by Maria Luis
It’s . . . humbling.
A wisp of black hair swoops across her forehead, and I itch to tuck it behind her ear. But the sexually-charged moment is gone, and it feels awkward—no, not awkward but inappropriate—to touch her. To want to touch her.
Temporary insanity.
This walk has been nothing but temporary insanity specifically designed to send my brain cells scattering like marbles on a downhill slope. Inevitable, perhaps, given how we’ve circled around each other for decades, but insanity nonetheless.
And yet I can’t tear my gaze away from her.
“They’re going to be wondering where we are,” she says.
Let them wonder.
Squashing the thought into nothingness, I shove my hands into my jeans’ pockets. “Your favorite one.”
“What?”
I tilt my head toward my parent’s house, then clarify, “Before we go back inside, I want to know your favorite tattoo.” It’s not my place, not my business, but I throw down the gauntlet anyway.
Seconds tick by as she watches me and I study her. We say nothing, allowing tonight’s insanity to sweep away with the chilly night wind. Then, just when I expect her to bypass me, she steps in close. Her hand goes over my heart, her body angled parallel to mine, as though she’s already prepared to run.
“To the surprise of no one,” she says, humor lacing her tone, “it’s not the ink on my butt that takes the number one spot.”
I wait her out, not willing to say anything that might lead to a subject change. The need to know this piece of her is overwhelming, for a reason I refuse to look at too closely.
She huffs out a laugh under her breath. “You push a hard bargain, Stamos.”
Mina doesn’t even know the half of it. I haven’t gotten to where I am today by sitting on my ass and letting the world run me over. If that was the case, then Stamos Restoration and Co. never would have gotten off the ground. My parents would still be living in that ancient, cramped apartment that I grew up in. Effie wouldn’t have had the money to finish off her last year of college when I came damn near close to emptying my bank account to help my little sister walk across that graduation-day stage, diploma in hand.
Most days, I’m not pushing a hard bargain, I’m the one fucking dealing it.
Finally, Mina speaks—though it’s not at all what I expected. “Patience,” she murmurs, “written in script along the sole of my left foot.”
If anyone else gave me that answer, I wouldn’t think twice about it. But this is Mina, the woman who only just told me that tattoos are a camera reel of one’s life, which means that inking a word like patience on her body carries significant weight. Particularly when Mina’s the very opposite of patient. Impulsive. Reckless. Take-life-by-the-balls-and-go-for-it. That’s her M.O.—always has been. And, like the opening of Pandora’s Box, I’m desperate to discover more.
She slips around me.
I spin on my heel, gently clasping my hands on her arms, and stop her in her tracks. With her back to me and her wrists cuffed by my hands, she glances over her shoulder and quirks a brow.
“Why patience?” I ask.
That brow lifts higher, taunting me. “Why do you suddenly care? Because of one thong sighting?” She tugs on her wrists and I let her escape. For now. “Mine can’t be the only behind you’ve seen, Nick.”
She’s not wrong. I’ve seen others.
For some reason, though, I can’t bring any to mind—not even Brynn’s.
“Tell me.”
Her gaze never deviates from my face. “Because I’ve been waiting my entire life to feel as though I’m finally where I belong. You said that dreams are nothing more than temporary longings, one always leading into the next.” Delicate shoulders square off, like she’s going into battle instead of talking with me, a guy she’s known her entire life. “But I’ve been dreaming of the same thing since I was a kid. So, patience. A constant reminder that no matter how many steps I take in life, no matter where I go, I still only want one thing: to belong.”
My feet might as well be cemented to the sidewalk as Mina follows the curve of the street back up to my family’s house. They’re all probably wondering where we went, and it’s safe to say that there’s no chance of summarizing what happened out here into quaint, simplistic bullet points. No cliff notes that could possibly condense the magnitude of it all into digestible highlight reels.
I nearly kissed Mina.
For the first time in my life, I almost lost control with a woman I shouldn’t even want in the first place. I’ve seen her sick. I’ve seen her cry. I’ve seen her casually flirt with guys at bars on the few times I’ve gone out with her, Effie, and Sarah.
