by kc dyer
Keep reading for an excerpt from kc dyer’s next novel . . .
An Accidental Odyssey
Coming soon from Jove!
chapter one
FRIDAY
NEW YORK FRIES
A recipe in prose by Gia Kostas, staff writer
I like my fries like i like my guys—a little greasy, a lot salty, and soft on the inside. This is a recipe that tastes hot off the street cart . . . and if you’re a purist, I’ve got a quick and dirty ketchup recipe waiting for you in the side-bar.
To feed four, all you need to begin are six large potatoes—Yukon Gold, if you can get ’em, six cups of sesame cooking oil and a whole lot of finely ground sea salt.
To begin . . .
Reaching across my keyboard, I click the “return” button and my piece shoots off with a tiny, audible zing into cyberspace. In reality, this means it travels all the way to the far end of the floor, behind a closed door and into the in-box of my editor. I can’t suppress a sigh as I lean back into my chair. My final assignment submitted. I should be celebrating.
As if on cue, a head pops up, appearing above the cubicle wall. The wall is one of those soft, grey fabric jobs, designed to absorb sound in an open-plan office. The grey color is soul-crushing on the best of days, and I’m not sure the things do much for absorbing the sound either. Mine is mostly covered with mouth-watering food shots destined for Instagram, recipes, and a map of Manhattan with pushpins in all the places I’ve written pieces about.
The head belongs to my cubicle neighbor, Janelle. She beams at me, her face poised above the shot of a beautifully plated selection of sushi that adorned an article I submitted last week.
“Drinks at five?” Janelle says, and waggles her keychain at me. The keychain bears a little martini glass, complete with tiny olive. “Billy Rae’s has two-for-one Fridays for the whole month of May.”
In spite of my interior gloom, I can’t help grinning back at her. Janelle’s smile is infectious, her wide mouth bracketed with a pair of dimples on the left, and a single on the right. The effect is just off-kilter enough to charm the hardest heart. She jingles the keychain again, clearly not convinced by my expression, and steps around the wall and into my cubicle.
“I heard your story go through,” she says, tapping my monitor with her pen. The pen, I can’t help noticing, exactly matches the shade of lipstick she’s wearing. Which, in turn, perfectly complements the blouse beneath her neatly tailored suit. “That means you’re done, right?”
Janelle’s ability to look uncreased at the end of the workday is a skill I’ve not managed to master in my time here. I sigh again, and reflexively run my palms across my own crumpled skirt.
“Yeah, that was the last piece. Apart from edits, I guess I am done.”
Janelle’s grin widens. “And I’ve just finished the last of my three-parter on this year’s local Michelin stars. So it’s a celebration, then. Excellent.” She perches on the corner of my desk, scrolling through her phone screen. “They do a classic Gibson too. Perfect for a rainy Friday.”
My back crackles as I push back my chair and stand up. “I’d love to, but I can’t,” I mutter, not quite able to meet her eye. “I promised Edward I’d meet him at Hudson Bakery. Cake tasting.”
“Hudson Bakery? Christ, Gia—that’s the most expensive place in the city.” Janelle, shocked out of her menu scrolling, drops her phone on the desk. “Forget drinks. I’ll come with you for the tasting. I’d give my right arm to taste their chocolate raspberry truffle cake again.”
I think about Edward’s reaction to me showing up with a work colleague. Considering he’d already vetoed me bringing Ruby—my maid of honor—I didn’t think it would go over very well.
“This is special, Gia,” he’d said that morning. “We’re never going to have a day like this again. Who cares what everyone else thinks? Let’s choose something we both love.”
And so it was decided.
“I’d love that,” I say, entirely honestly. “But he’s planned a special date night for us, with the tasting as the centerpiece. Sorry.”
