by Leylah Attar
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“I drop in to see Eleni whenever I’m in town.” He motioned to the pretty bartender behind the counter.
“A girl in every port, huh?”
“She’s my cousin.”
That made me feel worse. Like I’d just accused him of incest. “I’m so sorry,” I wailed. “I’m a horrible huban meing.” I slumped against him. Apparently, I was miserable when I drank.
“Let’s get you to Nikos, okay?” Alex started leading me toward the stairs.
The club was getting louder and rowdier. Someone flung a bottle into the crowd. It hit the wall and shattered into tiny shards. Security guards jumped in and started breaking up the brawl.
“Alex.” I paused halfway up the stairs. “There’s something I have to tell you.”
He stopped, and we stared at each other.
“I think…” My throat clenched, but I couldn’t stop the warm feeling rising in my chest. “I think…”
And then I puked all over Alex’s shoes.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” I said, wiping the dribble off my mouth. My heart pounded loudly, echoing in my ears. I took a step back and thought, Oh, hell. Hell, no.
I’d always imagined fainting with Victorian-like delicacy, a lace handkerchief pressed to my forehead. Instead, I went down like a sack of turnips. Alex caught me, swearing through the inky space rapidly claiming my vision. Scooping me up, he made his way back down through the crowd. “Eleni! Let Nikos know I’m taking his date back to the yacht.”
A lot of jostling, the feeling of being cradled through a stampede, and then everything receded into blissful darkness.
Church bells were chiming when I woke. No, wait. It was my teeth. And my bones. Every time the blood rushed through my veins, it hit my nerves like a hammer striking a bell. I moaned and retreated under the covers. I had a vague recollection of loud music, red sequins, cigarette ash…
Oh shit.
Kostas.
I sat up and immediately regretted it. My head throbbed with the worst hangover in history. My history. I swung my feet over the edge of the bed and cast a bleary glance around the room. Alex was gone. His bunk bed was made up, neat and tight. The absence of windows made it difficult to guess what time it was.
I crawled into the bathroom and turned on the light, cringing at my reflection. My eyes were a lattice of blood-red vessels. Mascara clumped my lashes together when I blinked. My bra strap had slid down my shoulder, and I was still wearing the dress from last night. I thanked Alex silently for not helping me into something more comfortable while I was passed out.
My first hangover, I thought. Not a fan. It felt like all the bad decisions I ever made were having a reunion in my head.
I showered and slipped into a T-shirt and shorts. After unsuccessfully googling hangover cures (because I kept typing hangover curse), I made my way upstairs, heavy limbed and deflated over my disastrous date with Nikos. When the elevator doors opened, I shrank back from the sun like a vampire. Thank God for sunglasses. I slipped them on and tried again.
The boat was oddly quiet. No one in the salon. No one on the deck. No guests. No crew members. My first thought was everyone had abandoned me after my night of debauchery. I was Roman Catholic, raised in an Indian family. Guilt and the fear of punishment were my childhood companions. We still played seesaw—I liked to test how far I could go without tipping them over. Mostly, they kicked my butt around the playground of life.
After failing to locate someone who could point me in the direction of the nearest aspirin, I stumbled into the galley. Alex was working with his back turned to me, earbuds in place, oblivious to my inspection. You look at a man differently after he’s rescued you. You either resent him, because you’re an independent woman and he made you feel like you needed rescuing. Or you romanticize him, because you’re an independent woman and he made you feel like you needed rescuing. Hopefully, you don’t puke on his shoes in either of those scenarios.
I was leaning more toward romanticizing him, conjuring up the scene in The Bodyguard, where Kevin Costner carries Whitney Houston out of the club, booting and throat-chopping everyone out of the way. Though I doubted Kevin Costner’s spanakopita rose as spectacularly as Alex’s. Alex pulled a tray of the little pies out of the oven. His mitts were shaped like sharks, with teeth facing out, so it looked like they were taking a bite off what they were holding.
He pulled off his earbuds when he saw me. “It’s alive.”
“It feels like death.” I plopped down on the nearest stool.
