by Luis, Maria
Effie lets out a little sigh. “I know she’s stressed when I have to remind her to shower. Her boss is just such a jerk. You’d think they were working on a miracle life-saving drug the way they’re all camped out at the office at all times of night.”
Sarah works for one of the big investment firms in the city, but her latest project is centered around kids’ toys. In particular, if one up and coming company should warrant any money from her firm.
Anytime I used to complain about a client at the salon giving me hell, I reminded myself that at least I wasn’t sleeping at my desk at all hours of the night, only to wake up and do it all over again. Sarah is a beast, and though we share ambition, my dreams allow for showers.
You know, when I’m not wallowing in self-pity.
We cross the street as one, our arms linked the way we’ve done since we were kids, and hustle down a pedestrian-only walkway beside Old North Church. Smoothed cobblestones line the path with tall brick walls on either side of us.
I wait for Effie to spill her truth, knowing she’s holding back, and it’s only when we hear the music from Hanover that she finally relents. “I feel like I’m failing, you know? I love my tour company. I love storytelling and watching my guests light up when they hear a particular story that creeps them out, but . . .”
I elbow her in the faux-whalebone bodice. “But what?”
“It’s not enough, you know? And I worry that adoption agencies are going to look at my choice of career and knock us down a peg.”
It hurts my heart to hear Effie talk about herself like that—as though living her dream is somehow not enough.
It is enough. I have to believe that because otherwise I’ve been working toward something all my life, only to feel disappointed in the end.
“You can’t think like that,” I tell her firmly. “Between you and Sarah, you both bring in a great salary. You own your house and you’ve got a rooftop terrace and investments, and even though you’re self-employed, you’re putting money into a 401k.” I nudge her again, wanting to see her smile and lose the stressed-out, my-world-is-caving-in look. “You’re the most responsible person I know. Don’t ever think you’re not contributing enough when we both know you do just fine. Any adoption agency should feel grateful that you and Sarah want a kid of your own.”
The beginnings of a grin curls her lips, and she taps my side with the lantern. “Yeah, you’re right.”
I straighten my back and give a little shimmy of my hips. “Of course I’m right. Now, which pizza place of all the pizza places is calling our name?”
* * *
We end up at a restaurant with the same slate floors I wanted in Agape, and rustic shiplap on the walls. Tapered candles sit in the center of every table and the air is a scented combination of pizza, garlic, and oven-baked bread.
It smells like a food orgasm—if food orgasms were a thing.
“Okay,” Effie says after we’ve broken fast with a deep red wine that carries a hint of blackberry, “unload your burdens.”
We tap wine glasses in a toast. “You told your brother about me.”
She quirks a brow. “You need to be more specific than that. There are many things my brother knows about you. Including the fact that you’ve got an outie belly button.”
Along with the precise shade of my nipples.
Those summers spent in Greece were a host of embarrassing moments, one after another, usually with me at the center of unwanted attention.
I swirl the wine in the bowl of the glass and let my shoulders droop. “He knows. About”—I lean forward after casting a quick glance over my shoulder—“the fact that I liked him. Back in high school.”
Effie’s mouth purses. “You’re shaving off a few years there. Just in high school?”
“Oh, my God, do we need to go into timeline specifics here?”
“Hey, don’t shoot the messenger.” Her hands come up in mock-innocence. “All I’m saying is that you were still pining after him in your early twenties.”
My ass slumps farther down on the wooden chair. “Okay, yes, I still—maybe—kinda liked him then too.” Though I never once made a move because he was dating Brynn Whitehead. Slim, blonde Brynn, with her button nose and her narrow hips and her thighs that did not touch. “The specifics don’t matter. What matters is the fact that he knows and I agreed to ‘fake date’”—I throw up air quotations—“him while he deals with the press after that dating show you never mentioned to me.”
Her shoulders hike up sheepishly. “It wasn’t my story to tell.”
“You tell me everything.”
