by Luis, Maria
He loves me. He loves me. He loves me.
It’s the mantra of the week and I’m terrified—terrified for all the wrong reasons—and it’s desperation that turns my hand into a fist as I bang on my best friend’s door.
My knuckles thunder away as I knock, knock, knock, and then finally the door cracks open and I don’t wait for Effie to welcome me in or kiss my cheeks or give me a hug. I burst through like a pebble springing from a sling shot.
“Are you wearing different-colored shoes?” she deadpans as I push past her.
“I’m having a moment.”
Effie slides her gaze down over my outfit. “Understatement of the century, I think.”
“It’s your brother’s fault.”
“My brother made you come here looking like that? He’s not heartless. And you should really burn that sweatshirt. The stain is unfortunate.”
Ignoring her side commentary, I dig through my purse for Nick’s email. Like it’s a Wanted ad and I’m not sure I want to touch it, I pinch the corner between my thumb and forefinger. “Do you see this?”
My best friend looks from me to the paper and back to me again. “Do I need to get my glasses for this?”
“Yes.”
Effie nods, then tilts her head to the side. “Should I bust out the Tito’s too?”
“Might as well.” I plunk down on her sofa, kicking off my mismatched sneakers, and smooth the email over my lap. The words stare back at me, all blurring together. For once, it’s not my dyslexia playing tricks on me. Nope, that would be emotion bubbling its way up to the surface and threatening its presence with a possible tear. Or two. “Do you have tissues?”
“Are you planning to cry?” Effie asks, not sounding at all horrified by the prospect.
“I might, I don’t know.”
It’s probably best that she doesn’t know I’ve been a crying mess all week. Because what thirty-year-old woman can feel the most important words of her life inside her heart but can’t find the strength to say them out loud?
As Effie trots off to grab our—my—supplies, I envision Nick as he uttered the words that tilted my world on its axis: and I certainly wouldn’t do it to the woman I love. Since the age of six, I’ve seen my best friend’s older brother impassive, I’ve seen him throw his head back in laughter, I’ve seen him so hot for me that I’m sure I’ll combust at first contact. But I’ve never seen him like he was on our last night in Maine.
Resigned.
Like he’d already expected my response.
Only, words, as they always have, failed me when I needed to tell him—not show, as is my habit—that I care so damn much that I felt crippled when he walked out that door.
Rock bottom, you’re a goddamn bitch.
“Here.”
On cue, the bottle of Tito’s appears before me. I take it from Effie with a pathetic sniff, twisting the top off and tossing it on the glass coffee table. “Please, read this.” I slip the paper from my lap and place it down on the cushion to my right. “And then feel free to tell me how much of an idiot I am.”
The sofa sinks with Effie’s weight. Quietly, she picks up the email her brother sent me. She says nothing as she reads and I do nothing but stare at the label on the vodka bottle, unable to suck down any of the booze.
I don’t want to wash away the pain.
That’s been my lifelong M.O. Anytime the hurt and sadness and frustration has carved another notch in my flesh, I’ve shut it down and focused on Agape and on the dream. If Nick is my kryptonite, then my hair salon is my crutch.
Put all your love and hopes into the dream and nothing else can disappoint you. Not your parents or your peers who don’t believe in you. Not anyone.
Until I disappointed myself by chasing Nick away.
My socked toes curl in as I lean forward and put the vodka on the table. “Your brother loves me, Ef,” I say to my best friend, my voice hollow.
I hear the paper crinkle in her grasp. “I know.”
“And I’m an asshole.” I don’t dab at my eyes or reach for a tissue, even when tears well up behind my eyes. “I’m that asshole who just stood there while he opened up. I wanted to say the words. They were there and they were ready and I-I couldn’t say anything.”
There have been many times over the years when the words wouldn’t come and I stammered and clammed up. Visions of Greek school flit before me, one embarrassing moment after another of impatient faces and tapping feet. Other memories, too, of hearing my dad berate me for whatever it was that day, and yet me saying nothing at all.
