by Leylah Attar
“No. No katala…” Whatever he said. “I don’t like anyone touching my underwear.”
His eyebrow quirked higher.
God, how was I feeling sorry for this guy a little while ago?
He looked like he was about to say something, but then his expression changed. Obviously, the crew had rules of conduct when it came to fraternizing with passengers. Alex had been about to flirt with me. I was pretty sure of it.
“How about we pick a designated spot for your bra?” He walked back into the bathroom, found a hook and hung it by the strap. Then, he patted it in a there, there gesture, as if to appease me, but we both knew what he was really doing. Touching my underwear.
Before I could protest, Alex gave me a smart salute and sauntered out the door.
I walked up to my bra, tight lipped, with every intention of staying mad. Something tugged at the corners of my mouth. Could it be? Was I…smiling?
Dammit, I was smiling.
“Well, well,” I said to my bra, untwisting the strap so it hung straight. “At least one of us is getting some action.”
I showered and changed for my dinner date with Naani. Chasing a three-thumbed unicorn is fun and thrilling in a nerve-wracking way, but a girl’s got to make time for her grandma. Naani took her evening meals early, so I joined her at the table Hannah set up for us, away from everyone else.
“Isn’t this romantic?” Naani chuckled.
“Just you, me, and the sea.” I flipped my freshly shampooed hair to the side.
We were on the way to Syros, the next island on the itinerary. The sea stretched around the yacht in sun-flecked ripples toward a dusky horizon. A salty breeze whipped the waves into little white crests.
When Hannah presented us with the menu, Naani waved it away.
“Let the chef surprise us,” she said. Leaning closer, she whispered, “His food did strange things to me last night. Your Naani felt like a young filly.”
“You too?” I laughed as I nibbled one of the appetizers. “He left me a late-night snack and I felt like my bones turned to honey.”
Hannah returned with two steaming platters. “Chef Alexandros has prepared revithia for you tonight—chickpea stew.” It was topped with feta cheese and accompanied by olives and slices of crusty bread. “Enjoy.”
Naani was vegetarian by choice, and I had requested the same meal (because hello? The alternative was octopus—courtesy of Nikos and Thomas—and I didn’t do suckers or tentacles), but we were both deflated as we stared at our dinner. Everything looked and smelled delicious, but let’s face it. Chickpeas? They were beige. And bland. And humble. And boring. Naani had cans full of them in her pantry. We silently and unanimously expected something more exotic. Well, exotic to us. Where was the spanakopita? The skordalia? The saganaki? All the things that sounded like they’d hiss and sizzle on your tongue?
“Hey.” Naani speared a chickpea on the prong of her fork. “What do they call it when you kill a chickpea?” She chewed it slowly while I waited for the punchline. “A hummuside. Get it?” She chuckled. “Homicide, hummus-cide.”
“That’s awful, Naani. Really, really bad. What makes it worse is that it was a pea-meditated hummuside.”
We laughed at our terrible puns, but with the second bite of our dinner, we grew quiet. Something was different about Alex’s chickpeas. They were drunk and voluptuous, like they’d simmered in dark wine for hours, turning fat and round and luscious. They had a rustic, appealing sweetness that was hard to pin down.
“Did he use sugar?” I asked.
“No. Not sugar.” Naani shook her head. “Dates, maybe? Or prunes?”
We ate some more and tried to dissect what we were tasting.
“Chocolate,” I said.
“Close. But it’s more earthy.”
I eyed Naani as she used the crusty bread to soak up the last bits of gravy clinging to her bowl. Bread was a no-no for me, but it was exactly what the rest of my dish was begging for. I caved in and did the same.
Potatoes on Day 1. Bread on Day 2. Alex is breaking down my objections, one by one—like a referee in my lifelong fight against food.
When Hannah stopped by the table, we were sitting back in our chairs, whipped into a state of submission by the humble chickpea. Alex didn’t serve big portions, but what he served was infinitely satisfying.
“I would like to have a word with the chef,” Naani said.
“I’ll let him know,” Hannah said, collecting our plates.
“Young man,” said Naani, when Alex appeared at our table. “I’ve been cooking my whole life, but I’ve never been able to get chickpeas to taste like this. They were absolutely divine.” She pinched her fingers, brought them to her lips and smacked them.
