by Luis, Maria
“It’s that you have that look on your face, the same one from the night I showed up at your parent’s house and you were practically jumping out of your skin.”
When we stepped into this room yesterday, I’d envisioned telling Mina I loved her a million different ways. All of them had a single thing in common: she threw her arms around me as soon as I said the words.
Stupid. Maláka. Fucking fanciful, romantic bullshit.
Voice gritty like gravel, I grunt, “You look like you want to run, Mina.” Changing trajectories, I grab my duffel from the floor and stuff yesterday’s clothes inside the top flap. “I can handle being the only one saying I love you, but I’ve been down this path before and I’m not gonna ignore the signs again that are telling me we’re on a ticking clock.”
“I’m not Brynn.”
I meet her gaze and let it all out. “No, you’re not.” I hook the duffel bag’s strap over my shoulder. “But I can’t . . . I’m going to be blunt here, Mina. You think I looked broken when you found me after the wedding? How I felt in that moment would be unicorns and rainbows to how I’d be if you were the one to leave me at the altar. I’m not looking for a repeat situation. You need time to really think about what you want from me, from us, and I’m not gonna sit here and make you feel guilty for not sayin’ the words back.”
Her brows furrow together. “So you’re doing the walking first this time? Is that how this is going to play out? You scurry off because you’re worried that I’ll do what Brynn did to you?”
“You already ran, Ermione. You might be standing right here in front of me but, mentally, you’ve checked out because you’re scared.” I stare down into her honey eyes. “You know I’m right.”
She sucks in a harsh, reedy breath. “Please don’t give up on me. I need to—I need to . . .”
Against my better judgment, I lean down and brush a soft kiss to her forehead. I soak up her scent, wishing that I could rewind tonight and hit PLAY with her shirtless in front of me and stars in her eyes. I feel her fingers grip the fabric of my shirt.
Give her space. Let her think.
This doesn’t have to be the end—even if it sure as hell feels that way.
I skirt past her on my way to the door, where I glance over my shoulder to look back at her. “S’agapo, Ermione.” I love you. “But I can’t be the one to tell you why loving me back scares you; only you can figure that out. When you do . . . come find me. I’ll wait. I’ll always wait.”
Fisting the knob, I pull open the door.
“I wish it didn’t terrify me,” she whispers raggedly from behind me.
My shoulders pull up. “Kai ego, agape mou, kai ego.” Me too, my love, me too.
Dom says nothing when I knock on his door two minutes later. He only looks from my bag hooked over my shoulder to my face, then backs up wordlessly to let me inside the room. His is smaller than the one I shared with Mina, and while he climbs back into bed, I sprawl out on the floor with a spare duvet and a pillow.
There’s no fireplace to keep the space warm, and soon the chill of Mina’s emotional mountains seep into my bones. The icy night keeps me company into the early morning while sleep proves completely elusive.
I never break hearts—but tonight I broke two.
36
Nick
“Where is he?”
Balancing the sledgehammer’s wooden handle on my palm, I lean back from where I’ve been going to town on age-old drywall, and eye Vince, who’s standing closest to the museum’s front door. “Don’t let her in.”
He gives me a side-eye to rival all side-eyes, his hand already reaching out to the doorknob. “I don’t have a death wish.”
I chuckle, low. “Effie’s not gonna kill you, Miceli.”
“I’m going to kill you all if you don’t open this door right now!”
Mark doesn’t even bother to disguise his snicker. “She sounds pissed, boss man.”
That’s because Effie is pissed. After an awkwardly silent three-hour car ride back to Boston from Bethel, Mina asked for me to drop her off at my sister’s house instead of at her parents’.
It took approximately twenty-three minutes after that for Effie to blow up my phone with texts that can be summed up by the following:
What are you, a MONSTER? Who walks away from a girl like Mina, huh?
I can’t believe you left her high and dry.
Do I need to come over to your place and personally help you remove your head from your ass?