But never, in all these years, have I seen the blatant want that was written in her expression tonight. It matched the need written in my soul, and though that should terrify the hell out of me, it doesn’t.
Mina Pappas is the one woman I shouldn’t crave.
Because I’ve been waiting my entire life to feel as though I’m finally where I belong.
Tonight, for a slip of a moment, a snapshot in time, she belonged with me.
16
Mina
It’s official: Sophia is off her damn rocker.
I plunk my wineglass down on the dinner table. “No.”
“Why not?” With careful, precise movements, she cuts a sliver of steak and pops it into her mouth. Bony elbow planted on the table, she stares at me, her fork dangling from loose fingers. “Do you know how much fun we could have?” Those tines swivel to point in my direction. “Think about it: a few days up on the ski slopes, wine, fires roasting, old friends you haven’t seen in ages. What’s there to say no to?”
A weekend trip to the middle-of-nowhere Maine with Sophia and the other kids from our graduating Greek school class is not my idea of fun. Picking out sinks for my salon? That’s fun. Trimming off a client’s dead ends? Shiver me timbers, someone hand me a pair of shears. Standing outside in the freezing temperatures, Nick Stamos’s mouth inches from mine? Oh so tempting and the most fun I’ve had in ages. But a weekend trip with people I have little in common with aside from our mutual Greek-ness? No, thanks, I’m all good.
“I don’t think so.”
Sophia sets down her fork. “Think of it like a reunion.” She turns to Effie’s mom, determination etched into her expression. “Kyria Stamos, what do you think? This is such a great idea.”
Aleka trades an inscrutable glance with her husband, George, who sits across from her. “Well,” she hedges, one hand coming up to pat her dyed-blonde bouffant, “My daughter is busy, yes?”
“Very busy,” Effie confirms succinctly. She stabs a leafy green on her plate and gives it a swirl in a puddle of vinaigrette. “I’ve got tours all weekend. Man, just so many tours.” With a free hand to her chest, she purses her lips. “If I could cancel them, I would in a second. But we’re unfortunately rain or shine.” A short, noncommittal shrug brings her shoulders up to her ears. “It breaks my heart to tell you that I can’t—”
“Single people.”
Um, what?
We all stare at Sophia, she with the crazy orange hair. I’m beginning to think the personality matches the bad decisions on her head.
Nick’s gravel-pitched voice pierces the silence first. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“I thought that, you know, instead of inviting everyone, we could focus on those of us who are still single.” She sends a so-sorry pout at my best friend, and then looks to Sarah, who’s seated beside her wife and looking highly amused. “I mean, you’re married, Effie. And”—Sophia takes a big breath—“since I’m recently divorced, I figured this could be a singles-only trip.” She cuts her attention to me. “Though I didn’t realize you’d be here tonight, Mina. I was actually planning to send you a message online.” The smile she flashes me is so transparently fake that I almost call her on it.
Almost.
Unfortunately for her, she’s now totally solidified
my decision. A weekend trip with a bunch of single Greeks—it sounds like a naughty ballad, a bad Greek comedy, or the most epic of shit shows. Possibly all three, even. Since I’m already embroiled in a shit show of my own—hello, Agape—I don’t have the time to consider adding another.
Plus, I’m more of a beach person anyway. If I want to sit in front of a fireplace, I can camp out at my parent’s house on any given night. I’ll be forced to stand vigil for one of my dad’s lectures about my poor life decisions, but at least I can hop in my car and flee whenever I want.
The same can’t be said for up in Maine, where I’ll be hostage to Sophia’s brand of crazy, endless mountains of snow, and shitty cell service.
I shiver at the thought.
“Aleka,” snaps Nick and Effie’s grandmother to her daughter-in-law. She’s sitting diagonal from me, and altogether pretending I don’t exist. In my defense, she rarely pays anyone attention but her grandchildren . . . and her old crony friends. She’s predictable like that—same goes for her wardrobe. Dressed in mourning clothes, Kyria Stamos is a wrinkled, old thing, more bones than skin. Her tongue has always been rapier sharp, proving the old adage false. Her bark is definitely worse than her bite. I reach for my wine as she embarks on a verbal crusade in Greek.