From a young age, words—and, yes, sometime speech—have never been my friends.
But as I darted in front of Nick to beg him to stay, I have never felt so betrayed by my body as I did in that moment. He accused me of wanting to run, and he’s not wrong. I did, I do, but only because I’m tired, so damn tired, of feeling like there’s something so intrinsically wrong with me.
“First,” Effie tells me, reaching out to poke me in the upper arm, “you’re not an asshole.”
“You say that because you love me.”
“And that brings me to point number two.” She holds up her index and middle fingers like two mocking bunny ears. “Answer me this, how many people have you ever said I love you to? Accurate count here, please.”
“I don’t know. That’s a weird question.”
“It’s really not.” Effie scoots in close to me, until our thighs are flush and she’s flattening the email over our side-by-side knees. “You don’t say the words often, Mina. Not to me, not to Sarah, not to your siblings.”
Staring down at Nick’s words, I suck my bottom lip in and try to sort through my chaotic thoughts. Do I really not tell the people I love how much I care about them? I know that I show them in other ways, but . . . “People lie, Ef.”
My whole life has been a front. Baba wanted the world to believe that I was his and Mama wanted us all to pretend that she didn’t sleep with some unknown American dude who acted as the prodigal sperm donor. One lie bleeds into the next, and promises, vows, and, yes, love, are the first to be sacrificed to preserve the façade.
I watched it firsthand with my parents.
And their lies continued and poisoned me, too. How many days did I walk into the house to hear them arguing about what to do with me? How many times did they lecture me about responsibility and taking care of my younger siblings while they couldn’t even be bothered to come home before dark?
“Nick’s not lying to you,” Effie says, nudging me in the side. “Are you scared that he is?”
No. Maybe. I clear my throat. Drop my chin as I gather the right words to piece together. God, it’s almost painful to reveal this corner of my soul. And when I speak, my voice emerges broken. “I’m scared that he’ll wake up one day and realize he could have someone so much more.”
“More than what?”
Harsh laughter rips from my chest. “More than me, Effie. Someone without dyslexia and daddy issues and insecurities running a mile deep and—”
A hand collides sharply with the middle of my back, knocking the wind right out of me. While I gasp for air, Effie points a threatening finger in my face. “I would have gone for your head but I’m not trying to leave visible damage.” She pokes me right on the nose. “Do you hear yourself? You’re talking like your parents. More than.” An aggrieved, disbelieving snort greets my ears. “My brother adores you. Look at the damn email he wrote after he specifically told me that he was going to give you space. And he couldn’t even help himself! You stomped on his heart and he still wanted to comfort you.”
Because Nick Stamos is the best kind of man.
Because he’s as sexy as he is sweet.
Because he’s so much more than a girl like me could ever hope to have by her side.
“Wipe that pitiful look right off your face, Ermione.” Effie leaps from the couch, paces the room, then twirls back around before coming to stand directly in front of me. “Tell me one thing you like a
bout my brother.”
I blink up at her. “Is that a trick question?”
“Is that a—” She cuts herself off, seeking guidance from the popcorn-raised ceiling. Or maybe she’s looking for strength. It’s honestly tough to tell. “I’m not waiting around all day. One thing, Mina. Now.”
Far be it from me to argue with my best friend when she’s on a mission.
I answer off the cuff, completely on instinct. “I love the way he makes me laugh without even trying.” Unconsciously, my thumb makes its way to my mouth, as though wanting to trace the smile threatening to peek through my week-long misery. “He says the most ridiculous things, you know? It’s so out of character but I know he gets a kick out of surprising me. Shocking me, is how he puts it.”
Effie folds her arms across her chest. “Give me another.”
“His patience. Whether he’s explaining something to Vince or Bill or Mark for the twentieth time or working on one of his sculptures, he’s got the patience of a saint.” Oh, Saint Nick. My heart pounds a little faster. “He balances me that way . . . the yin to my yang.” I peer up at my best friend. “Is that cheesy?”