Janelle leans forward and puts a hand on my arm. “God, Gia—you are so lucky. When I got married it was all I could do to get Gord to show up for the ceremony. ‘It’s your day,’ he’d say, every time I asked for help making a decision. ‘You just need to tell me where to stand, and I’ll leave the rest up to you.’” She sighs. “I’d have done anything to have such a supportive partner.”
There’s a fine line between supportive and bossy, but I don’t want to admit that to Janelle. Instead, I haul out an old box I’ve been hoarding from under my desk, and start loading it with pictures off the wall of my cubicle. In spite of the fact that the clock has just ticked past five, my boss’s office door remains firmly closed. Charlotte Castle, my no-nonsense, incredibly organized supervisor, offered me a polite farewell when we passed in the hallway just after lunch, and wished me well. But she hadn’t offered me a job.
“Last day and no job to go to on Monday,” I say, gloomily. “I kinda wish I’d made a better impression on the powers that be.”
Janelle folds her arms across her chest, and a careful look comes into her eyes. “Look,” she says. “It’s not just you. It’s a rough time for journalists everywhere. NOSH is a small company—one of the last independents. Charlotte has nothing but good things to say about you—you’ll get a fantastic reference, for sure.”
I step around her and begin pulling recipe clips off the wall. “I know. It’s just . . .”
“Besides,” she says, catching hold of my left hand as I reach for the last clip. “You’ve got cake to look forward to, right?”
She turns my hand so that the diamond catches one of the last rays of the setting sun gleaming in through the window.
I slip my hand out of hers and shoot her a wry grin. “The wedding’s not until the summer. And I’d rather be thinking about my next story here, to tell you the truth. This whole big wedding thing has me a bit freaked out.”
“Girl? Edward Hearst is one of the city’s most eligible dudes. I wouldn’t give working another thought, if I was in your shoes. I’d be sitting back, drinking a bellini, and leafing through Billionaire Bridal.”
Rolling my eyes, I jam the last of my tear sheets into the box. “Janelle Olsen, you’re the last person I thought would tell me to quit work because I’m getting married. What is this, the 1950s?”
As I say this, I drop the framed photo of Edward and me from the day we got engaged on top of the box. With all personal traces removed, the cubicle looks like what it is. Empty space for a temporary intern.
Janelle grins and hands me my coat from the hook by the entrance to my cubicle. “Don’t look so gloomy! All I’m saying is that you don’t have to worry financially. You can take some time, plan the wedding, and keep an eye on the job market for when your schedule lightens up.”
I’m just about to nail her again for this suddenly archaic attitude when my phone rings. It’s slipped down inside the box, and I need to pull out my stapler and the framed photo to get to it. The photo is a little out of focus, since it was taken from the Jumbotron at a Yankees game. It shows me standing on the infield, looking stunned—and with one eye half-closed—as Edward beams straight into the camera from his position, down on one knee.
I shove the photo aside and grab the phone, which is displaying a number I don’t recognize. “Gia Kostas,” I say, and hold a finger up to Janelle to let her know she’s not off the hook with me just yet.
But whatever I was planning to lambaste her with vanishes in the next moment.
“It’s Beth Israel ER, Ms. Kostas,” a voice says through the line. “Your father has just been admitted with symptoms of stroke.”
* * *
—
The NOSH offices are just off Union Square, so it’s actually faster to run to the hospital than t
aking the L line. Janelle scoops up my box for me, offering to drop my belongings at my place on her way home. I give her a quick squeeze before tossing my heels into the box and slamming my feet into Nikes. Charlotte’s office door is still firmly closed, so I make an executive decision to call in my goodbyes, and then bolt for the stairs. This building was renovated sometime before the turn of the last century, and a person can age out before the elevator arrives.
As a native New Yorker, I am nothing if not an expert at texting on the fly, so by the time I hit 14th Street, I’ve already left a message for Edward and a voice mail for my best friend. Edward keeps himself on a strict communications schedule, so even though he doesn’t reply, I know he’ll be checking his texts on the hour. Ruby’s residency is in the Ophthalmology department in the hospital, and while I don’t expect her to pick up either, it’s a relief to know she’ll be nearby. It’s not until I jog up to the front of the building that it occurs to me to call my mother, but the sight of an ambulance unloading pushes the thought out of my mind. I can call her when I have actual news. For now?
