by M. C. Frank
He opens his arms wide, lifting his eyebrows. “It’s just me,” he says. “That okay?”
I open my mouth to answer and I swear, all that comes out is a sigh. Who is this girl that I’m becoming? He just smiles, doesn’t say anything. Points for that.
“Car’s right over. . .” he starts saying, but I interrupt him.
“No cars tonight. I’ll take you to the town. You’ll see my Corfu, not the tourist version, okay? I mean, do you even know what a kantouni is? I bet you don’t. There’s a whole network of them, so narrow your shoulders won’t fit. Sounds good?”
“Oh, gosh,” he says, laughing, and grabs my hand.
We walk in silence. He’s busy taking in his surroundings, and I’m trying and not succeeding to pretend that I’m cool and calm like him. Our hands are linked, fingers lightly touching, and I shiver as his touch sends tingles up my skin.
I take him around the promised kantounia, where the night is so thick we can’t see our hands in front of our faces, and we stumble in the darkness, giggling. There are no cars allowed in the kantounia, since they are too narrow to fit a car—some of them are too narrow to even fit a vespa—and so if you’re on foot, you can move freely through them.
Lines of laundry, let out to dry, hang in criss-crosses over our heads, from window to window, that’s how close the houses are to one another. A tiny square of night-sky peeps from between their terraces, and we crane our necks to catch a glimpse of the heavens. There’s absolute silence down here, nothing but the scent of jasmine and the distant crying of a baby from an apartment overhead.
We’ve climbed quite a few stairs to get here, practically on the highest point of the town.
“I can’t take it anymore, Phelps,” Wes says at some point. His voice sounds weirdly choked. “My kingdom for a light.”
I inhale deeply, lifting my face to the star-studded sky. “Don’t you just love this?” I say. “The quiet, the calmness. Time seems to stop. I can’t imagine ever being stressed or scared of anything up here.”
“I can’t imagine ever breathing again,” Wes replies in a barely audible voice. I turn to look at him with sudden concern; I can’t see squat, of course, but his breath is coming short, ragged. And I know it’s not from climbing all these stairs. He sound absolutely miserable.
“I’m sorry, are you claustrophobic?” I say, starting to walk briskly, so that we’ll get out in the open as soon as possible.
His steps follow close behind me, and pretty soon he has to walk sideways, because the road is not wide enough for his shoulders. He’s probably having the worst time of his life right now.
“No,” he answers, surprising me. A full five minutes has passed since I asked him if he was claustrophobic. “Not really. Just being this close to you, in the darkness. . . I can’t. . . It’s getting bloody hard not to be my usual self.”
Oh. So I might be wrong about him having the worst time of his life. My cheeks are flaming red, and I’m so grateful for the darkness.
“Are there no places that are brightly lit and immensely crowded,” he continues, “where you keep bumping into people, and can’t catch a moment alone?”
“Of course there are, but they’re full of tourists; they’re loud and. . .”
“Take me there,” he says abruptly, “please.”
“Fine, be a tourist.” I laugh.
We emerge from the narrow streets and take the main road towards the town square. I lead the way to the church with the tall steeple, next to the clock tower, that reaches all the way to the stars. He’s not touching my hand anymore, walking a few paces behind me. Swarms of people are promenading down the cobbled road, window-shopping idly (yes, the tourist shops don’t close up until the small hours of the morning) and you have to walk at a slow pace, or you’ll walk into someone.
“Well, here it is,” I start to say, “coming right up: one order of the most crowded, noisy—Oh!”
My eyes nearly pop out of my head as I spot something incredible happening a few paces away from us. “No way!” I practically yell in my excitement. “Come on.” Without thinking about it, I grab Wes’ hand, dragging him towards the cluster of people gathered on the cobblestones.
“Hey! What are you—?” he protests, but he’s laughing, letting me lead him on. Our steps echo in the narrow streets.
We emerge from the crowd at the east side of Corfu’s town square. “There it is,” I say, as the philharmonic orchestra comes into view.
