An Accidental Odyssey

by kc dyer

  Evan steps sideways, effectively putting the desk between us. His voice takes on a pleading note. “I’ve—I’ve got a special tutorial scheduled in five minutes.”

  I yank my dad’s abandoned pill bottle out of my bag and rattle it in his face. “He left his meds, Evan.”

  Pointing up at the clock on the wall, I add, “He’s already overdue for one dose, which is putting him at risk of another stroke. I’m sure you wouldn’t want to be party to that—would you?”

  He swallows hard and visibly blanches when I rattle the pill bottle again.

  “I—I didn’t know,” he whispers, his voice catching in his throat. “He didn’t say anything about medication. Only that he was feeling better and that he had a flight to catch.”

  “A—a flight?” I sink onto a chair at the magnitude of this. As I do, my phone pings in my pocket, but I ignore it. “Dude,” I say, ratcheting my tone down from demanding to merely pleading. “I’m supposed to be somewhere else too. But I’m really worried about my dad.”

  Evan glances at his watch, takes a deep breath, and then yanks out a file folder from the top drawer of the desk. “If he finds out I told you, he’ll kill me,” he says faintly.

  I glance into the folder and then meet his eyes one last time. “You’d better get to your session,” I say firmly. “I can take it from here.”

  Evan doesn’t wait to be told twice. He’s out the door in an instant, a trail of papers literally swirling in his wake.

  As for me? I glance back down at the folder.

  And this is how, less than a day after waving my magazine internship goodbye and without tasting even a single morsel of wedding cake, I find myself on a plane bound for Athens, Greece.

  chapter three

  SATURDAY, SOMETIME LATER

  Budget Airline Bits and Bites

  Gia Kostas, former staff writer, currently airborne, possibly insane

  You know things are bad when you steal the foil pack of pretzels off a stranger’s tray when they’re sleeping. In my defense . . .

  Okay, so there’s really nothing I can say in my own defense apart from the fact that remembering to feed myself was the last thing on an already too-long agenda in what is turning out to be a too-short day.

  Here’s the thing. I don’t think the reality that my dad’s gone a little crazy can be called into question. What it comes down to is whether I’m willing to accept this new truth and go eat cake—or not.

  The fact I’m sitting in the back row of this airplane trying to justify the stealing of pretzels says it all. Any eating of cake, at least by me, did not happen today. Worse, the e-mail conversation I’ve just had with my fiancé might actually mean that whatever’s going on with my dad is either catching or familial. Or both.

  Deep breath. Which is hard to take, considering I’m wearing a mask.

  This is my first time leaving the city since—well, since Life Changed—and it’s eye-opening. At home in New York, after that crazy first year of the pandemic, I feel like we all sort of settled into a new reality. Whatever that means.

  For me, I guess it means I’ve gotten used to seeing more people wearing masks and even gloves than in the Before Times. Where it was unnerving at first, it’s not so much anymore. And of course, on an airplane, it just makes sense. Who knows where all these people have been? On the streets of Manhattan, even after that killer third wave, mask-wearing is nowhere near a hundred percent compliance, at least lately. But on this plane? Everyone.

  Including the guy sleeping across the aisle from me, who has added an intricately hand-stitched eye cover to the mix. So while the mask over his nose and mouth ripples a little on every snore, the one above it stares out at the world with unblinking embroidered blue eyes fringed in long lashes under faux-fur eyebrows.

  Aaannnd we’re back to unnerving, again. Is it any wonder I stole the guy’s pretzels?

  I lean across the aisle to stuff the empty pretzel package into his seat pocket and then yank Evan’s file folder out of my bag. It’s too late to know if I’ve done the right thing. What I need to figure out now—having made this series of questionable-at-best decisions—is what do I do next?

  The contents of the file folder are, in some ways, a revelation. In others? They are a total freaking mystery. A mystery that, on first glance back in my dad’s office, I was sure I could solve with a quick trip to New Jersey. And maybe even be finished in time to meet up with Anthony for a little apology sex and a lot of groveling.

