Thursday, May 11
When I wake up, I have to peel myself off Marco’s broad, sweaty back. We’ve kicked off the duvet and top sheet, both of us
sprawled toward each other. It’s a miracle that we spent the entire night intertwined like this, my face buried in Marco’s
neck, his arm slung over my chest. In the middle of the night I could feel him pulling me closer, kissing my shoulder blades,
fingertips grazing my stomach.
Marco looks peaceful while he sleeps, olive skin flushed and bright against the ivory sheets around him. My hands and feet
are swollen, and I quickly sneak out of bed and into the bathroom. Under the steaming-hot water, my thigh muscles ache with
an unfamiliar strain. Like I climbed a fucking mountain.
When I come out of the bathroom, Marco’s in the kitchen, hair mussed in every direction, throwing together a pot of coffee.
“Hey, sunshine.” His back muscles flex and relax as he moves, scratch lines from my fingernails still fresh and pink down
his shoulder blades.
I pause, towel wrapped around me. “I helped myself to some of your hot water.”
He laughs. “Take as much as you need. If you’re not in any rush to get back to Evergreen, I wanted to take you to breakfast.”
I swallow roughly. “I’m not in a rush to do anything.” This is my attempt to make good on my promise last night that I wouldn’t disappear. “I don’t have to work until Friday. I just have to check out of my hotel by eleven.”
He turns away from the percolating pot and crosses his arms over his chest. “There’s an exhibit in Brooklyn I really wanted
to see.”
I can feel the edges of my comfort zone quickly approaching, an invisible wall looming somewhere in the distance. And I can
also see the challenge in his eyes, the same flicker I saw in them that first night we went out.
We’re standing there, staring at each other, thinking the exact same thing: How far can I push this?
Marco waits for me outside while I run up to my hotel room to change into a pair of floaty pants and a cropped top. My hair
is a total mess—frizzing and coiling away from my scalp in little jovial bundles.
I dig through my bag for a hat after checking the UV index. Today is weirdly going to be a scorcher. I take my morning meds
then slather myself in SPF, taking special care to not get any on my shirt or necklace or eyebrows, before hastily packing
my overnight bag and booking it downstairs. Knowing Marco is there, waiting, has me moving at double speed.
Outside he’s chatting on the phone, a hand lost in his hair. With his arm extended like that, I can make out a hickey on his
bicep, a hickey I’d strategically placed to be diagonal to the one on the inside of his thigh. My belly tightens at the memory
of him propped up on his elbows, gaze heavy on me. The raspy way he’d growled fuck .
I’ll never be able to look at him the same—not without a sen sory flashback. The weight of his chest against mine; his stubble against the inside of my thighs; his fingers tightening, tightening, tightening on the soft flesh of my hips.
The film camera hanging around his neck pulls at his shirt. Just the sight of him, spied through a window, fills me with an
electricity. I push out into the humid morning, and he drops the phone from his ear, lips twisting into a half smile.
“Hey, pretty—”
I cut him off, grabbing a handful of his shirt and pressing my mouth to his. He meets my eagerness with a gentleness that
has me melting against his chest. He tastes like himself, sweet and exciting, like the bitter coffee we drank this morning,
and like my sunscreen. His fingers find my jaw just as we break apart. Marco’s mouth comes away glistening, just like his
eyes.
“What was that for?”
I shrug, running my thumb over his bottom lip, taking with it some of the moisture I’d left behind. “I wanted to kiss you.”
Marco blinks slowly, clearing away the desire in his eyes, then presses the back of his hand to my forehead. “You feeling
okay?”
“Shut up.” I laugh, swatting him away. But he doesn’t let me get far. His hand falls from my forehead to my shoulder, finger
tracing down the inside of my arm. “Let’s get breakfast. I want something sweet.”
He’s watching me with a mixture of incredulity and joy.
I’m sick of wasting time, I realize. I can’t believe how much of it I’ve already wasted, the way I’ve been tossing days away
like used paper towels.
I let him stare at me like that while I link my fingers with his and pull him with me. It’s May 11, and we only have three
weeks left together.
“Truth or dare,” I ask, mouth full of French toast. We stumbled onto a diner in SoHo with no line and agreed we’d eat concrete if it meant avoiding a huge wait.
