Hold Me Today

by Maria Luis

  “Nick?” she presses, brow furrowed. “The key?”

  Oh, yeah. Not my finest moment for obeying the law. “We picked the lock.”

  Her eyes go wide, but I leave before she has the chance to say anything else. I make it to the hallway outside of her apartment, where I twist around and shove my back against the door. The heel of my palm goes straight to my cock, and I apply pressure, easing the ache.

  The ache that Mina put there.

  If it weren’t so preposterous, I’d laugh. Except the laughter never comes, and it takes me a full five minutes to think of clowns, and my grandmother walking in on me naked, and bankruptcy, and Vince trying to hit on my sister way back when, for my cock to finally get the hint.

  Mina is not on the menu.

  Not now. Not ever.

  12

  To: Nick Stamos

  From: Mina Pappas

  Subject: Dreaming of you

  Okay, how’s that for a subject line? Did it catch your attention? I’m practicing for when I start sending out newsletters for the salon. Did you know that the average open rate is 24.79%?? 24%!!! (According to Google, anyway, and we all know Google is the real deal). If your reading this, that means you fell in that 24% and I’m doing something right. YAY!

  Anyway, back to the original purpose of this email: I dreamt you were in my apartment? I woke up to all the walls gone in the salon, a note from you on the receptionist’s desk, and a cup of untouched coffee on my nightstand.

  Were you my knight in shining armor? Am I going to have to report to TMZ that you’re the best fake-boyfriend to ever exist?

  Not-a-hug,

  Mina

  P.S., Thank you for emailing your plans for the salon last night. They’re stunning and I feel a little teary-eyed that this is actually happening. Sometimes dreams really do come true.

  To: Mina Pappas

  From: Nick Stamos

  Re: Subject: Dreaming of you

  Guess I’m in that 24.79% (that’s an oddly specific number) because here I am responding. Although, can I give a little bit of advice? Looking out for your best interest, of course. But when you’re creating the subject line, add in the personalization.

  Dreaming of you

  Dreaming of you, Nick

  See the difference? Second one makes me think you want me.

  Also, you aren’t wrong. I was in your apartment (sorry for the B&E) but when you didn’t come downstairs, I was concerned.

  Not concerned enough for you to go to TMZ, though. I’m currently soaking up the fact that the press is wicked obsessed with Dom. He mentioned needing to get away and Boston all in the same sentence, and now I think the maláka is going to come here and bring the insanity to me.

  If someone in my position were to change their number to avoid further contact . . . how bad would that be? On a scale of 1-100? Asking for a friend.

  P.S., Someone once told me that dreams are temporary longings. You want one thing, and when you ultimately achieve it, your dream morphs into something new. Something bigger than anything else you’ve ever thought possible.

  To: Nick Stamos

  From: Mina Pappas

  Subject: Dreaming of you, Nick

  Tell your friend that if he’s going to change his phone number, that’s bad on a scale of 200-asshole-ratings. You don’t ditch out on the people who need you. Ever. At least, that’s my motto in life. Maybe ask if he’d like to visit for the weekend? We can treat him to a ghost tour via Effie, a haircut via me (by the way, I never cut your hair!!!), and a Blades hockey game. Not sure if you’ve talked to your sister, but she’s got some tickets up for grabs. Yes, I’m inviting myself

  P.S., Thank you for taking care of me in my time of need. You score a 10 on the scale of I’d-Like-To-Hug-You.

  P.P.S., Tell me something, Nick. What’s your temporary longing?

  To: Mina Pappas

  From: Nick Stamos

  Subject: Dreaming of you, Mina

  STATUS: DRAFT

  My temporary longing?

  More like temporary insanity.

  I’ve thought of nothing but you since carrying you to your bed.

  Your pouty lips.

  The slip of your waist.

  That fucking tattoo that I want nothing more than to kiss, to skim with my fingers while I learn the precise note of your moan, the way your body feels as you arch up against me while I fuck you.