I just want to see my dad.
* * *
—
So. My dad.
Professionally, Dr. Aristotle Kostas is a well-regarded academic. He’s got a string of initials behind his name, and more degrees—earned and honorary—than I’ve ever actually counted. He’s retired now, but still holds a post as professor emeritus at NYU in the Classics department. Which mostly means he hangs out there on weekdays, puttering around and giving the graduate students grief.
On the personal side, though, I can’t really say things are as successful. My own relationship with him was totally rocky, at least while I was growing up. I almost never saw him, and my mom didn’t have much to say that was positive. But lately—mostly since he’s retired—things between us have been on the mend. My dad considers himself a life-long romantic, and has told me many times—usually after too much ouzo—how helpless he is in the face of love.
I know for a fact that others, out of his hearing, are less charitable. Having a reputation as a bit of a dog wasn’t such a problem in the twentieth century, but it doesn’t carry very far in the era of #MeToo. My dad’s been married three times; his last wife being my mom, who is twenty-five years his junior—because they met when she was one of his students. By then, he was already a father to two boys. Both of my half-brothers are much older than I am, married with families of their own. Alek lives in Los Angeles and Tomas in Boston. With the uncomfortable situation between our respective mothers, we have never even exchanged Christmas cards.
But since I started college and moved out on my own, things have warmed between my dad and me. Not having my mom in the room when we talk these days doesn’t hurt, though I have to admit their relationship has improved, too, now that she’s remarried—and moved to Connecticut.
Since he’s retired, he makes more of an effort to spend time with me. He’s a life-long season-ticket-holder for the Yankees, and I’ll tag along and take in a game with him now and then. During my whole internship at NOSH, he’s taken me out for lunch at least once a month. And now? The thought I might lose him just as I’m finally getting to know him is terrifying.
* * *
—
The hospital is a maze, and by the time I find the right floor and skid into his room, I’m sweating and breathless. A nurse, standing just inside the door, raises her hand to stop me from going further. Curtains encircle three beds, with a fourth partially drawn. I can see my dad inside, propped up in the bed, an IV tube taped to his arm. He’s in conversation with a woman who appears to be holding his hand.
“Dad!” I gasp, and they both turn to look at me.
“. . . entirely out of the question,” the woman says, unclipping something from one of his fingers. She hands a tablet computer to the nurse, who steps around me to receive it, and I hurry over to the bed.
“My daughter Gia,” my dad says, warmly, as I bend to kiss his cheek. “Gia, this is Dr. Patil.”
I nod at the doctor and reach for my dad’s hand. “Are you okay, Pops? They said you had a . . .”
“I’m fine,” my father says, airily waving the arm attached to the IV. “A small anomaly, nothing more.”
My dad is a Greek male, who would lose a leg before admitting to a bit of a scratch, so I turn instead to Dr. Patil. “They said it was a stroke. Is there such a thing as a small stroke?”
The doctor nods, tucking her hands into the pockets of her lab coat. “Small, yes, but worrisome, nevertheless. We’ll need to monitor your dad for the next forty-eight hours at least, just to rule out any further complications.”
She turns back to him, and gestures at a stack of books piled on the side table, partially covered by my dad’s overcoat. “That means bed rest, young man. Time to stay put and catch up on your reading.” Raising an admonishing finger, she adds: “No exertion of any sort, you hear me?”
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out long enough to flick the sound off.
It’s a text from Edward. I decide to take it later, and as I drop the phone back in my pocket, the doctor shoots my dad a final grin and follows the nurse out past the curtain.
“Exertion?” I ask, yanking the lone chair closer to his bed. “What was that about?”