  This did not happen.

  I take another deep breath and stare again at the contents of the folder. The first three pages are essentially a printed version of what looks like a long text thread between my dad and Evan. The conversation is mostly confusing, with elliptical references to both a theory and a journey that don’t make a lot of sense. Things get a little clearer on the following pages, which are printouts of an airline ticket—dated today—with my dad’s name on it and what looks like a reservation at a hotel in a town whose name I don’t recognize.

  Mostly because it is literally all Greek to me.

  And so here I am. On a plane, taking a flight I not only cannot afford but have put on a credit card with an impossibly high rate of interest. I don’t even have a real suitcase with me. Instead, when I realized what my dad had done, I grabbed my gym bag, dumped out the sweaty remnants of my last workout, and tossed in a few things from the clean-but-not-yet-folded basket in my bedroom. Then I headed to the airport to see if anyone would let me on a plane.

  As expected, this decision does not sit well with Anthony.

  Not because he’s upset with me—not really. If I read between the lines of his e-mail, it’s clear he just wants to help. Of course, for Anthony, helping often means throwing money at the problem.

  If I’m being honest, I have to admit this usually works. Speaking as a person who has never in her life been able to solve a problem in that particular way. I mean, I know how lucky I am to have had a paying internship, but all the same, I barely have enough money to cover my rent and groceries these days.

  Still, right now I’m so sick with worry about my dad, I can’t imagine that even hiring someone to ensure he takes his meds would result in any actual, measurable change in his behavior. So when Anthony’s e-mail arrives, outlining the name of a company I can hire to chase down my dad in Greece, I turn off my “read receipts” and don’t reply.

  I know he won’t agree with my choice to follow my dad. And from my spot here in this legroomless plane seat, I’m not so sure he’s wrong. The fact that he is so often right about things—and so relentlessly optimistic of his own success—is one of the things that attracted me to him in the first place.

  We met last year, when I was taking my final semester of classes in journalism school at NYU. He’s three years older, which I did not discover until after our first date. Later, he told me that he’d read a story I’d published in the Washington Square News and wanted to meet the person who’d written it. It took him until just before Halloween to track me down, which meant that at our first meeting, I was dressed as a Ghostbuster.

  Accessorized with a proton backpack, of course.

  Since literally every other female was wearing a skimpier costume at the party, I was pretty surprised when the good-looking young reporter sporting a porkpie hat and suspenders sauntered up toward me, a beer in each hand.

  “Two-fisting Jimmy Olsen?” I guessed when he grinned at me.

  “Close,” he said and, handing off one of the cans, pulled a pair of heavy black horn-rimmed glasses out of his pocket.

  “Nearsighted Jimmy Olsen?”

  He rolled his eyes at me, handed over the other beer, and pulled open his shirt at the neck to reveal a Superman t-shirt underneath.

  I beamed at him. “My second-favorite reporter!”

  “Why only second favorite?” he asked, taking one of the be
ers back and cracking the top. “Everyone loves Clark Kent.”

  I shrugged. “I’ve always been on Team Jimmy.”

  “There’s no accounting for taste,” he said and clinked his beer can against the one I was still holding.

  I’m not a beer drinker, but I cracked my own can to be polite. After he introduced himself as Anthony Hearst, I swallowed the rest of the can out of sheer nerves.

  I’d heard his name bandied about the department before, of course. I mean, the faculty—in that “it’s no big deal, but how great are we?” way—made a lot of hay of the fact that a Hearst was in attendance at our J-school here in New York and not at Yale or somewhere more high-profile.

  I remember him telling me he liked my costume and not much else, to tell you the truth. After the beer, I switched to some kind of hideous pumpkin-spiced rum concoction. I don’t actually remember much more of the party, though I’m pretty sure I had fun. In any case, when he later offered to drive me back to the tiny apartment I share with Devi, the make-out session in the front seat of his car was somewhat—ah—more heated than I might usually engage in upon first meeting. Nevertheless, when I did eventually lurch up the stairs to the apartment, it was alone.