  To: Mina Pappas

  From: Nick Stamos

  Re: Subject: Dreaming of you, Nick

  I want you to come to family dinner this weekend. My mother would love to see you, and we both know she’s your favorite person on the planet after Effie.

  P.S., I aim to please. Always.

  13

  Nick

  Even when we were filming Put A Ring On It over the fall into early winter, there was never any doubt that, next to Savannah Rose, Dominic DaSilva was man of the hour.

  There wasn’t a date he didn’t score, a challenge he didn’t win, a friend he didn’t make. The other guys in the mansion swarmed to his side like locusts, and every one of them had something to offer to the former NFL player.

  “You know,” one of the guys said, “I got this badass bachelor’s pad up in Manhattan. When we get out of here, you should totally come and hang out.”

  Another one, a doctor, praised Dom every chance he got: “Dude, if I had arms even half the size of yours, I never would have needed to come on this show. Talk about a chick magnet. Girls love arm porn.”

  There were only two of us who hadn’t kissed Dom’s ass and offered him our dicks and firstborns: a tattooed, bearded dude named Owen-something-or-other. He was sent home on the very first night, much to the delight of every other guy in the house. Never let it be said that men can’t turn into catty assholes—not a single person was sad to see Owen go after the first ring ceremony.

  And then there was me, the other non-ass-kisser.

  “It can’t be that bad, man,” I tell America’s favorite bachelor over the phone now, using my shoulder to keep the phone pressed to my ear as I sit on my mom’s balcony, beer bottle clasped in one hand. It’s February in Boston and my balls would be playing hibernation, if it weren’t for the heating lamps I installed out here a few years back. One of the best decisions I made for the remodel of my parent’s place. “Are they looking in your window, trying to get a free view of the goods?”

  Dom snorts derisively in my ear. “You want to trade places?”

  Beer bottle to my mouth, I take a long pull. Then, “You think they can handle that? One of us is well-hung, DaSilva, and it ain’t you.”

  “Asshole,” he grunts, even though I can hear his low chuckle. “Not all of us can be a pretty boy like you.”

  “And it’s all natural, too. A gift from the gods.” I lean back in the Adirondack chair, bottle resting on the armrest. Warmth toasts my scalp and shoulders. I would have had this conversation inside, but my mom is bustling around the house, preparing everything for the family dinner. Including for some girl she wants me to meet. As if I haven’t gone on enough blind dates to last me a million years. “Don’t be jealous.”

  “Only thing I’m jealous of is the fact that you’re being left alone. One TMZ article and you’re flying clear while I get the shit end of the stick.”

  “No one told you to catch balls for a living.”

  “Jesus, did you have to put it that way?” A low groan echoes over the phone, and I can practically see the guy banging his head on a wall. There’s a clear-as-day thunk and I bite back a grin. “You think Savannah is getting it worse than us?”

  Any worry that I’ll feel like shit at him mentioning Savannah Rose disintegrates instantaneously. I made the right decision in letting
her go, even if I ended up looking like the idiot on national television as a result. It was worth it, to make sure she came out unscathed. It’s not her fault I didn’t feel the chemistry between us.

  But even though I didn’t want to marry her, doesn’t mean Dom didn’t . . . or doesn’t still want to, I’m not sure.

  Knowing that he probably won’t want to air his feelings but going for it anyway, I ask, “You good, man? I know you liked her a lot.”

  Silence greets me, and then I hear shuffling on the other end of the line. “Sometimes what we want and what happens aren’t the same thing. Not the first time I wanted a girl who didn’t want me back.”

  “Really?” Because I want to make him laugh, I go for sarcasm. “You mean this isn’t the first time your heart’s been broken?” I mock-gasp like an asshole. “Someone actually turned your arm-porn down?”

  I get the result I’m looking for, and he barks out a sharp laugh. “Smartass. And, full confession here, because I think you’re an okay guy who’s not gonna sell me out, I haven’t been turned down since high school.”