ANSWER ME, NICHOLAS, OR SO HELP ME GOD, I WILL PERSONALLY MAKE YOU CRY.
I haven’t cried since I was seven years old when I somehow managed to crush my junk at my elementary school’s jungle gym. For the record, tire swings are hell personified if not treated with care.
“Nick! Nick, you open this door right now!”
At the telltale sound of fists banging, Bill’s left eyebrow starts to twitch. “Should we let her in?”
And have her berate me for ignoring her calls and texts for all of three days? Sure, why not. It’s not like I’m not miserable enough already after everything that went down in Maine.
Ignoring the pinch in my heart, I jerk the head of the sledgehammer toward the door. “Go ahead.”
Vince and Bill shove Mark forward with commentary about him having survived prison, so an angry woman should be no trouble at all. If they honestly think that, then they don’t know Effie. But they praise Mark’s boldness, gussying him up to the front door like a sacrifice to the gods, then promptly turn tail and shout at me that they’re taking a lunch break.
When the door swings open, Effie spares Mark a once-over that could drop a man cold, then swings those dark eyes of hers over to me. She jabs a finger in my direction. “You,” she growls.
“Me,” I confirm with a nod.
“You—”
I cut my little sister off with a glance over to my employee. “Mark, get lunch with the guys.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice.
Scurrying from the room, he leaves me alone with Effie, to which she wastes no time in verbally sinking her talons into my flesh. “You’re being the absolute worst right now,” she snaps, hands on her hips as she swivels on her heels and takes in the renovation project. “I just want you to know that. Also, this place smells like shit.”
It smells like sawdust, mold, and, yes, shit.
Gotta love the stray cat population in Cambridge.
I drop the sledgehammer on my makeshift work desk and get right to it. “I’m giving her time to think, Effie. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
She makes a buzzing sound with her tongue. “Incorrect, Kyrie Stamos.”
Rolling my eyes, I cut the corner around the desk and lean my ass up against it, arms crossed over my chest. “Effie, do you remember that time Sarah dumped you after you were all up in arms about opening your tour business in Charleston of all places?”
My sister’s mouth purses. “First, Charleston is known for its ghostly lore. Second”—her mouth flattens even more—“of course I remember. I was devastated.”
Understatement of the year. For no less than a week straight, Effie had looked like a walking zombie. She didn’t sleep. She didn’t shower. All until she came to the lightbulb realization that the only reason she wanted Charleston as her home base was because Sarah had asked her to move in together and my sister had freaked out.
Not unlike Mina had done when I said that I loved her.
My stomach drops with the memory of Maine, and I ruthlessly shove the emotion aside. To my sister, I say, “Sarah gave you time to figure out what you wanted. She didn’t pressure you. She didn’t hound you for an answer. She let you come to your own decision.” I swallow, hard. “I’m doing the same with Mina.”
Effie narrows her eyes, lashes fluttering sharply enough to appear lethal. What the hell are women putting on those things nowadays? Miniature knives?
My sister turns her nose up at me. “You’re being a chicken shit.”
“You are.” She sticks a finger toward me, wiggling it around like she’s drawing abstract shapes in the air. “You think Mina’s scared? How about the fact that the last time you went AWOL like this, it was because Brynn ditched you?” Effie meets my gaze, and I’m not at all surprised to find the love mingling with annoyance there. It’s a natural emotional cocktail for the two us. “Mina isn’t Brynn, Nick.”
I groan loudly. “I know she’s not Brynn. There’s no comparison between the two.” Because whereas my ex-fiancée thought of no one but herself, Mina is selfless, kind, and—I slam my eyes shut. The biggest difference of all is that Mina is my best friend and the one person I can’t imagine living without.