“Did you really want to hear about how my brother wants to settle down with the whole nine yards? A wife and kids and the white picket fence?”
Probably not.
She knows me too well, dammit.
“Anyway,” she goes on, “no one knew besides the immediate family. My yiayia was beside herself.” She pauses, then winces. “We may have told her that he was going into an arranged marriage.”
“An arranged marriage?” I down more wine because even the thought has me shaking with empathy. “Remember that time when my dad tried to pair me off with his single friend? Ermione, he said, Stavros is the perfect, nice, Greek man. He goes to ecclesia. Father Valtaros loves him.”
“Oh, the sign of every good future spouse,” Effie drawls, lifting her glass in another toast, “a man who’s in with the priest, has gray hair growing like a second mustache out of his nostrils, and doesn’t speak a lick of English.”
It’s the last one that gets me.
If sitting in Algebra and English felt like punishment most days growing up, then trying to learn a new language felt damn near impossible. The number of hours I sat holed up in my bedroom, trying to memorize what letter matched to which sound was . . . my stomach sinks with the memory—the utter hopelessness I’d felt knowing I was a complete disappointment, somehow less Greek than my peers because the language remained a barrier I could never quite cross. Katya and Dimitri picked it up easily—born-naturals, I guess—and that felt like more salt in the wound.
Forget about the drastic age gap, marrying a man like Stavros would have been misery personified on the most basic, fundamental levels of communication. I shudder at the thought. “Your grandmother would be a better match for him.”
“Oh my God, I know, right?” Effie’s grin deepens. “But let’s get real, she’s putting all the weight on Nick’s shoulders. She’s convinced he’s her last hope for grandchildren.”
“Is she still working under the crazy assumption that you and Sarah can’t have kids?”
She rolls her eyes. “Interventions. We’ve literally sat down with her multiple times to tell her that yes, she will be getting a grandkid from us, but she’s so old school—”
“It’s the village in her speaking,” I cut in, wanting to soothe my best friend’s annoyance. “Not that it’s an excuse, but hey, the woman still thinks your dad should have gone to school for business instead of opening a pizza joint, and he opened House of Stamos, what? Like twenty years ago? And, I mean, she actually thought Nick was entering an arranged marriage. Nick of all people—actually, no, I can see it.” I tap my nose. “So orderly, so easy. How has this not happened already?”
That pulls Effie out of her funk. She laughs so hard that when the server comes around with our meat lovers’ pizza, she nearly tips over her wineglass. “Forget that, how about the fact that my mom is having ‘family’ dinner this weekend all so she can introduce my big brother to yet another girl.”
The cheese sticks to my molars as I swallow hastily. “Oh?”
“Yup.” Effie plucks a piece of sausage off her pizza and pops it into her mouth, chewing. “How’s that fake relationship working out for you two? Can you bust him out of family dinner? Also, I just want to point out how crazy cliché fake dating is. What? Are you practicing for a role in a Hallmark movie or something?”
I can’t manage to withhold a snort. “Hey, don’t lo
ok at me. It was all your brother’s thinking.”
“Figures. If it was up to me—”
“If it was up to you, I’d be married to your brother because you don’t do anything in half measures. Why stop at dating when you could complete the cliché circle and get me to exchange rings?”
She points her pizza crust at me. “I’ve got your best interests at heart.”
“My best interests or yours?”
“Well, mine, obviously. I’ve always wanted a sister. Nick doesn’t cut it. Too hairy.”
And, because Effie and I have known each other since before even puberty, I point at my freshly waxed upper lip. “We’re all too hairy. It’s the Greek blood.”
“Mediterranean,” she corrects, “the Italians and Lebanese are in the same boat as us.”
I scratch my chin, pretending to think hard. “New idea. I’m bringing in an esthetician into the salon—it’s a surefire way to guarantee I’ll never go out of business.”
Effie and I break out into laughter, and it’s not until we’re settling the bill and leaving the restaurant that she grabs my hand. When I meet her gaze, she squeezes my fingers. “You know I love you, right?”