“Thank you.” He gave Naani a little bow.
“What’s your secret?”
Yes, Alex. Tell us. What’s the secret to making a shapeless chef’s coat look so cool?
“Onions. Lots and lots of onions.”
“Onions?”
“The right kind of onions. Equal parts sharp and sweet. You slice them real thin. Then you add them to a pan of hot olive oil. Turn down the heat and let them do their thing. You’ll be tempted to lift the lid and check on them. Don’t. Wait until they tell you they are ready, until they start smelling like cinnamon and sugar. Then you stir, until they are rich and thick and chocolaty.”
“Ahhh. So that’s what I was tasting.” Naani absorbed this nugget of culinary treasure. “But I didn’t see any onions in the stew.”
“They disintegrate once you add water and more heat. Throw in your cooked chickpeas, some rosemary and a few more glugs of olive oil. You can add whatever else you like, but that’s the base for my revithia. I let it bake in the oven until all the flavors meld.”
“Moti,” Naani turned to me with great solemnity. “You must marry this man. We have to take him home with us.”
“You marry him.” I laughed. Alex looked amused, but not the eyebrow-cocking kind of amusement, which he reserved for my bras and awkward mishaps.
“Young man, what’s your name?”
“Alexandros Veronis, but please call me Alex.”
“Alex, I am too old for you, but your eggplant fritters last night? They took me back to my younger days, to my first love. Did I ever tell you about him, Moti?”
I shook my head.
“Prem Prakash Pyarelal. He sold vegetables in the market with his father. My mother took me with her all the time, because he always slipped something extra into our bag when he saw me. Whenever his father caught him, he got smacked in the head, but it didn’t stop him. He told me I had the most elegant fingers he’d ever seen. He used to leave food outside our door. Random things…two rotis and a block of jaggery, half a ladoo wrapped in foil, a carrot that was half orange, half purple. I remember stuffing two pillows under my blanket one night and sneaking out to meet him. We had a picnic under the moon. He fed me eggplant fritters. It was the most scandalous thing I’d ever done. He was Hindu. I was Christian. My parents had a fit when they found out. It was a small town. Someone saw me with him. Reputations were at stake. I was married within a fortnight and whisked off to the city. I never saw him again. And you know…we never kissed. We barely spoke. He smiled, and I smiled and most of the time, we sat on a bench and stared at the grass. The whole time, I was so happy, I thought my heart would burst.
“Last night, eating those fritters, I remembered how thrilling it all was. The secret looks, the butterflies in my stomach, the half-empty bottle of perfume he slipped into my hands. I wish I did more scandalous things, but my time has passed. Now, this one here…” Naani placed her hand over mine. “She has her whole life ahead, but you know what she’s doing? She’s angling for that guy over there.” Naani pointed to Nikos, seated behind the pane of glass separating us from the salon. “Why? Because he has three thumbs.” She slapped her thigh and hooted. “Because that’s the only man her mother will have as her son-in-law. I think it’s high time she ga
ve everyone the—”
“Naani!” I glared at her.
“They want an extra digit? Here.” Naani stuck her middle finger out. “Ehhh?” She held it up toward the salon, where everyone remained oblivious to her salute. She waved it at the sea, the sky, the whole world. “You don’t need a man with three thumbs, Moti. Just one with magic in his hands. One who will hold your heart as if it’s the most precious thing in the world. See this man here, standing right in front of you? He can transform onions into chocolate. If that’s not magic, I don’t know what is. We’ll have to do something about his hair, but—”
“I’m so sorry.” I apologized to Alex, while simultaneously trying to contain Naani’s rebel finger. I wasn’t really sorry. I was embarrassed that Alex knew about my quest for Mr. Three Thumbs, so I was cringe-shushing Naani’s finger. “She did say your food does strange things to her.”
It’s your fault, Alex. Your cooking is messing with our brains.
“Come, Naani. I’ll see you to your cabin.”
We left Alex on the deck, with a strange expression on his face. He was probably thinking, Wait, what’s wrong with my hair?