She gives me a lopsided smile. “No, Mina, it’s not.” A small pause. “Another.”
The back of my throat itches as I shift on the sofa. “He makes me feel special—no, adored. He says this thing to me whenever I’m on the verge of blabbing something embarrassing.” I lower my voice to mimic his deeper pitch. “There’s nothing you can say that’ll make me look at you any differently.” Oh, God, will the tears not stop? I’m like a freakin’ sieve right now. I motion for the tissues and Effie plucks one from the box and pushes it into my hand. “It’s more than feeling adored. With him, I feel respected, valued, like we’re equals. Like what I have to say matters.”
The way my mother has never been on par with my father.
The realization sits with the weight of a stone in my belly. Briefly, I let my lids fall shut. Maybe Mama and Baba were true partners before she cheated on him. Maybe his insecurities and distrust clouded their entire relationship. Or maybe my dad really is just a controlling jerk who feels the need to keep everyone in their assigned seat.
But I’ve never remained sitting. I push back and challenge him and get tattoos when he hates them and date American boys when he curls his lip at the mere thought. I purchased a hair salon when he effectively told me to get married and retreat back to the household.
My adoptive father might view me as a threat to his perceived hierarchy but Nick . . . I glance down at his email one last time. My best friend’s older brother challenges me, too, but he challenges me to take risks and be a better person and face my fears instead of running away.
I love him.
Truly, madly, deeply.
“One more, Mina,” Effie pushes gently. “Give me one more, that’s all.”
“I love him.” I exhale quietly, hands folded in my lap. “I think I loved him when I was seventeen and he danced me around your mom’s living room. I think I loved him even on his wedding day because the relief I felt—” I break off with an uneasy laugh, but at Effie’s patient expression, I let myself continue even as my cheeks burn with embarrassment. “We laid in that bed and all night I thought one thing: maybe now. Maybe now he would look at me as something more than his little sister’s friend. Maybe now he would hold my hand instead of letting our fingers kiss, and nothing more. Maybe now . . . Maybe now he would see me and know, without a doubt, that I was always meant to be his and he was always meant to be mine.”
“There’s no doubt in my mind, koukla,” says an oh-so-familiar voice from behind me, “I’m already yours.”
39
Nick
Slowly, like she’s in a horror movie and piss-her-pants terrified to see the axe-murderer standing behind her, Mina turns and spots me standing in the doorway leading into the kitchen. Her beautiful honey eyes are round in her makeup-free face, and those perfectly pink lips of hers part on an audible gasp.
“N-Nick! How, um, lovely to see you here!” She shoots a dirty glare over at my sister. Whatever communication she’s trying to pass along via Eyebrow Code (the new and unimproved Morse Code) goes unreceived because Effie launches up from the sofa like it’s caught fire.
“I have to pick up my laundry from the laundromat.”
Mina’s mouth gapes open. “Seriously? That’s your getaway excuse? You have a washer and dryer down the hall!”
“It’s broken.”
“You’re a liar.”
“No, what I’m trying to do is give you and my older brother a chance to talk.” Effie wriggles her fingers in the air at me. “Lucky for you, he was already here when you showed up. We were planning to go to dinner so he could spend the next three hours talking about how much he misses you.”
I feel the rush of heat all the way from my chest to my face. “Effie.”
She rolls her eyes. “I’m leaving.” Only, she doesn’t make it more than halfway to the front door before she whirls around on her heels and stares me down. “Before I go, house rules—no sex.”
Like I’ve had the wind knocked out of me, a hoarse cough gurgles to life and I pound a fist against my chest. Gamóto. I’m gonna kill her and enjoy burying her body. Out loud, I croak, “I have no idea why you’re looking at me when you say that.”
Her chin hikes up. “Because you’re a man and all men are horny, and I refuse to have dried semen on my furniture.”
Dried semen on her furniture . . .?