I tilt my head to the side. “I mean, there were a few times over the years when I wasn’t too sure—”
“Mina.”
The joke dies on my tongue. “Yeah, Effie,” I say, “I know. You’re my best friend.”
“Then, as your best friend, just hear me out.” When I say nothing, she releases me and twines her fingers through her scarf. “I know you used to like Nick, but I . . .” Her dark eyes search my face. “I love you both, and you know I want to see you happy, but I don’t think he’s that guy for you. He’s not the one.”
My shoulders stiffen at her earnestness. Little pinpricks latch onto my heart, and I mentally pluck them off, one by one, until they’re all figuratively gone. This is Effie, and I know she doesn’t mean to upset me. “I’m not looking for the ‘one.’” I throw up bunny quotes just to emphasize my point. “I’m focused on Agape, and only on Agape.”
She doesn’t look like she believes a word I’m saying. “I know you secretly love those romance audiobooks you listen to all day, but Nick’s not one of your book boyfriends. He annoys you and you annoy him, and the two of you are just—”
“Opposites.”
“Yes!” She snaps her fingers. “Total opposites. And that’s not a bad thing, but you don’t want to get married or have kids—you’ve always said so—and Nick . . . it’s all he wants. All he’s ever wanted. I love you both, but you’ve never once wavered with your opinion on marriage. It’s not just that you two are opposites, it’s that you have different dreams in life.”
Marriage. Kids.
Even Effie doesn’t know all the reasons why I’ve avoided the possibility of a quintessential familial unit, and the reasons extend far beyond my hair salon. Husband. Babies. A dog—although I wouldn’t mind this one so much. It’d be nice not to feel so alone all the time. Yes, opening Agape is my sole focus, but I can multi-task with the best of them. If I want to date a guy and run a business, I know that I could—easily. When I want something, I make it work, no matter what.
But aside from youthful infatuations and uncomplicated flings, I’ve never craved anything more. Never craved longevity. Probably because my own parents have shown me that longevity doesn’t always equate to trust, to true love, to loyalty. Growing up in the Pappas household taught me one lesson that I’ve never forgotten: love comes with conditions. And I’ve never been the sort of person to let anyone hold power over me, especially not a man. Hell, the only men I’ve truly trusted are George Pappas, Effie’s dad, and my uncle on my father’s side, who we visited in Greece each summer before he passed away.
Although I suppose Nick fits in that group, too.
The wind blows sharply around us, whipping the hem of my skirt against my legs, and I shove my shaking hands deep into the pockets of my coat. “I get it, I promise.”
“I’m sorry—”
“Why be sorry?” I nudge her, as is our way, and then step to the right. We live in completely different areas with me in Harvard Square over in Cambridge, and her and Sarah living the glam life in Beacon Hill. “You’re looking out for your brother, just like I look out for Katya or Dimitri. We’re all good.”
“Promise?”
Though ten feet or so separate us now, I hold up my pinky. “Promise. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
She offers a wave, then calls out, “Filakia!” Kisses.
I shout it back because it’s a major red flag if I don’t.
“Filakia,” I whisper to myself, trying to emulate her exact pronunciation. Unfortunately, I still feel like a complete sham. And I don’t suspect that feeling will be going away anytime soon.
11
Nick
“Hey, boss, you did say ten, right?”
Hands on my hips, I glance away from the front window of Agape to one of my guys, Bill, and give him a swift nod. “I did.”
“You didn’t get the key?”
I hold up the hot-pink key in question and promptly feel three pairs of eyes narrow on it. “Looks like Miss Pappas either forgot to get us the right one or—”
“I can pick a lock,” offers one of my other workers, a guy named Mark who’s done a round or two in the local penitentiary for misdemeanors. I took a chance on him when no one else would, and he’s been one of the hardest-working employees I’ve ever had. At my raised brow, though, he backtracks with a cleared throat, his gaze flicking up to the sky. “Not that I would because, ya know, laws. And jail.”