  “Welcome to the land of mortals. We’re experiencing a cold front—hell hath frozen over now that the infamous Dominic DaSilva has joined us.”

  “I mean, at least I haven’t been left at the altar like someone I know?”

  Now it’s my turn to laugh. “Savannah knew what she was doing when she turned you down. Total prick.”

  “Correction, big prick. Massive. The biggest one there is.”

  “And now it’s clear why she said no. Sometimes there is a thing called too big.”

  “Says the guy with the micro-penis,” Dom chimes in.

  I roll my eyes, then take another pull of the beer. “Envy isn’t a good look on you, maláka.”

  “Don’t say sweet-nothings in my ear, Nicky. You’ll just give me the wrong idea.”

  We both know that the Greek translation for “maláka” isn’t, and will never be, classified as a sweet-nothing. Idiot. Fucker. The exact definition depends on the inflected tone, but even so, it’s no “sweetheart,” that’s for sure.

  Sitting up, I swing my legs down from the footrest to the old-paneled floorboards. I bought this house for my parents two years after starting Stamos Restoration. Neither my mom nor dad wanted it at first. They put up a fight, dug in their heels, but I didn’t let up. They’d had me less than a year after immigrating to America, and though Dad finally opened his pizza place and Ma worked at a hair salon, the odds were stacked against them from the beginning. I was born, then Yiayia and my grandfather came to America, too. They moved in with us, and if the apartment wasn’t tight enough already with five people, then came Effie. My parents deserve it all, and if I could give them the world, I would. Anything to make their lives easier, especially after everything they sacrificed and gave up for the sake of Effie and me.

  “Come over to Boston.”

  Dom’s shock practically radiates through the phone. “What?”

  Thinking back on what Mina wrote to me in her email, I push to my feet. She was right, of course. Dom and I are friends—you don’t go through three months of what we did, with TV crews in your face 24/7, and not come out on the other side feeling like brothers instead of strangers. Which means I’m gonna do for Dom what I’d do for Vince or Effie or my parents. Or Mina. My thumb slides heavily over the edge of the phone case. Yes, or for Mina, my little sister’s best friend. “You want to get away from the rest of the world and nurse your broken heart, right? Well, no one’s gonna expect to find you here. Not when you live out west.”

  “I . . .”

  “You start crying on me, man, and I’ll send you mini condoms for the rest of your life.”

  “Sorry.” His voice is thick with emotion. “Yeah, yeah that could work. I’ll book a room for a few days.”

  “As long as you need. I’d say you could stay with me, but I’ll murder you within five minutes if I have to deal with your color-coordinating again.”

  “Hey,” he protests, “did I or did I not do your laundry while we were holed up in that mansion for weeks on end?”

  “You were a great TV-show wife, DaSilva. Maybe a little heavy-handed on the softener but—”

  “I hate you.”

  I bark out a laugh. “Let me know what day you’re coming in.”

  “Will do, man. And thanks.”

  Aleka Stamos is a force to be reckoned with, but even she can’t compare to my father’s mother, my yiayia, whose sole purpose in life is to see me married and popping out children while she’s still drawing air into her lungs.

  “This girl,” she says to me in Greek when I walk into the kitchen after hanging up with Dom, “this girl, is she the one?” She’s standing at the oven, vehemently whisking something in a black pot. The black pot matches her black sheath dress and the black sparkly slippers on her feet. She hasn’t worn any other color since my grandfather died ten years ago.

  Opening my mouth to tell her “probably not,” I’m cut off by the sound of my sister’s voice. “Of course she is, Yiayia!” Effie shoots me a saucy wink that might as well be synonymous with fear me, older brother. “What’s her name again, Nick? Your one true love?”

  I don’t even know what this girl looks like, let alone her name. Hell, my mom didn’t even mention that we were having company until this morning. Because that’s the sort of low-ball chess game Aleka Stamos is into: she doesn’t play fair, and she rarely plays with honor. Not when it comes to seeing her kids happily married. “Something with a T.” I squint up at the ceiling. “I think. Maybe.”