Christ, forget killing her. Someone just grab a knife and put me out of my misery. Huffing out a laugh, I scrub my hand over the side of my flushed face. “Please, say no more.”
With her gaze narrowed on me, Effie clucks her tongue and then turns to Mina, completely dismissing me. “And you . . .” Her expression softens almost immediately. “I love you, filinída. No, I love you like a sister not just a friend. But him right there?” She gestures to me, not once looking away from Mina’s face. “He loves you the way Sarah loves me. Best friend. Lover. Soulmate.” With a small smile, she steps back. “Be brave and trust.”
Silence invades the room as Effie lets herself out of her own condo with an undeniable pep to her step.
I give myself leave to soak in Mina’s presence as she pushes to her feet and comes around the side of the sofa. Each step reveals more of her outfit: socks with holes in the toes, a pair of baggy sweatpants that give no indication that she’s curvy in all the right places beneath all that fabric, a Pats sweatshirt with a stain . . .
As if noticing the direction of my attention, she clamps a hand over her breast and grins sheepishly. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
A soft chuckle warms my chest. “You mean you would have worn shoes that matched, if you knew?”
She growls beneath her breath. The sound is cute as all hell and makes me want to smile. “You heard that too?” she asks, dread deepening her voice.
“It was hard not to.” I jerk my thumb over my right shoulder, pointing toward the kitchen. “I was pouring myself some water when you came flying in here like a bat outta hell.”
If possible, her cheeks turn an even pinker hue. “I didn’t . . . I don’t . . .” Her throat works with a hard swallow. “I wanted to get my thoughts in order before I saw you. I didn’t want to lose the words.”
I didn’t want to lose the words.
God, this girl. She breaks me, challenges me, and in just a few sentences, cuts me right at the knees. Patience, have some patience. I told her that night in Maine that when she was ready to talk, I’d be here. I said nothing of the sort in the email I spent the last few days putting together, mainly because I wanted her to feel pressure-free.
But it’s hard showcasing patience when all I want to do is push her back against the sofa and kiss her. One kiss for every day we’ve spent apart. Except not even that is enough.
Shoving my hands deep into the front pockets of my jeans, I try to make her smile. “Want me to wait outside while you
think about it?” I cock my head to the side, pretending to give the idea considerable thought. “I can come back when you’re ready.”
“What? No.”
Heat seeps into my limbs, hope dogging its tail. “Just a suggestion, Ermione.”
“I’m not a fan.”
Taking a risk, I step forward. Half a foot at most, nothing more. A way to test the waters. I may have heard almost everything she said while I was camped out in the kitchen like a voyeur, but I’m not about to push my luck unless she gives me the go-ahead with blaring sirens and obnoxious confetti cannons.
I’m playing the long game here. Anything less won’t do.
Cutting my gaze up from her stained sweatshirt to her face, I rest my weight on my left foot. “What are you a fan of, then?”
“You, Nick.”
Well, damn.
I blink, then blink again, then do the very manly thing of coughing to keep from showing that I might—maybe—like that statement of hers a little too much.
She matches my step with one of her own, the hem of her sweats dragging along the hardwood floor. “I need to tell you something, and I need you to be patient with me . . . even if it takes me a few tries to get it out the way I want.” She pauses, and the mask of pleasantry slips from her features to expose a desperation that matches mine. “Can you do that for me?”
Yes.
If this ends with her in my arms, I’ll do anything she fucking wants.
“Go ahead.” I tip my head in a small nod, my voice nothing more than grit and want. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Her shoulders freefall with a relieved exhale that feels like a breeze kissing my skin. “This is . . . I want to—” She closes her lids, and I watch her mouth move to form the words, You can do this. Her silent encouragement to herself kicks my pulse into overdrive. “The first time I saw you, you were building a blanket fort in your old bedroom. I peeked inside when you were putting on the final touches. You asked if I wanted to join, and I remember how badly I wanted to say yes.”