He rolls his eyes at me. “Overreaction. There’s nothing much on my scan—I spoke with the radiologist, and that guy really knew his stuff. It’s no big deal, trust me. Who’s on the phone?”
“Just Edward. I can talk to him later—this is more important. Start at the beginning. What happened?”
“Nothing, really. I was late this morning and missed my breakfast, so I had a little dizzy spell on the subway. When I got into the office, it returned, and . . .”
“They said it was a stroke, Dad. That’s different from a little dizzy spell.”
“Not a stroke—a TIA. You heard the doctor. Completely different kettle of fish, matakia mou.”
I glance around pointedly at all the equipment. “So, is TIA medical short-hand for a stroke?”
“It stands for transient ischemic attack,” he says, falling into his teacher voice. “It mimics the symptoms of a stroke, but usually leaves no lasting damage.”
“Usually?”
“Almost always,” he says, cutting me off with another dismissive wave. “I’m fine. The dizziness is gone. They’re giving me blood-thinners, and bad food.” He sips ginger ale through a paper straw and grimaces. “All I need at the moment is some decent souvlaki. Was that Edward on the phone? Do you two have plans for the evening?”
I admit we were supposed to be tasting cakes. “But I can bring you some souvlaki, Pops.” He pats my hand and shakes his head.
“Martin is already on his way over. He’s—ah—bringing me some papers from the office, and he said he’d stop at Spiro’s on the way. Don’t worry about a thing, little girl. Papa will be fine. Go out and enjoy your Friday night. Eat cake. Have fun.”
“Uh—don’t you think I should stay and keep you company awhile?”
“I’m fine, darling, I promise you,” he says, gesturing at the pile of books. “Reading to catch up on, remember?”
The adrenaline that carried me up here has drained away, replaced with a combination of annoyance and dismay at being so summarily dismissed. Then I feel guilty for feeling this way, when he’s stuck in bed with a tube in his arm.
“But what about . . .” I begin, when his cell phone starts buzzing over on the table beside the books. I leap up and hurry around the bed to grab it, but he scoops it and answers before I can take more than a couple of steps.
“Martin!” he says cheerfully into the phone. “I’m fine—never better. Just hold a second, will you . . . ?”
He pulls the receiver away from his ear. “This is going to take a few minutes, Giannita. Off you go. I’ll speak to you in the morning, yes?”
/>
“Are you sure, Pops?” I ask, the guilt surging again. “I can stay until Martin . . .”
“Go—go,” he says. “That man of yours keeps a tight schedule. It’s good for him to eat a bit of cake too, no?”
I step out of the room once it becomes clear that he’s not getting off his phone anytime soon. In the hall, I pause to lean against the wall and check my text from Edward. I click on the message with a little trepidation—my dad isn’t wrong about Edward and his schedules. But against all expectations, the text is nothing but sympathetic.
Don’t worry about a thing, babe. Stay with your dad as long as you need. Managed to reschedule the tasting for tomorrow, noon. Call if you need anything—turned the ringer on. Love you! Xx
As I begin dialing, a nurse gives me the evil eye, so I sidle toward the elevators before I push “send.” The doors slide open on Martin, my dad’s most recent graduate student and resident dogsbody. His arms are piled with books and papers, and he’s so intent on getting in to see my dad that he hurries by me without a second glance.
I sigh, and step onto the elevator. I can check in again in the morning, before the rescheduled cake tasting. It’s only as the doors begin to close that I realize my dad never answered my question. Just what had the doctor been warning him against, anyway?
Photo by Martin Chung
kc dyer loves to travel. When she’s not on the road, she resides in the wilds of British Columbia, where she likes to walk in the woods and write books. Her most recent novel—a bestselling romantic comedy—is Finding Fraser, published by Berkley, and which Us Weekly called a “humorous but relatable self-discovery tale,” and Bustle named “a Must-Read for Outlander fans.”