  “No, Niko mou,” the woman herself says as she sweeps into the kitchen, wearing a glittery dress that looks more at home on a mannequin in the department store than in this house. Who the hell is she inviting tonight? The queen of England? “Sophia. That’s her name.”

  I narrow my eyes. “Sophia who?”

  She spares me a side-glance that I don’t trust. “Sophia,” she repeats, bustling over to the counter where she pulls a wine opener from one of the drawers.

  “Ma.”

  Her shoulders inch up closer to her ears like she knows I’m not going to appreciate her answer. “You went to Greek school with her.”

  Oh, fuck. That Sophia.

  Effie bursts out laughing, and visions of sororicide start dancing in my head. “I can’t,” she whispers, clutching at her stomach as she collapses onto the closest chair, “I can’t breathe.”

  I’m glad one of us finds this funny. “I’ll keep Sarah in the living room so she can’t resuscitate you.”

  I make the rookie mistake of not keeping my distance, and Effie promptly nails me in the shin with her pointy shoe. My sister is a lover not a fighter, but I’ve had permanent bruises on my body since opening Stamos Restoration and Co. eight years ago—her kick barely registers.

  Ignoring my sister, I turn to my mother. “I invited Mina to dinner.”

  “Pappas?” she says, tugging at the cork in the bottle until I usher her out of the way and do it myself. “I love Mina! Do you think she remembers Sophia? How wonderful that we can all be together tonight.”

  Do I think Mina remembers Sophia? There weren’t many of us kids at Greek school, which belonged to our local church. Maybe forty in total, throughout all the grades, which means that it’s near-on impossible to not remember Sophia.

  She used to cling to my arm. Sit next to me at every opportunity. Latch onto my hand whenever we lined up for our traditional Greek dancing lessons. And, always—always—she made sure to laugh at Mina’s Greek accent.

  Knowing what I do now, no matter that Mina probably didn’t intend to let it slip about her learning disability, I can’t help but get the feeling that Mina questioned herself more than she ever let on otherwise, thanks to judgmental people like Sophia.

  The thought sits like acid in my stomach.

  “Ma—”

  The doorbell rings to the tune of Zorba the Greek playing throughout the house. I did it as a joke when I first b
ought the place for my parents. Only, the joke’s on me—they thought it was the best thing ever and refused to let me rewire the doorbell to, you know, play something normal.

  “Niko mou,” Ma exclaims, “get the door, will you? Effie, bring the wine to the table. Where’s Sarah?”

  Something tells me that I won’t just find Sophia on the other side of the front door, and sure enough, when I pull it open, I’m met with two pairs of eyes staring back at me.

  Fuck my life.

  14

  Mina

  You know you’re officially an adult when you’re standing next to the girl who made your life hell back in grade school—and all you want to do is offer to redo her hair because it looks like a Cheeto mated with Tony the Tiger and puked all over her head.

  I clamp my hands behind my back, all the better to not pluck at her orange strands.

  She stabs the doorbell for yet another time like the prospect of waiting with me is not something she particularly enjoys.

  Right there with ya, lady.

  Sophia’s dark eyes narrow when a familiar tune erupts inside the house. “Please tell me that’s not Zorba the Greek playing.”

  I avert my gaze and stifle a grin. “It’s not Zorba the Greek playing.” Except that it totally is, and I can’t help but tap my shoe along to the beat as we wait, side by side. Play nice, Ermione. “How’ve you been?”

  Sophia stiffens next to me. “Great. Totally great.”

  I bob my head in a quick nod, keeping my gaze locked on the door. “Divorce all finalized?”

  “H-how?”

  Tap, tap, tap-tap-tap. “Your husband used to come into the salon I worked at. I’m sorry that he was such an asshole to you.” Tap, tap. “And that he did what he did.”

  “H-he didn’t do anything.”