She speaks too fast for me to translate on the fly, but I catch words here and there and piece them together like some mismatched puzzle. Something about Nick and Sophia and babies and disappointment.
Oh, Lord. Not back to this again.
Nick’s natural olive complexion turns a little green. “Óxi, Yiayia,” he growls, his back ramrod straight as he pushes his plate forward and makes a desperate-looking grab for his beer bottle. “Let it go.”
But his grandmother has never been one for letting anything go. See: finding me in her grandson’s hotel room, completely clothed. She snaps back furiously, hands flying through the air and nearly smacking Effie in the face. My best friend ducks out of the way, eyes rolling toward the heavens, and downs the rest of her wine.
“Shoot me,” she mouths in my direction.
I nod toward Sarah and make a show of tapping my bare ring finger. “Lucky bitches,” I mouth back, and they both snicker and huddle their heads together, Sarah leaning over at the last moment to kiss her wife.
I’m not kidding. They really are lucky—to have found the one, their best friend, the single person they’d do anything to protect.
I return my attention to Nick, my fake boyfriend, who looks on the verge of losing his temper—which is so out of character for him that I’m tempted to see if Uber Eats will do a girl a favor and deliver a bowl of popcorn.
Nick shakes his head curtly at whatever his yiayia is tossing his way, then grimaces and looks toward Sophia. “Sorry,” he mutters in English, “you’re great, I’m sure, but I . . . I don’t want to”—his jaw visibly flexes—“breed with you.”
From the way his beautiful pewter eyes flick to Kyria Stamos, I’m guessing that was one of her grand ideas, repeated verbatim. If I know her at all, then I’m sure the “breeding” came in the same sentence as “before I die, Niko.” Oh, the awkwardness. Screw the popcorn, it might be time to bust out the Tito’s.
Or you can come to his rescue.
I could, but what was it he mentioned before? Oh, yeah, that his family would never believe it if we claimed to be dating. Effie knows my relationship with her brother is nothing but a sham, and I can almost guarantee that Sarah’s in the loop too. Aleka and George wouldn’t believe it either. Not because they don’t like me, but because Nick has always had a solid type: women with “future wife material” written all over them. I don’t know what Savannah Rose does for a living, but Brynn Whitehead is a kindergarten teacher and you don’t get more “wifey” and “babymaker” vibes than that.
Except tonight he veered from the norm.
Tonight, he veered toward . . . me.
And there’s one person at this table—the one causing Nick the ultimate level of grief—who would absolutely believe that I sank my claws into him . . . Kyria Stamos herself. If I were a lesser person, there would be no better satisfaction than playing my one trump card over the woman who made my life hell for months on end.
But there’s no satisfaction thrumming through me right now, only nerves as I slap together the Greek words into a coherent sentence that she’ll understand. I conjugate the verb for “dating” into the present plural, my mouth silently moving over the words as the wineglass in my right hand turns slippery from my clammy palm.
You can do this!
Si se puede!
Oops, wrong language.
Naí boreís!
That’s better. Never let it be said that I’m not an overachiever.
The Stamos matriarch is still venting, rambling on about Nick’s lack of babies and how disappointed she is that she won’t have any grandchildren to spoil when she kicks the bucket—i.e. dies—and I clear my throat, set my wineglass down and move to stand up.
“Kyría Stamos—”
“Nick should come!”
My gaze flies to Sophia, who only clarifies, “To Maine.” She leans across the table to settle her hand over his. “You should totally come with us to Maine.”
The man looks positively terrified. “I wasn’t in your grade.”
“And?” Sophia visibly squeezes his hand. “We’ll trade one Stamos for the other. You know, the married one for the single one.”