  Of course, the fact I was strapped into a Ghostbuster costume may have had some bearing. Also? I had a boyfriend. On-again, off-again, mind you. But technically, even though he was out of town, at that moment we were still on-again. His name was Ryan.

  The next morning, my hangover and I staggered down to answer the front door only to have a huge bouquet of red roses stuffed into my arms by a grinning delivery girl.

  There were three dozen of them in all. Three dozen. I mean, I’ve had a few boyfriends, but none of them had ever ponied up for even a single dozen roses for me before that moment. Devi stopped counting blooms long enough to proffer tea and aspirin for my headache, and the two of us spent the morning Googling my newfound Superman.

  Right after, that is, I texted Ryan a firm—but admittedly chicken-livered—goodbye, relegating him back to off-again status, much to Devi’s disapproval. Not that she was on Team Ryan or anything. It’s just, she’s always been a big believer in the face-to-face breakup.

  Mostly because she is much braver than I will ever be.

  In any case, we learned online that while Anthony Hearst might be only a distant relative of the famous family, he had big plans of his own. His father’s e-publishing firm was on the cusp of going public, and Anthony himself was apparently leading the charge.

  It was heady stuff, and when he asked me out again the following weekend, I accepted. I didn’t know then—and I still don’t really know now—what he sees in me. He was finishing his master’s, and I was still a lowly undergrad.

  Also? Our backgrounds can’t be more different. I mean, I grew up as the only daughter of a single mother and an often absentee father, so when I finally got to meet Anthony’s family in their Fifth Avenue pied-à-terre, I felt more than a little out of place. But I promise you, I have never known a more romantic man. Just when I thought that three dozen couldn’t be topped, he filled—literally filled—my apartment with more roses on my birthday. Roses in every color of the rainbow.

  And somehow, with little more than five months having passed since that first meeting of Ghostbuster and reporter, I find myself engaged to this man. It’s every girl’s dream come true.

  Isn’t it?

  chapter four

  SUDDENLY SUNDAY

  Ellinikos Kafe: Jet-Lag Jolter

  Gia Kostas, former journalist, currently pursuing wild (Greek) goose

  For a drink with only three ingredients, Greek coffee is surprisingly difficult to get right. You need to find a briki to start, and of course the grind of the beans is everything . . .

  I stagger off the plane in Greece, exhausted and with a stiff neck from sleeping sitting up. This was my second flight after a huge layover in Frankfurt since, apparently, no one wants to fly straight to Athens from New York. Even though the plane was only half full, the ramp is already crowded with people milling around together much closer than I’ve become used to in postviral New York City. Still, the ceilings are high, and I peel off my own travel mask with relief. It’s good to feel like I can take a full, unfiltered breath again.

  As I walk through the airport, the last rays of the setting sun beat through the large windows. The scents of hot cooking oil and roasting meats in the air are overlaid with airline diesel and something that smells like wood smoke. The concourse is even more jammed than the exit ramp, and I am swept along in a zombie haze through to Greek customs.

  “Is this all your luggage?” demands the officer, pointing a blue-gloved hand at my hastily stuffed gym bag.

  “Yes. I’m not staying long,” I begin, but he cuts me off with a wave of the hand.

  “You’re in Greece now, glykoúla. You don’t need more than a bikini, eh?”

  I nod, because it seems the expedient thing to do, and refrain from informing him that I haven’t worn a bikini since I joined my first swim team at twelve years old.

  The crowd thins noticeably once the customs guard waves me through, which is lucky, because as soon as I exit the gates, I realize I have no idea what to do next. Around me in the Arrivals hall, a version of the opening scene from Love, Actually is unfolding, except bigger and Greeker. As each new person emerges through the doors, a cheer goes up, and they are swept into a scrum of screaming and sometimes sobbing relatives. Cheeks are pinched and slapped until they are apple red, flowers are proffered, and the arriving passengers, looking dazed, are ushered away in a surging cacophony of loving family.