“And handcuffs,” calls out Vince, my assistant GM and oldest friend. Standing next to Mark, Vince looks like a dark-haired mountain with an olive-toned complexion that matches mine. He’s the Italian Stallion to my Greek Adonis—according to him, anyway. He punches Mark in the arm, nearly sending the shorter man sprawling to the pavement. “Don’t forget the handcuffs.”
“Furry handcuffs or that shit’s not happening,” Bill tells the group. As one, we all look his way, and he shrugs. “Listen, until you’ve done it, I don’t want to hear any back talk.”
Mark raises a hand. “Since I’m the only one who’s done any time, I’d like to take a moment to point out that furry handcuffs aren’t on the menu in jail.”
“Neither are women,” snickers Vince, and I choke back a laugh.
“On that note, ladies,” I say dryly, “I’m going to give Mina a quick call and see if we can get ourselves inside and working sometime before I turn ninety.”
Only, Mina doesn’t pick up the phone.
Not the first time around.
Not the second time either.
By the time I’m listening to Beethoven’s Für Elise for a third go-round, my patience is threadbare. Where the hell is she? Mina was the one to suggest today’s meeting time, and the fact that she’s over thirty minutes late doesn’t make a lick of sense. My sister’s best friend may be a lot of things, but she’s never been forgetful. When she commits to something, she rarely turns tail and changes her mind. Her steadfast attitude is one thing I admire about her.
But admiration isn’t the reason why I’m taking time out of my day to overhaul her dingy building.
Between the two of us, she’s getting the better end of the bargain with this deal of ours. If I invoiced her a bill for the renovation, it’d number in the five-figures. My guys need to be paid, and if I do it all on my own, I’ll be here for weeks—which means that their wages are coming out of my own pocket, and, unlike a normal contract, my palms aren’t being greased beforehand. I let my guys think she’s shelling out the money, mainly so they don’t raise any brows and wonder why I’m bending over backward to help a woman who, for all intents and purposes, I’m known to not to get along with.
All so I can help her out.
And so I can help her to reach her dreams.
It was blatantly obvious how much it bothered her to come and ask for help—
to me of all people, her old, high school crush. I’m not an idiot. Despite the fact that we both apparently know more about each other than either of us has ever previously let on, Mina and I have never been close, no matter the fact that she and my sister are practically inseparable. After that fateful prom night when she closed her eyes and swayed, ever so much, and I told her about Brynn, we’ve kept a wide birth from each other.
It felt safer that way. We stuck to our lines, to our roles as older brother and best friend, respectively, and continued on with life. Until she came to my rescue and had my back when I was spiraling.
Now she’s the one spiraling. The “pro bono” renovation might as well be my form of repayment, though I have no illusions that she feels anything remotely “more” for me at this point.
Asking Mina to help keep the paps off my back keeps the playing field between us equal.
I scratch her back. She scratches mine, even if I highly doubt the media’s interest in me will last longer than a few weeks. I’m not fooling myself: a construction guy in Boston isn’t nearly as exciting as Dom, a former NFL tight end and a sports analyst on Sports 24/7. Poor bastard is already getting the brunt of the press, if our few phone calls are anything to go by.
But I wanted Mina to keep her pride, even when it’s easy to see that her pride’s already been scraped raw, and now . . .
Now she’s fucking late, wasting time and money. Both of which are coming out of my pocket, not hers.
Impatience boils deep under my skin, and I shove my phone into the back pocket of my work jeans. She thinks I’m such a rule-follower? Maybe it’s time to change that.
Turning on my heel, I move back to the guys. When I’m within earshot, I gesture toward Mark. “Pick the lock.”
He makes a weird gurgling sound in his throat. Then, “Uh, boss?”
I kick my chin in the direction of the door. “Not gonna report you to the cops, Sheldon. Pick the lock, and let’s get to work.”