“It needs water.” He poured me a glass and slid it my way.
I didn’t stop until I had drained all of it. My mouth felt like someone had rubbed it with sandpaper.
“You want some masala chai?” Alex put loose black tea and milk in a saucepan. Then he started adding spices—cloves, cinnamon, cardamom, ginger. Since when did cardamom pods crack open so loudly?
“You know how to make masala chai?” I asked.
“When I was training at the CIA, my mentor was Indian. He taught me masala chai. Also, mango pickle, chaat papri, chevda, parath—”
“The CIA? You trained at the CIA?”
Alex refilled my water and held it out like a bribe. “You can’t share that information. It’s top secret. I’m working undercover as we speak.”
“You’re working undercover?” I was repeating everything he said, but I couldn’t help it. To say I was gobsmacked would be putting it mildly. I chugged down another glass of water. “What kind of undercover assignment?”
“Well…” Alex leaned closer, elbows on the counter. “The Papadakis family—Thomas and his parents? They’re involved in all kinds of shady stuff. We’ve been trying to bust them for years. They’re all coming for the wedding—a Who’s Who of Greek Mafia. No better time to round them up. All the kingpins, including Nikos.”
“Nikos?” My three-thumbed ticket to happily-ever-after was in the mob? “What does he have to do with it?”
“Nikos funnels all the dirty money through his clubs.”
“What? That’s just… Wait, does Isabelle know?” The pounding in my head got louder. “I have to tell her.”
“You can’t tell anyone. You’ll jeopardize the whole operation.”
Alex poured the masala chai in a mug, pulled out a stool, and regarded me with his cinnamon eyes. I held my head in my hands to keep it from toppling over with the weight of all the things I just learned. It also explained why Alex said my name with all the right inflections. His mentor at the CIA had been Indian.
“Moti?” Alex pushed the sugar bowl toward me.
I didn’t answer. I didn’t want to know.
“In the culinary world, CIA stands for the Culinary Institute of America.”
It took a moment for his statement to sink in. The bastard played me. He not only let me think he was talking about the CIA, he ran with it, spinning a wild, crazy story that I’d fallen for like an idiot.
Slowly, I lifted my head.
“Uh-oh. It’s pissed.” He stood and backed away. “Perhaps it would like some spanakopita?” Piling some pies on a plate, he sat it at the edge of the counter and slid it toward me with a pair of tongs. Granted, I might have been foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog, but what kind of person pulls a prank like that on someone in the throes of a major hangover?
I bit into the pie instead of murdering him. Revenge is a dish best served with zero alcohol in your system. My time would come. For now, I was relieved Isabelle wasn’t marrying into the Greek Mafia.
“Where is everyone?” I asked after I finished my tea. Alex made a mean cup of masala chai. It rivaled Naani’s, but I wasn’t about to tell him that.
“We’re anchored off Naxos. The captain found a nice spot this morning. Perfect for a beach picnic. Everyone’s out there.” He paused and looked up from his chopping board. “Everyone except Nikos.”
“He’s sleeping in?” Probably recovering from Olympia Aravan
i.
“Nikos had to sort out some stuff with the authorities after the brawl at the nightclub last night. We had to leave Mykonos without him.”
“The brawl at the nightclub…” Oh God. The one I started. I was the reason Nikos wasn’t back on the yacht. “How bad was it?”
“Pretty bad. It snow-balled after we left. Things got damaged. People were hurt. Someone informed the media Olympia Aravani was there, then all hell broke loose. The police came. Nikos has a pretty big mess on his hands.”
It was worse than I thought. I should never have agreed to dance with Kostas. “Will Nikos be back in time for the wedding?”
“Captain Bailey said he’ll probably be joining us in a couple of days. He’s waiting on a loan from his crime lords to get the repairs going.”
“Wiseass.” I flung a shark mitt at him. Then picked up the other one and threw that too. Alex laughed as they bounced off his chest.
I should’ve been more upset over Nikos’s absence, but I found myself smiling. I liked the sound of Alex’s laughter.