“This is what I should’ve done a long time ago.” Naani was not going down without a fight. “This is what I wanted to do all those years I was married to your Naana. Tell him to piss off, and everyone else along with it.”
She held her veiny hand up high, the offensive gesture still in place. I draped my shawl over it, but now it looked like I was carefully escorting a giant, tented erection to her cabin.
By the time I said goodnight to Naani and made my way up to the sky deck, the sun had set. Birds were flying home against a pomegranate sky. Bits of conversation drifted up from the lower deck, where everyone was finishing up dinner. I cocooned myself up in my shawl again, lay on the leather sectional, and stared at the sky. It was becoming my favorite thing to do. I didn’t get to see stars often enough at home. One by one they appeared, as darkness swept across the heavens.
How far must they be that I don’t feel them burning? Do they feel each other’s warmth, or do they spend eternity being cool and blue and distant? Shining and looking pretty.
“Mind if I join you?” It was Joseph Uncle, a cup of coffee in one hand and dessert in another.
I sat up and made room for him. He balanced his coffee on the armrest and offered me his cake.
“It’s good,” he said, when I declined. He had a forkful and stared at the horizon. “Do you miss having your father around, Moti?”
Joseph Uncle had never broached the subject before. Something was obviously on his mind. “I don’t remember having him around,” I said. “I was two when he left. I know I can go to him if I need anything, but we’ve never been close. Do I miss having a father figure I can turn to every day? Of course. But I have you to boss me around at work.” I laughed, but his expression remained gloomy. “Are you okay? Did you and Rachel Auntie make up?”
“Rachel is ashamed of me, Moti. And so is Isabelle. All this time, I didn’t even know. I didn’t know what they really thought of me.” He had another bite and kept his eyes on the silhouette of the distant shore. I’d never seen Joseph Uncle so sad.
“It’s not like that,” I said. “The wedding is stressing everyone out.”
“Rachel and I were different, you know? We married for love. In that day, in that time and place, we were an exception. Your father and Dolly? They were introduced by their families. Rachel and I held our breath as they got to know each other, because it was customary for the older sibling to get married before the younger one. I had to wait until Dolly tied the knot before I could ask for Rachel’s hand in marriage. Our wedding was the happiest day of my life. When Isabelle was born, our world was complete. I started seeing myself through their eyes. I thought I was a good husband, a good father. But now, I feel like I’ve been an embarrassment all along. One they’ve been putting up with because I’m also their meal ticket.”
“That’s not true. Rachel Auntie could have married that newspaper mogul her father had lined up for her. But she chose you. She fought for you. And she has her own things going on. I know you think of them as hobbies, but she feels good when she’s contributing financially too. Are you really going to let a box of underwear get in the way of the big picture?”
“It was a pretty big box,” he said, finishing his cake.
“I’m sure it was.” I chuckled, wishing I’d seen the look on George and Kassia’s faces when he’d presented it. I understood why Joseph Uncle saw nothing wrong with it. He took pride in what he did. If he were a baker, he would’ve given them a basket full of loaves. But he sold underwear—crotchless, seamless, G-string, V-string, leather, lace, and the elephant-faced ones with a hollow trunk to hold a man’s ding dong. Thongs were his thing, so he didn’t understand why it would embarrass his wife and daughter.
“You need to stop taking it so seriously and go make up with Rachel Auntie and Isabelle,” I said.
“No. Not this time. This time they crossed the line. Let them come to me.” He drained his coffee and got up. His ego-wounded frame disappeared as the elevator doors shut behind him.
A moment later, they re-opened and Nikos strutted out—blue jeans, black shirt, slicked-back hair. Something shifted in my belly.
Yes!
Yes, to butterflies in my stomach. Although it could also be the chickpeas. I always had trouble digesting those.
“There you are.” He slid next to me—aftershave and smooth confidence. “Missed you at dinner, glikia mou.”
“I ate early with my grandmother.”
“Yes, I saw the two of you out on the deck. Do you mind?” He held up a cigarette.
I watched as he lit it and took a drag, blowing the smoke into the air slowly. His lips formed a small O, like the aftermath of a kiss you don’t want to end. He tapped the glowing tip of his cigarette on the ashtray and caught me staring at his double thumb.