We walk even closer, stopping by the crowd that’s already gathered to watch them play in the middle of the cobblestone square. There are about fifty musicians seated on chairs, under the bare sky, and the maestro is standing on a small crate, head and shoulders above everyone else, brandishing his baton. A poster says they’re performing Tchaikovsky’s violin concerto in D major.
We stand there for more than half an hour, mesmerized by the swell of the music, watching the musicians sway with the rhythm of the violins and flutes and cellos and percussions.
There’s such an intimate kind of beauty in the act of listening to music being created right in front of your eyes, watching the notes fly off of the performers’ fingertips, the night enveloping you like a blanket. Wes stands beside me, silent, focused on the music. I lose track of time.
The music swells between us, filling the air like a fragrance.
Finally I look up and see that Wes’ eyes are misty. Mine are too, probably. “You okay?”
He squeezes my hand with both of his, rubbing it absently. My skin has turned ice-cold; the night is getting chillier by the second. “What is this place?” he whispers back. “Where have you brought me?”
I smile at the wonder in his voice. “Corfu is one of the word’s most musical places. These events happen in Corfu regularly over the summer, here in the centre of the town, as well as in the Old Fortress, in Benitses, Kassiopi, Sidari, all over Corfu. This is the philharmonic orchestra of Corfu’s outdoor concert series. Most of the performers are music students at the Ionian University; some professors and a few professional musicians also volunteer. This is their last performance for the summer season, but I didn’t know it was today.”
The maestro bows deeply and the crowd bursts into applause. A group of teenagers cheer to our left. Wes puts his fingers in his mouth and lets out a fierce whistle.
“What, that’s it?” he asks in a minute, as the crowd begins to disperse and the musicians get up, stretching, to start packing up their instruments.
“We’ve been here for almost three quarters of an hour,” I tell him. “You weren’t bored or anything?”
“Are you joking?” he retorts. “I can’t remember the last time I felt so. . . ” his voice trails off and he smiles in that half-mocking way of his. “Happy, I guess.” His eyes travel over my face, warmth shining in their green depths. “Or so hungry,” he adds in a second. “Aren’t you going to feed me?”
“Well, have you tasted souvlaki yet?” I say, wrapping my arms around me.
“I beg your pardon?” he replies.
“Oh no,” I groan. “Don’t tell me you’ve been on Greek soil for two weeks now, and you haven’t tasted our most famous and popular dish? I mean, dude.”
He bursts out laughing. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so happy. He sweeps a hand in front of me.
“Lead the way,” he says.
“You’re not a vegetarian, are you?”
“Nope.”
We sit at a little taverna that’s bathed in the glow of a nearby streetlight, in the quietest corner of the tourist market. You can’t see the sea from this angle, but the day’s din is dying out all around us and it’s really peaceful here.
Wes doesn’t even look at the menu, he just gazes at the tall, colorful buildings that surround the street on either side, and then lifts his head towards the stars that are peeping down at us from the night sky.
“Nice?” I ask.
“Yeah, more than nice. Beautiful.” He keeps looking at me in this unnervin
g way that makes me blush furiously.
We’re seated below an ancient arch, the marble gleaming white in the moonlight, an olive tree leaning its gnarled branches on the columns, and Wes probably gives himself a crick in the neck staring at it until our waiter arrives.
I order Greek salad and quite a bunch of souvlakia, judging from how many my dad usually needs to eat before he’s full—five, in his best days. Then I order two sodas and a plate of French fries.
The waiter asks me if we would like to drink wine, and I say no firmly, thankful that Wes can’t understand what we’re talking about in Greek.
Then we wait.
“So what are you going to make me eat?” Wes asks. “Frog’s tails or something?”
“Frogs don’t have tails,” I say, thinking back on what Elle told me the other day, while I was trying to eat that chicken and she was eating her water.
“Yeah, because you Greeks have eaten them all,” he insists, laughing again, and I conclude that he doesn’t remember—maybe he wasn’t even listening.