As he turned back to the stove, I realized how much stress I’d put myself under. Ever since Isabelle’s engagement, I’d been chasing a goal. The stakes were high, because winning Nikos over also meant winning Dolly over. But now, with Nikos temporarily out of the picture, I could kick back and enjoy the cruise—no pressure, no agenda and hopefully, no Nikos-induced choking.
“Moti.”
Ugh. I burrowed deeper into the covers, ignoring the annoying, persistent call.
Afternoon naps were a luxury, and even more precious when you were trying to sleep away a hangover.
“Moti.” This time, Isabelle shook me awake.
“What?!” I squinted at her.
“I have a fabulous idea. Are you listening?” My eyes closed. She shook me again. “I’m sleeping with Thomas tonight.”
“Congratulations. I thought you’d already been there and done that.”
“I don’t mean it like that, silly. I mean, with Nikos gone, I can spend the night in Thomas’s room, and you can take my spot in the cabin upstairs.”
I blinked and rolled over to face her. “That does sound like a good idea. There’s just one thing.”
“Naani,” we both said in unison. No way was she going to let Isabelle and Thomas spend the night together before the wedding.
“She’s always had a soft spot for you, Moti,” Isabelle said. “If anyone can convince her not to tell Mom and Dad, it’s you. You’ve got to help me. You’ve got to.”
In the absence of siblings, Isabelle and I always turned to each other. It wasn’t always a fair arrangement because she was always the one who needed an alibi or scapegoat or someone to pin the tail on. But I intended to collect one day. Maybe when I was a grizzled old lady who got evicted for having too many feline friends.
We approached Naani with our proposition and were immediately shut down.
“No.”
“But—”
“Isabelle, you’re staying right here with me. Moti, you’re sleeping with the chef.”
I opened my mouth, then let it go. That’s not what she means.
“Bu—”
“No buts. From either of you. Joseph is upset enough with you and Rachel, Isabelle. If he finds out about this, Lord help us all. You girls know you can come to me with anything, but I won’t have any part of this.”
“But—”
“Out. Both of you.” And just like that, Naani shut us down and went back to her laptop.
“Always typing away on that thing. Or her phone.” Isabelle sighed, her mouth set in a semi-pout. “I shouldn’t have asked for your help, Moti. I should’ve snuck out and slipped back into my bed in the morning.” She shook her head and retreated, as if this had been a failure on my part.
“Moti.” The door to Naani’s stateroom opened. Her hand snaked around my wrist. “I’m glad you’re still here. Can you help me with this?” She handed me a jar of Vicks VapoRub and pointed to her ankle.
For as long as I can remember, Naani smelled of Vicks VapoRub and honeysuckle. Honeysuckle was the first scent she bought upon moving to America, courtesy of a neighbor who was an Avon sales rep. I imagined it reminded her of new beginnings, or perhaps, the garden she had left behind in India. The Vicks VapoRub, on the other hand, was a sacred tradition passed on by her mother. Cough? Cold? Headache? Broken leg? Broken heart? Got run over by a truck? Slap on the Vicks. On your chest, your temples, around the rim of your nostrils. Hell, put a gob on a cotton ball and stick it in your ear. Maybe it was a placebo effect but having Naani rub the camphorated ointment on me really did make me feel better. My entire childhood revolved around trips to the doctor postponed by Vicks, except for the one time when it failed to suck pneumonia out of my feet (Naani maintained it must have been a bad batch).
I rubbed the salve over Naani’s translucent skin, the veins running beneath it like a network of blue-green tunnels. The reversal of roles was a comforting ritual, tied to the smell of childhood nostalgia. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, with Naani’s foot on my lap, I felt a sense of peace—the kind that comes and sits on your shoulder when you least expect it.
“How was your date with Nikos?” she asked.
“Not so great.” I switched to her other ankle. “I don’t know, Naani. Maybe I’m not meant to find love. No, not love. Reciprocal love. Both hearts have to catch fire at the same time, you know? Otherwise, it just hurts.”