“It’s ugly, yes?” He stretched his hand out, turning his wrist to examine it.
“It’s different, but I don’t think it’s ugly.” It’s holy. It’s holy-fuck-I’m-sitting-next-to-a-guy-with-three-thumbs. “In fact, when I was born, a fortune-teller told my mother that my soul mate would have an extra thumb.”
Nikos stared at me for a moment, his O transforming into an Oh-my-God-I’m-sitting-next-to-a-girl-who-will-boil-my-pet-rabbit-if-her-horoscope-says-so. Then his face cracked and he burst out laughing. “That’s a good one.” He pointed his cigarette at me. The wispy smoke did exactly what I wanted to do—curling up and dying.
I mean, I finally got it out there, even if Nikos had taken it as a joke. It was a bit like Joseph Uncle’s big box of underwear. It’s funny to everyone else, but it means something to you.
“Something else I need to tell you.” I might as well put it all out there. “I bought a swimsuit today, but I can’t go diving or snorkeling because I can’t swim.”
“Can you kiss?” Nikos stubbed his cigarette out and leaned closer. I could smell the tobacco on his breath. “Because swimming is…” He shrugged indifference. “But kissing. Kissing is important.”
My throat went dry as his face filled the frame of my vision.
Please let it be epic and beautiful and memorable. I know it’s not a rain kiss, or a chase-through-the-airport kiss, or a top-of-the-Empire-State-Building kiss. But it’s the kiss I’ve been waiting for since the moment I ran into Nikos and his extra appendage. And it’s happening. It’s happening right now.
My eyelids fluttered shut and I raised my lips to meet his.
“Nikos!” We flew apart at Isabelle’s voice. “What are you doing?” Her eyes darted between Nikos and me. “Did you forget about our meeting?”
“That’s tonight?” Nikos pinched the bridge of his nose. He extricated himself and got up sheepishly under Isabelle’s icy glare. “Give me a minute,” he said to her. “I’ll be right there.”
Isabelle hovered for a few beats. Then she got in the elevator and
punched her floor.
“Sorry, glikia mou.” Nikos sounded remorseful over our almost-kiss. “I have to go. Isabelle and Thomas are going over wedding stuff with Teri and me. They want to make sure the best man and maid of honor know what they’re doing. But I’m all yours tomorrow night. We’ll be in Mykonos. Put on your dancing shoes because I’m taking you clubbing.”
I sat back with a happy grin after he left.
Yes! Dancing with Nikos in Mykonos—the bronzed, throbbing, party animal in the heart of the Cyclades.
It was clear Nikos was open to having some fun on the high seas but was a relationship on his horizon? The forever-kind that I was looking for? And even if it was, how would we handle a long-distance relationship in the interim?
Ugh. I pulled the brakes on my train-wreck of thoughts. It was the kind of self-sabotaging most women do to themselves. We race way ahead. We want to cover all the possibilities. We want to jump in, but we also want to protect ourselves. Men? They’re just grateful if we show them our boobs. And who knows? Maybe I wouldn’t think Nikos was so hot after I got to know him. I mean, I admired his muscles, but his bulgy biceps made his arms stick out like twin parentheses, like he was perpetually carrying carpet rolls under them. After a while, that could get annoying.
Forget the muscles. Think about the thumbs. The THUMBS.
My brain went back and forth until I drifted off under the stars.
When I woke, the moon was high in the sky. I stretched and re-draped my shawl around me. Time to get to bed. Since Joseph Uncle and Rachel Auntie were still on the outs, that meant another night in Alex’s cabin. Hopefully, he was already asleep.
I was halfway to the elevator when I stepped on a pool noodle. I returned it to the big bunker that stored all the pool toys and gadgets. A volleyball net, inflatable pool loungers, yoga mats, and even a remote-controlled snack float. My fingers closed around a ping-pong ball. It was light and round—a sphere of air on my palm. It would never drown, it would always float back up to the top. I rolled it back and forth between my fingers before putting it in my pocket. No one would miss it. A whole bag of ping-pong balls lay on top of a foam collar—the kind you put around your neck to keep your head above the surface. I picked up the collar and gazed at the pool. It was glassy and quiet under the light of the moon. Blue-green lights glowed under its rim.