Marco ordered an improbable amount of protein as part of a breakfast I’ve dubbed Man Meal. It’s about thirteen scrambled eggs,
eleven slices of bacon, and enough toasted rye bread to feed every duck in New York State.
The waiter took the order without flinching or looking us in the eye. If he recognized Marco, he did a damn good job of acting
like he didn’t.
Marco considers his options carefully, mouth twisting sideways. Finally: “Dare.”
Shit. I don’t have a dare lined up. My plan was to use the sexy and adult allure of truth to coax information out of him about
his current career-slash-life situation. In all the hours we’ve spent together, Marco hasn’t yet dropped a single hint about
this new career thing he has going on, and I’m desperate to know, in spite of myself.
“I dare you to tell me what you want to do in the next six months.” Ham-fisted as hell, but I think it works.
Marco’s eyebrows immediately fall into a frown and finally, he takes a bite of toast.
“Hmm, six months?” His gaze travels from mine out to the busy street behind me. “I guess in six months I’ll have six months
sober, which is good. It’s a nice, solid number. I’ll be back in LA.” He winces at that but keeps going. “I’ll be thirty-four.”
“That’s all you’re gonna give me?”
“You really want to go there?” He pops an eyebrow, lifting a forkful of eggs to his mouth. “Truth or dare, Nadia.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. “Truth.”
“Why are you in Evergreen?” he demands, without missing a beat.
The French toast turns solid in my stomach, like I’ve swallowed a brick whole. At a loss for my own words, I borrow Liv’s.
“I ran away. I lost my job, and I was humiliated and embarrassed, and I just wanted to be somewhere no one would find me.
I’m hiding like a coward.” This is all true, if only partially.
Marco’s gone completely still. “Same.”
“I thought you were house-sitting for your uncle.”
He scoffs. “That house has more security cameras than a Manhattan vape shop. Why would he need me?” Marco shakes his head.
“No. Am I staying at my uncle’s house? Sure, but it all started when I didn’t get that part in Brokeback —the one I really wanted.” He lets out a terse laugh at himself. “I’ve never wanted an acting job this badly before. I was always on autopilot,
doing what I had to do because I had no other skills or because my mom really needed money or because my friends needed me.
But this one...”
He pauses, reorganizing his features to push back the hurt bubbling right up to the surface. “I don’t know, this one was
for me. I took years off, went to college. I studied acting and filmmaking. When I didn’t get it—when my agent called me—I
knew right away I was going to relapse. I was like, cool. Hung up and something in me decided I was going to relapse. I knew I had to get out of town...” Marco clears his throat. “And then I did it anyway, kind of.
So, here I am—what? Seven days sober? I’m thirty-three, and I’m starting over.”
I search for his foot under the table, circling his ankle with my feet. “Me too.” Tell him, a voice whispers. Tell him everything.
I shove the voice away, stuffing it deep inside myself. This moment isn’t about me. I want to be there for Marco—maybe in a way I wish someone had been there for me. “Look, just because you wanted to relapse and just because you drank—that doesn’t mean it isn’t amazing that you’ve stayed sober all those years. It doesn’t make it any less impressive how far you’ve come. I mean this in the absolute best way possible—you are so normal.”
Marco’s expression pulls and for a moment I’m terrified I’ve said too much, somehow accidentally dropped all my cards on the
table. He pushes his eggs around before taking another bite. Then, his eyes flicker.
“It’s so unfair.” This comment is directed at his coffee mug. “You’ve just existed all these years, and I only get to have
you now.”
My heart skips and stalls, and I have to keep from actually pressing my hand to my chest. Marco’s suave. He’s charismatic;
he knows what to say, when to say it. I can feel it when he’s turned on that light inside himself—the one that got him Vinny
Baldacco at eighteen with no prior acting experience. Now, in his thirties, Marco is as rehearsed as he is raw. I can tell
vulnerability like this isn’t in his playbook.
No, this comment comes from deep inside him and as soon as the words pass through his lips, he looks like he’s torn between
grinning and taking them back.
I tighten the grip I have on his ankle under the table, knocking my knees against his. “Truth or dare.”
Marco gives me a flat look as if he’s saying, More ? “Truth.”
I run my tongue over my lip. “Why one month? This... this doesn’t seem like something you usually do.”