Oblivious to my inner thoughts, my sister rants her heart out. “But you’re worried she won’t love you back, just like Brynn didn’t love you back and Savannah Rose didn’t—”
“I didn’t love Savannah.” Feeling uncomfortable under her astute assessment, I re-cross my arms and shift my weight. “And I can promise you, what I feel for Mina is . . .” I lift my arms, hands curving over the back of my skull in frustration. Blowing out a breath, I catch my sister’s gaze and hope to make her understand. “Mina needs space to figure out what she wants without my presence making her feel guilty that she’s done something wrong by not loving me back.”
“She loves you back, maláka.” Effie storms forward, her purse flying open as she digs around inside. With her features pulled tight, she yanks out her cell phone and shoves it into my hand. “I’m betraying my best friend’s confidence right now, I hope you know that. I told her . . . I told her that the two of you would never work out. I was wrong.”
I blink down at her, all mock-innocence because there’s not an older brother on the face of the planet who can hear those beautiful words and not give their little sister some grief. “I’m sorry,” I say, leaning in with my hand curled around my ear, “what was that? I couldn’t hear you.”
“I. Was. Wrong.” Her glare sings murder. “Happy now?” She waves a dismissive hand in the air. “Of course you are.”
Glancing down, I run my thumb along the blacked-out screen. “Effie, I don’t need to read your texts with Mina.” Nothing about that screams, good idea. Their friendship is as sacred as mine is with Mina or mine with Effie. “I’ve got no interest in breaking your girl code or whatever.”
I don’t think I’m imagining the relief in my sister’s eyes as she takes back her phone. “She loves you, Nick. Can’t you see that?”
“What I see is that she needs time to process that being with me doesn’t mean she needs to give up all that she’s worked toward. I’m not her dad, Ef.” Or her adoptive father, at any rate. “I’m not gonna be like that maláka who raised her to feel less than for following her own damn heart.”
Silence permeates the museum’s front entrance as Effie blinks up at me. Her mouth forms a little O and her brows knit together as she clamps her jaw shut. Open, closed. Open, closed. Whatever she’s thinking about, she’s thinking hard on it. Finally, she says in a voice so soft I need to lean in to hear it, “You love her, adelphé.”
She whispers the Greek word for “brother,” and I dip my chin in a silent yes. “So much, Effie. And if she chooses to be with me, I want her to know that she came to that decision with a clear mind.” I shove my hands in the front pockets of my paint-splattered work jeans. “I told her to come find me when she’s ready. I’m gonna be patient. I’ve got all the patience in the world.”
Patience.
Just like the script she has inked on the bottom of her foot. Just like the way she’s lived her entire life, always taking measured steps to get where she needs to go, knowing all the while that when a dream is meant to come true it will. And never before she’s ready.
My heart pounds erratically in my chest and my damn palms grow clammy.
Exactly how they were supposed to when getting ready to propose to Savannah Rose.
The irony isn’t lost on me.
If Mina can spend thirty years practicing patience, then I’ve got more than enough in me to last a matter of weeks, months, or however long it takes for her to realize that she’s stuck with me. For today. For tomorrow. For the rest of our lives.
“Effie?”
Her familiar dark eyes zero in on my face. “Yeah?”
“I’m glad Mina’s had you by her side all these years.”
Color flushes to her cheeks and she blinks rapidly up at the ceiling. “Stop it, maláka. You’re gonna make me cry.”
I shrug. “Just telling you the truth.”
More blinking ensues. “My mascara is going to bleed—stop saying nice things.”
“I’m a nice guy, Ef.”
“Yeah, you are.” Her lips pull up in a grin. “I’m glad Mina has a nice guy like you to love her.”
She says it without heat, and I drag her into a hug, propping my chin on the top of her head. “Kai ego, Effie, me too.”
37
To: Mina Pappas
From: Nick Stamos
Subject: who you are
Disclaimer: Don’t respond to this email. I’m writing it because I wanted to get some thoughts off my chest. Thoughts about you. Thoughts about what I see when I look at you. This email is for you, Ermione, and not for us. I hope that makes sense.
