wish they would bottle it and sell it.”
Marco made a small noise in the back of his throat, a hum of agreement. His eyes were narrowed and glassy, fixed straight ahead as he drove down Neptune Avenue, as if he was holding the gaze of someone he loved dearly.
“I’ve missed it here,” he said eventually, pulling his eyes off the street to look at me. I took in the crow’s-feet etched around his eyes, the permanent indents on either side of his mouth. Smile lines. The car slowed to a stop and I looked away.
“Today was really fun,” I said. I hoped he didn’t take it for granted—because it’s a cliché to say something like that. But I don’t really speak in clichés. I hoped he could tell that I really meant it. “Best date I’ve been on.”
I think then he believed me, because he reached over and briefly, so briefly, brought a finger to my chin, running the pad of his thumb over the acute angle of my jaw. Like he wanted to hook his finger underneath and pull me to him.
Instead, he dropped his hand and leaned away. “Ever?” he asked, voice low and deliciously set in the back of his throat.
I couldn’t hold back a small laugh. “Yes, Marco. Best date ever.”
This is where my mind picks up as I lie in bed. Now, while I lie under the perfect weight of my covers, I imagine catching his wrist with my fingers, closing the gap between us. I imagine what Marco’s mouth tastes like, without all the beer and tequila and cigarettes in the way. I wonder what it might be like to actually be with him; I think about it until my thighs ache.
I miss the sound of his voice, rough and unpretentious. I miss the smell of his skin. I miss his laugh and how frequently he does it.
I’m tempted, so tempted, to pull myself from oncoming slumber to send him a message that says exactly that, but even half asleep I know I can’t.
I know there are only so many days in May.