He laughs softly, a chuckle in the back of his throat. “Well, for one, I think you’re fucking beautiful. And I guess I knew there was no way I’d get you to agree to go out with me again after that first disaster night. So, I had to trap you.” He lifts a piece of bacon from his plate, flailing it at me. “Even when you really want something, you have to prove to yourself that you actually really want it.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “And you think I really want you?”
My barbing perks him up again. Marco straightens in his chair and swivels his hat around to face forward, dragging his teeth
over his bottom lip. He lifts his chin at me. “Truth.”
I nod, accepting his demand. “Hit me.”
Marco folds his arms on the table and he leans forward, eyes creasing at the corners. “Tell me the last time you had sex like
last night.”
A heat ignites in my hips and spreads over me instantly, starting deep and low and working upward over my chest and neck,
until I know my ears are pink. He waits patiently for me to answer while I squirm in my chair, but under the table I can feel
his knee knocking against mine.
Finally, I relent, meet his gaze full-on. “Never.”
The subway to Brooklyn is so packed, we have to force our way into a car. Then, we claim the last open spot in the dead center
of the train, between a man in a winter coat and a woman with a suspiciously large backpack. Marco squares his hat and pulls
the brim low, placing one hand on the small of my back and holding on overhead with the other. The car’s so hot, I immediately
feel the fabric between us dampen. Everyone’s this close—the woman behind me bumps her backpack against my shoulders over
and over, while another woman, seated, presses the spine of a hardcover book directly into my hip—but no one’s facing each
other, inches apart.
No one is looking at each other like Marco’s looking at me.
Or like how I’m looking back.
His eyes dance with amusement as he takes each lurch and bump of the subway as an opportunity to graze his lips, just barely, over my cheekbones. Underneath the loose cotton of his T-shirt, I can feel his heart beating as fast as mine.
“Claiming your territory?” I quip in a whisper when the subway makes a sharp turn and his fingers flex and tighten around
the curve of my ass.
He makes a hum in the back of his throat, bobbing his lips down to my ear. “I don’t care if people know you’re mine. I know
you’re mine.”
An electric throb passes through my chest. “Confident,” I whisper back.
His hand slips higher, his thumb brushing up and over a sliver of exposed skin at my waist before dipping momentarily under
the hem of my shirt. “You like it.”
“Stop.” I press my fingers into the taut planes of his stomach, feeling for where the waistband of his boxers hugs his skin
just above his belt. “Or we’re going to get ourselves banned from the MTA.”
He shrugs a shoulder. “I can control myself.”
“Barely.”
“Hey.” He untangles his hand from my waist and brings his thumb to my bottom lip, a finger hooked under my chin. “We were
both there last night.”
Jesus Christ . I need to physically separate from this man. My eyes are practically rolling back in my head from just a graze of his fingers
over my chin, memories of last night coming rushing back to me, sweeping through my body. His firm yet gentle hold on me,
the unbearable weight of his eyes watching me, the scent of his skin.
I curl my fingers around his wrist. His lips part, half a word formed as I bring my mouth to the soft, hollow skin underneath his ear.
Then, absolutely sick of our shit, the subway doors fly open and everyone shoves their way through us.
“It’s huge,” I gasp. We’re standing underneath the glass ceiling in an old, converted warehouse deep in Brooklyn. Around us,
shipping containers have been stacked and converted into cellular gallery spaces for various artists. But the exhibit Marco
really wanted to see hangs over our heads.
He has his film camera held up to his face, pointed right at me. My neck is tilted all the way back. Above us hang hundreds
of shards of sea glass—each one ranging from the size of a penny to a hubcap—intertwined and connected like a wind chime.
They split the light, splattering geometric rainbow explosions all over the floor and walls and me. Underneath them, I feel
like an ant standing in the center of a spring snowfall. The last frost before everything blooms. The light warms me from
the inside out, like everything has over the last few days.
“Now, there’s something I’ve never heard you say before.” Marco laughs, his camera shuttering in his hands. “Look to your
left.”
I follow his instruction while letting out another over-the-top gasp. “This one’s even bigger!” A stalagmite of sea glass
dangles precariously close to my head—maybe six or seven feet above me. One snapped wire and I’m done for. How thrilling.
Marco takes a few more pictures, directing me to look this way and that, to extend my arms and relax my hands, even though
I complain almost continuously that I hate pictures of myself.