All my life, I’ve always known two things about you:
You’re a pain in my ass.
There is no kinder soul than you.
Every monumental event in my life has you written in the seams—and I’m not the only one who’s experienced your friendship. The night of your prom, you spent hours dolling up the girls who made your life hell at school. When Effie and Sarah were on the rocks, you never picked sides even though Effie is your oldest friend. You listened to their heartache and celebrated when they got back together. When Katya moved down south for graduate school, you took time off with no pay so that you could help her make the trek . . . which you paid for. (And, yeah, this is one of those things I only know because Effie told me).
When your Theio Prodromos passed away in the car accident, it was you who hopped on the first flight to Greece to see him in the hospital before he died. It was you who helped your grandparents with the funeral arrangements. You did it without thought because someone you cared about was hurt.
What I’m trying to say—and maybe failing at—is that you deserve so much more than what your parents have given you. But what I’m also trying to say is, blood isn’t everything and you are so much more than you see.
Not because of your Greekness or your “otherness” but because I’ve never met another person who can make someone feel like they belong—not the way you can.
You may be Bad Girl Mina Pappas.
You may be Barbie-Loving Mina.
But you are also Ermione Pappas, and to put it bluntly, there is no one else like you.
Hugs,
Nick
38
Mina
No one bats an eye when I speed-walk through the lobby of Effie’s building looking like an absolute mess exactly one week post Bethel, Maine.
I’m wearing yesterday’s sweatpants—honest to God sweats, not a cute pair of leggings—a Patriots sweatshirt that has a coffee stain over the mascot (which is unfortunately placed over my nipple), and two different sneakers.
The right is black and the left is gray and if that’s not a metaphor for my life then I don’t know what is.
“Slow it down, lady,” one guy mutters in a thick Dorchester accent when we bump elbows near the elevator. “We’re all goin’ to the same place.” His gaze falls to my feet, narrowing imperceptibly. “You mean to be wearin’ two different shoes?”
No, I just decided to hell-with-it when I walked out of my apartment forty minutes ago. Of all the sarcastic retorts in my arsenal, I practice some award-winning self-restraint and only throw hi
m a droll look. “It’s a new trend, sir. All the kids are doing it nowadays.”
He grumbles under his breath, and I’ve got no doubt that it’s highly uncomplimentary if his middle finger skating up alongside his temple is any indication.
Lucky for me, I only need to put up with his ba-humbug attitude for three floors. He gets off with another disgruntled look in my direction, and I jab a finger at the CLOSE DOORS button once again.
My mouth hitches up at the memory of blockading Nick in the elevator at Toula’s wedding. And then I’m not just thinking about the elevator but the email I printed out and stuffed into my purse.
The email that Nick sent me just two hours ago.
Because the man is not content with only turning my life virtually upside down. He wants to worm his way into every breath, every crevice, and every single moment of my existence. I would hate him for it, if one week isn’t already long enough to know that my days feel emptier without him.
In the week that we’ve been back in Boston, I’ve thrown my entire self into Agape. I finalized interviews and scheduled them for next week. I went to a local thrift shop to find original (albeit cheap) artwork to hang on the walls. I talked to the building inspector who gave me the thumbs-up—not only can I move back into my apartment and out of my childhood bedroom over the weekend, but Agape is ready to rock n’ roll . . . even if I have only stepped inside for a matter of minutes on the day the inspector came to visit.
The salon reminds me of Nick. My lifelong dream—my one temporary longing—has the memory of Nick Stamos imprinted all over it.
So, I stayed away. Because Nick told me to figure my shit out and being in Agape—appropriately named “love” in Greek—only reminds me of him. Of us. And the fact that speaking the words “I love you” anywhere outside of my head leaves me feeling lightheaded.
Nick’s email might not have explicitly said those three little words but I heard them all the same. I heard their resonance in every comma, every letter, and for a girl who hates to read, I’ve poured over his email no less than twenty times since it hit my inbox.