Before I have the chance to throw out that Nick isn’t single, not really, she’s whipping around to Kyría Stamos and bursting into a fluent string of Greek. I envy her ease with the language, but that doesn’t stop my gaze from volleying between the woman decked out in all black to the woman thirty years her younger, who’s wearing so much pink, I’m worried Pepto-Bismol might come calling.
As much as I want to ask what’s going on, that would be like admitting that I might as well be as non-Greek as Sarah. I search out my best friend’s wife now, noticing the creases between her blonde brows as she struggles to wrangle the conversation into something coherent to an outsider.
You and me both, girl.
She catches my eye and cocks a brow, as though to say, a little help over here!
Unfortunately, she’s all on her own. The words are moving way too fast for me to cling onto one of them, let alone all, and I inhale slowly to ease my frustration. Frustration with myself, not with the people at this table. It’s not their fault that I’m me. Mina Pappas, my mother’s daughter—and not my father’s blood. Or rather, I’m the girl who’s always wanted to belong, to feel like I fit in . . . and I’ve been reminded all my life that I don’t. At school, I was the dumb girl with the Barbie fetish; at home, my dad never made it a secret that I’m nothing but the product of a short-lived affair with some random guy my mother met on a trip to America before they immigrated to the United States. A mistake my father oh-so-kindly overlooked for reasons they’ve never divulged.
But my half-Greek blood is something he’s always made me aware of: that I’m not Greek enough, not Pappas enough, a little too wild, a little too unlike him, my adopted father. Growing up, I used to wonder how my father and my Theio Prodromos, his brother, could be so incredibly different. One thrived off anger and bitterness; the other wielded a smile like his personal weapon. I don’t know if my uncle ever knew that I wasn’t his brother’s real daughter, but he never made me feel anything less than part of the family when we visited him. Those summers in Greece were my favorite times of the year—although that had to do with being near Nick 24/7 as well.
Still, my half-breed lineage definitely isn’t something that’s known outside my immediate family. Ahem. Rather, my mom’s infidelity isn’t known to anyone outside of my immediate family . . . although I did let the secret slip to Aleka Stamos way back when.
Because she was so nice and motherly and sweet and I was a kid in desperate need of comfort.
Because even then, when I was around twelve years old, I found every way to r
ebel against Yianni Pappas. It didn’t matter that he didn’t know that Aleka was in on the family scandal. I knew and Effie’s mom knew, and whenever my dad started in on scrutinizing me for things I couldn’t change—like, you know, his wife’s infidelity—at least I had somewhere safe to retreat. With the Stamos family, I never felt anything less than supported.
Even tonight, Aleka’s hug when I came inside soothed my frayed nerves, and George, who is my dad’s opposite in every way, took the seat beside me so he could ask questions about Agape. Do you need any help? he asked. I am proud of you, Mina, he praised with a pat to my shoulder and a familiar twinkle in his eye.
Love. The Stamos family has it in spades, though, in many ways, Nick and my dad are a little too similar for comfort. Both men are uptight. Both men can be reserved, their true emotions shielded from everyone around them.
“I’m not fuck—” Nick clamps his mouth shut, biting off the curse before it can truly greet the world. He rubs a hand over the lower half of his face, his annoyance written in his expression.
Okay, maybe he’s not so emotionally stunted. The man curses like a sailor, and in two languages at that.
Aleka jumps into the fray, casting a glance at Sophia like she hates having her mother-in-law lose her cool in front of people who aren’t family. “Think about it, Niko mou,” she says. “It could be fun, yes?”
“Like a root canal on the first day of my period.”
Oops, that one was me.
Nick leans forward, elbows on the table, and turns his head toward me. He’s two seats away, on the other side of his dad, but that doesn’t stop him from announcing, “I’ll go if Mina goes.”
I open my mouth, then snap it shut. I do it again because I can’t think of a damn thing to say that isn’t you’re out of your flipping mind. “I—”
Except now he’s visibly warming up to the idea. With a little, self-satisfied grin he can’t even hide, he plucks up his beer bottle from the table and drains the rest in one swallow. “Yeah,” he says, voice all smooth and velvety and confident, “we’ll go together. One car. A full weekend of skiing and—”