“These aren’t supposed to be thirst traps. You look beautiful,” Marco assures me.
I’m tempted to make a joke about how he better send them to me for my Tinder profile when this is all said and done. Just
to see how he reacts.
Afterward we wander from gallery space to gallery space. I’m particularly taken with a glass artist from Emilia-Romagna who
creates anal beads from recycled Murano chandeliers.
“Come on ,” I beg Marco, clutching his biceps. “If we split the cost, we can both use it! It’s an investment piece.”
“No shot, Fabiola. I’m not paying two hundred dollars for something that goes in my ass when we have four perfectly good hands.”
“But it’s artisanal.” Then, I gasp. “Artis- anal .”
“I’m walking away,” he deadpans, dislodging his arm from me. “I’ll see you on the second floor,” he calls over his shoulder,
tossing a two-finger salute at me.
Eventually, Marco says he wants to show me something and pulls me toward the very last gallery on the second floor, which
overlooks the Hudson.
While the other makeshift exhibit spaces have logos affixed to their front window, business cards set out on little silver
trays, or even have champagne flutes filled with sparkling water, this cell has only a simple black-and-white sign on an easel
that reads ADAM WEST PHOTOGRAPHY.
Adam West has turned the small space into a sort of canvas. The lights have been dimmed and the walls are covered in enormous
black-and-white prints, larger than most gallery-displayed photographs. Somewhere, distantly, I swear I hear ocean sounds—waves
crashing and gulls. All of the galleries are freezing cold, but only in Adam’s does my skin goose-pimple.
“I recognize this one.” I point to a print that takes up the majority of the back wall. Here, the contrast and texture of the photos paired with their size make the figures within them look alive. Like they could stand up and step out of their poses. “From your apartment; it’s the same artist.”
It’s my favorite photo of all the ones Marco had on display: the two men, sleeping in their beach chairs, side by side and
a world apart. The man on the left holds his lolling head up with a thick, deeply tanned fist. The man on the right is reclined,
fingers intertwined over his pecs, mouth slightly agape. A placard underneath displays the title: Rest.
“Yeah.” Marco nods. He’s gone unusually quiet, camera tucked under his arm and hands deep in his pockets. “I collect his work.
Do you like it?”
“Really? I love it. It’s vibey, evocative.” All of the prints in Marco’s apartment by this artist were of people sleeping; in this exhibit,
West has expanded on the theme by including shots of people laughing with their eyes closed, squinting against the sun, meditating
by various bodies of water. Everyone has their eyes closed. It’s powerful, strangely sexy. There’s one photo in particular
I can’t stop staring at. A woman with a million freckles splattered across her face and shoulders shot from an upward angle.
Her eyes are scrunched close and her unfathomably thin body twists against a cloudless sky. Her mouth is open, her jaw jutting
to the side, black hair flying against a pale gray sky. She might be singing or yelling, dancing or thrashing. I reach out
to her and almost run my fingers over her face.
“Did Adam inspire you to take up photography?”
Marco nods. “In a way. I discovered his work while I was in film school. I liked being behind a camera, but I didn’t like
dealing with all the people.”
“Nice.” I laugh. “Doesn’t sound like you.”
Marco shrugs, threading an arm around my shoulder and redirecting me toward the exit. “I’m an introverted extrovert. I like
doing things on my own terms.”
“Wait.” I dig my heels in, craning to get one last look at the woman. Is she singing? Is she yelling? Five more minutes and I think I could figure it out. “I wanna buy a print.”
Marco hesitates before trailing a hand down my arm. “How about I give you one of mine? We gotta have our picnic before the
sun sets.”
We spend half an hour running around the Whole Foods in Dumbo, filling a basket with an array of cheeses, crackers, and olives.
Turns out Marco is very particular about his snack foods, with an undeniable allegiance to his heritage. Our relationship
almost implodes over a very heated asiago versus feta decision.
We won’t make it to Central Park before the sun sets, so Marco picks a grassy knoll in Brooklyn Bridge Park and we spread
out with our spoils. It’s even more magical than Central Park, honestly. Better than any picnic I’d imagined for myself. Marco
takes over snack arrangement, leaving me to sip my sparkling kombucha and watch the sun halfway behind the Brooklyn Bridge.