“Is that what you’re feeling with Nikos? Hurt?”
“I don’t know if I’m invested enough at this point to feel hurt, but I feel something. And what I really want to feel is sparks, electricity, kisses that make everything disappear. Am I ever going to find that, Naani?”
“Ha. The luxury you kids have.”
“What do you mean?”
“When I was young, it was never about finding love. Love was something you cultivated. Your parents picked your life partner. Romance never entered the equation until then. People didn’t marry people. Families married families. Your father liked his father, or his grandmother played cards with your grandmother. That was how it started. Marriage was a garden that grew slowly. You only got one patch, so you worked hard at it. You planted the seeds, you watered them, you waited for things to bloom—love, respect, intimacy, connection. But things are different now. Everyone expects fruits and flowers right off the bat. When those are done, it gets plain and boring. Then it’s time to move on to the next patch. Relationships are more disposable now. So many people, so many choices. I look at you, I look at Isabelle, and I see both the blessing and curse that freedom brings you—so much potential for happiness, so much pressure to realize it. And then, with you, there’s the thumb…” Naani stuck her gnarly digit in my face and wiggled it.
We laughed because her thumb was impossibly knobby, but also at the absurdity of the situation. I lifted her feet off my lap and placed them on the floor. Retrieving her slippers, I held them out for her.
“Your grandfather wasn’t an easy man to live with.” She slipped her foot into the slipper and paused, reflecting on distant memories. “He was controlling, hot-tempered, critical. At times, downright cruel. I wish I could tell you I grew to love him, but no matter how hard I tried, I could never find the door to his heart. I felt like a failure. My friends’ arranged marriages were working out just fine. Thriving. It wasn’t until much later that I realized some people are never satisfied, no matter what you do. When I think back, I feel sorry for him. He could never figure out how to be happy…” She put on the other slipper and trailed off.
I’d never known my maternal grandfather. He passed away before I was born. We had a picture of him on the mantle, but Dolly never talked about him. Nobody did. I waited for Naani to finish her story.
“And?” I prompted.
“And what?” She reached for her laptop and reclined against the headboard.
“The moral of the story? You were making a point?”
Naani scoffed. “Wh
at? Just because I’m old? Sometimes, I just go off on a tangent.” She screwed the lid back on the Vicks VapoRub and shooed me out. “Get the curtains before you go, beta. The sun is glaring off my screen.”
I suppressed a giggle. Naani was addicted to the internet, and oblivious to the expressions she made as she sampled the world through her screen. As I slid the blackout panels across the window, my eyes fell on the tray in the sitting area. Two slim champagne glasses sat on top. They reminded me of bubbles… Rising, always rising to the top. Happy bubbles, fizzy bubbles, sparkly, golden bubbles. I slipped one of the glasses into my handbag and shut the door behind me.
My phone pinged with a new notification. Nikos Manolas had sent me a friend request on Facebook.
Nikos, inviting me into his inner circle after realizing it’s me, not Olympia Aravani who belongs there? Yes!
Nikos, going through security footage and realizing I’m the one responsible for sparking chaos at his nightclub? No!
My finger hovered over the button for a few seconds before I accepted.
His message came through almost immediately: Sorry about last night. Promise to make it up to you. Just checking in to make sure you made it back okay.
My shoulders relaxed.
Sorry about the mess you’re dealing with, I typed back.
It happens. The business I’m in. Sorting through it as we speak. Hope to get back to you soon, glikia mou. Winky Face. Followed by Winky Face With Tongue Hanging Out.
Ugh. Emojis. The flirt-bombs of online dating. Interpret them wrong and they could explode in your face. Ignore them and you could miss something substantial. Was there a sexual connotation to the tongue hanging out? What exactly was Nikos trying to say?
I’m hyperventilating because I think you’re so hot?
I want to lick you playfully?
I started replying, backtracked, then started over again. Five minutes later, I settled on the perfect response: a single Winky Face. By then, Nikos had signed off, but I was one click away from accessing his profile. All the answers to my questions about him just waiting to be discovered.