“Stop it!” I swat at his hand. “No, souvlaki is very simple. It’s like a kebab or an Arabic pita, only fluffier, wrapped around a stick filled with tiny pork chops, tomato, sauce and fries.”
“A stick?” he asks. “Made of wood?”
“Well, yeah, but they remove the stick, don’t worry.”
“And what? That’s it?! That’s the big-deal-meal you’re going treat me to, on the first day I’m out in Greece?”
Suddenly I realize that he really hasn’t had time to do any sight-seeing or even to go out in Corfu, because he’s been working all the time. Literally. And before that, who knows how long it’s been since he was able to go out somewhere alone, without hordes of paparazzi and fans and bodyguards to protect him?
I lean back, flabbergasted by my discovery.
“What are you thinking?” he frowns, watching me.
“You work harder than. . . practically anyone I know,” I tell him suddenly.
“Yeah, I do,” he answers matter-of-factly, “at least for a month or so, while shooting lasts. You do too, actually, you work both on-screen and off. And today, you’d still be working if I hadn’t taken Tim to task.”
I look at him strangely. He was the reason Tim stopped yelling at me today? I’m not sure that makes me feel too good. I mean, it’s gallant and all that, but I wish he hadn’t noticed that I needed to be ‘rescued’ again.
Suddenly I remember his text from last night: ‘I want to be the one who helps, not the one who needs help all the time. I want to be the person I thought I could be the day you almost. . . the day I first met you.’
If only he knew. . . I need rescuing on a much larger scale than he’ll even know. Maybe I should enjoy it. Maybe I should take this experience of having a guy notice me and want to take care of me, with me as I go under the knife. Oh God. Under the knife. The whole intensity of my situation hits me like a wave and I shudder, the breath catching in my throat.
He notices immediately and drapes his arm around me. “Are you cold?” he asks. “Should we sit inside?” I shake my head but he frowns some more. “You look as though a gust of wind would blow you over. Have you lost weight since I first met you? What. . . ?”
I look down, embarrassed, and he seems to realize this conversation is making me uncomfortable, because he takes his hand away and leans back in his chair lazily.
“So, anyway, you thought of my work schedule while I was asking about the frog’s eyes you’re going to make me eat why?”
While he’s talking, steering the subject away from dangerous waters, he nonchalantly takes his jacket and drapes is across my shoulders. It smells of new leather and Wes, and I thank him with my eyes, because there’s a lump in my throat.
“No reason, just. . . ” I reply, turning to hide my blush in the darkness. “You’re not at all who you appear to be. Who you think yourself to be.”
“And who do I think myself to be?”
“You told me once that I shouldn’t trust people like you, Wes. But you’re not like Elle and Anna. You’re not even like Tim. You’re. . . you.”
He shuts his eyes for a second. “Say it again,” he whispers.
“You’re you?” I say, feeling a little weird repeating it like that.
“No.”
“You told me once. . . ” I try again. What, he didn’t hear me?
“That’s not it, either,” he replies, looking away.
Suddenly I get it. “Wes,” I say his name again, my voice going wobbly and shy.
“I love the way my name sounds on your lips,” he says.
And then the waiter comes out with the food and our moment is interrupted by the fact that Wes’ eyes go round with surprise at the colors of the salad and the size of the souvlakia.
“You ordered me four of these?” he asks, terrified.
I am already biting into mine. “Try it.”
He does.
And that’s it. He’s in love. I can tell from the way his eyes slide closed with pleasure and the little moaning sounds he makes as he swallows.
“Stop making sex noises while you eat,” I murmur after five long minutes of watching him eat with almost ritualistic concentration.
“Ba bon’t bake bex boises,” he replies around a mouthful, indignant, and swallows with relish. “That being said, I think this might be better than sex.”
We eat and talk and laugh the night away.
He is so full by the time we get up to leave that he claims to have no room for dessert, but that lasts only until we turn the corner and he sees the ice-cream vendor slowly making his way through the crowd.