My contribution is yelling out fake names for all the dogs that go trotting by on the path below.
I pull the cardigan Marco gave me out from my bag and slip it on while he prepares us a makeshift charcuterie on the paper
plates we splurged on. When he catches me wrapping myself in the material, his eyes flash with a smile.
Suddenly, my phone pings. I tap the screen to life and find two notifications that nearly send me into cardiac arrest: 1) a calendar alert that my bus home leaves in twenty minutes and 2) a text from Soph asking if I’ll be home in time for my shift tomorrow. A jarring reminder of my reality; that this
is not my reality.
“Ah, shit,” I mutter, stumbling to my feet. “Shit, shit, shit .”
“You okay?”
“No, I’m a total idiot.” I dust my hands off on my thighs and begin throwing together a message to Soph. It’s 50 percent apology,
50 percent incoherent ramble. My hands are shaking and I can’t stop misspelling words. “My bus leaves in twenty minutes and
I’m supposed to work tomorrow morning.” I stare back longingly at the garlic-stuffed olives Marco has arranged lovingly on
my plate. “Shit.”
“At the farmers market?”
I nod. “Yeah. Soph’s gonna kill me. I’m already the world’s most lackluster fruit vendor.”
“Hey, no sweat.” Marco lifts his chin toward the plate he’s put together, now balancing on the palm of his hand. “I’ll make
sure you get home in time.”
I frown at him. “What?”
“Stay the night with me and I’ll make sure you’re home in time. We’ll leave tomorrow morning. Bright and early. Four a.m. No way you’ll be late.”
I return to my spot next to him, taking the plate off his hand. “You’re okay with that?”
Marco leans back against the hill, popping an olive into his mouth. “I was never going to let you take the bus home.”
“Oh.” I fiddle with my phone, then revise my text to Soph to a way simpler yes boss! With the saluting emoji. “Thanks.”
He shrugs a shoulder, lifting the bill of his hat to run his fingers through his hair. “Just what a good boyfriend does.”
“I guess it is.” An evening breeze ruffles the trees above our heads and I bring my knees closer to my chest. “I wouldn’t really know.”
Marco watches me for a moment, nervousness pulling at his mouth. “You’ve never dated anyone before?”
I point a finger gun at him. “You said good boyfriend.”
He makes a noise in his throat I can’t decipher then falls completely quiet, which, I’m starting to pick up, is pretty rare
for Marco. He’s always making some kind of noise—talking, laughing, humming. I’ve realized in just one day that this nonchalance
doesn’t really sit in his face. If anything, his features are worn and wise, in direct contrast to his bouncing walk and quick,
dangerous smile. Now, Marco lies on his side, head propped up on his hand, pulling at strands of grass, his food untouched.
“Hey.” I toss a kalamata olive at his head, purposefully aiming over his shoulder. “Did I say something wrong?”
“Not at all.” He reaches for my ankle, giving me a quick squeeze. His fingers linger. “I’m thinking about how nice this is.”
It is so nice. Pure decadence, and I don’t want to stay to watch it spoil. I nod in the direction of Manhattan. “Let’s go home.”
“Home?” He smirks, pushing himself back up to sit. “Do I need to clear a drawer for you?”
I roll my eyes. “You know what I mean, nerd.”
We clean up and leave the grassy knoll in pristine condition. There’s not even an ass print left in the soft ground. It’s
like Marco and I were never even there, and with a last look back at the spot where we were lying, it dawns on me that this
is what my life will be like, too.
There will be a before and an after with no evidence left behind.
I spend the subway ride trying to leave something behind. If I tangle myself with him tight enough, when I pull away there’ll have to be a mark.
There’s a stillness about the empty car and a timelessness to the smell of grass on Marco’s collar, and I’m intoxicated by
the way he hums and sighs when my lips trace the soft, smooth skin beneath his ear. It’s like I’ve never kissed anyone else
before. I wouldn’t have been able to stop myself even if I wanted to.
Maybe it’s his breath, warm and ragged on my neck as he slides his hands down over the curve of my hips until he’s pressing
into me, lifting my hips to meet his. Marco whispers in my ear that this is what he’s wanted all day. His voice vibrates through me, and I let go of the last shred of whatever has kept me imprisoned for months.