  Apart from myself and a pair of quite clearly newlywed tourists, every arriving passenger is met with some form of this chaotic greeting at the gate.

  Feeling like a bit of an outcast, I look around to orient myself. The stark blue-and-white Greek signage is completely baffling to me, so it’s a great relief to see most of the things I need are also spelled out in English. Homing in on a sign I recognize beside a coffee shop cash register, I immediately log on to the airport Wi-Fi and fire off messages to Anthony and Devi in quick succession.

  Then I order a coffee.

  Greek coffee is thick and black, and served very, very hot. When the girl passes it to me in a demitasse china cup, I decide not to protest. I don’t really have a free hand for carrying a to-go cup anyway, so I steel myself and drain it in one.

  The kick to my head is immediate and so satisfying, I almost don’t notice that I’ve scalded my entire mouth.

  For some reason, the message to Anthony doesn’t want to go through, but seconds after I hit “Send” on the text to Devi, the phone rings in my hand. Worse, she’s calling from a hospital line.

  “Why are you calling me?” I hiss into the phone. “I’m in Athens. Are you allowed to call long-distance from work?”

  “I’m in Athens?” she repeats, her voice squawking through the phone. “What do you mean you’re in Athens? Why the hell have you gone to Georgia? Are you on location for NOSH?”

  I shoulder my gym bag and try to sidle sideways around a noisy group of people who have encircled a young woman whose Knicks jersey I recognize from the plane.

  “Agápi mou,” cries one man, placing both his giant palms on her freshly reddened cheeks. “You are home with us, at last! Come—your yiayia cannot wait a moment longer.”

  From the single, desperation-filled glance she shoots at me, I can’t tell if she’s upset about the fragile state of her grandmother or just mortally embarrassed by the volume of the welcome. As she is finally swept away toward the airport entrance, I can hear Devi again.

  “. . . texting and calling all day,” she’s saying.

  “I know,” I yell into the phone, as yet another noisy family swoops past. “All your notifications just came through. Listen, I’m sorry. I didn’t have time to call before I left. And—I’m
not in Georgia. I’ve never even been to Georgia.”

  “Yeah, I know that,” she says, and I can hear the relief in her voice. “I’ve never been there either. Are you at some bakery, or . . .”

  “I’m in Greece,” I confess, before she can go off in the wrong direction again. “I’m chasing down my father.”

  I listen to the sound of silence on the other end for a full ten seconds before I cave. “Dev? You still there?”

  “Your dad has run away to ATHENS, GREECE?” she shrieks. “What the fuck, Gia?”

  “My words exactly. Or at least, slightly less blasphemous.”

  “Fuck is not blasphemous. It’s profane. And don’t change the subject. What’s going on?”

  I honestly do not know and tell her so. “But I’ve got the name of his hotel. I’m going to hunt him down, hand over his meds, and then come home.” I pause, not sure if I should risk it, and then blurt it out. “I missed both scheduled cake tastings.”

  “Oooo. Bet Tony’s pissed.”

  “Anthony,” I say, enunciating carefully, “has been an angel. He only wants to help.”

  “By organizing your whole life for you.”

  I can’t help sighing. This is familiar ground with Devi. Somehow, she and Anthony got off on the wrong foot, and I haven’t been able to make her see how great he really is. And of course, he senses it and is crusty with her too. It’s frustrating. But I don’t have time for this right now.

  “Anyway. I just wanted to let you know I’m safe.”

  “Well, thank you for that,” she says, the sarcasm not entirely gone from her voice. “But as soon as you find your dad, text me, okay? I mean—do you even speak the language?”

  “Ochi. Den miláo elliniká,” I reply, automatically.

  “I take it that means no?” she says.

  I can’t help grinning as I glance around again. “Right. But most of the signs are in English too. I’ll be okay—I’m not going to be here long.”