We each get two flavors and try all four of them. He leans forward and takes a bite of my pistachio and strawberry cream cone and all I can think of is his kiss. Those lips fitted around mine, the feel of his tongue against my teeth, his hands messing my hair, sliding to my waist.
A low moan of pleasure interrupts my thoughts and I turn to see him gazing at the ice cream as though he wants to take it to bed. So I tell him he’s weird and to stop it.
We’re standing in the middle of the famous cobblestone walk that leads from the ancient Palati to the town square; it’s called Liston. On the right bank, it’s lined by rows of tall archways of shops and on the left there are little bistros and cafes, lit up with the yellow lights of lanterns and table candles. Right now the only arch above our heads is the velvet night sky and the branches of bougainvillea rustling in the soft breeze.
Wes is holding my hand while devouring his ice cream and talking about how he hated playing Tristan with his mouth full. “It was hell,” he says casually around a huge bite of vanilla and cookies. “I signed when I was young and stupid, and depended upon my agent for my fix, but the minute my six-year contract was up, I was out of there. Two days before, to be precise.”
“Your fix?” I ask, a chill running down my spine.
He shoots me a hooded look. “Yeah,” he shrugs. “Everyone gets into that stuff, in case you didn’t know. I just beat most of them in age.”
“You were a kid!” I’m trying to get what he’s saying. “And. . . it was your agent who made you?”
“Well, he had to,” he says in his sarcastic way. “Keeping me up at all hours, kissing up to every producer and talk show, smiling like a lunatic. . . There was no way I’d be able to make money for anyone at that age, all I wanted was to play on my PS3. Not to mention I had to date every pimply teenager I worked with, from Olivia to Elle, no matter if they got on my nerves or not, because it was good publicity to be photographed with them. No one can do that sober. Hey. . . ”
I hadn’t realized it, but tears have started coursing down my cheeks. Wes looks shocked. “Don’t. . . ” he starts saying, but he doesn’t know how to continue. His jaw is working. “Don’t be sad. I’m sure I was so annoying, I had it coming,” he tries to joke, but his voice is rough.
I can’t bear to think of him like that, a little kid, lost, everyone taking adv
antage of him. I take a gulping breath, and turn my head to the wind, so that it’ll will dry my cheeks.
“I mean,” I say, trying to make my voice sound upbeat, “how could you do that? I loooooved Tristan, he was endgame!” I make my voice imitate the sing-song tone of my fangirling classmates; it’s not hard, I’ve had to listen to them gush over him for years and years.
And. . . it works.
Wes looks at me with round eyes, as though for a second he’s wondering if I’ve gone crazy. Then his face breaks into a relieved smile and he sighs, attacking what’s left of his ice cream.
“Don’t you ever say that name in my presence again,” he says majestically. “Now, where will we go next? Do you have any other Greek meat-thingies you want to me to try, ‘cause I know I said I’m full, but I think I may be up for it, after all.”
“I think we’ve had enough of the meat-thingies for one night,” I tell him firmly.
“Okay,” he nods. “Then. . . what to you want to do now?”
“Oh, whatever you want, Tristan,” I start answering and, before the name is out of my mouth, he attacks me.
“That’s it! You’re dead, Phelps.”
He starts tickling me all over and I scream with laughter, and then he has the brilliant idea to start pasting what’s left of his dripping ice cream all over my right cheek. I shriek and run away, but I can hear his shoes slapping the paved stones right at my heels, his breath panting in my ear. He’s laughing as he runs, but it’s not as if that’s slowing him down at all. He’s almost caught me, when he stops abruptly. I sense him freeze behind him, and I stop running instinctively.
“What—?”
“Oh,” Wes says to someone.
I turn around to find Elle’s arms draped all over his torso. When did that happen? Did she fall out of the sky, literally on his lap?
He scowls at me. “What are you doing here?” he asks her. “Where’s Ollie and Anna? We were supposed to meet them at the pier.” He keeps craning his neck, but she’s alone.
“Um, Ollie left, silly,” she replies, ignoring me completely. “Anna’s in the yacht with the other girls, we’re all waiting for you.”
