by Leylah Attar
Instead, I googled CIA.
Central Intelligence Agency: The CIA collects, evaluates, and disseminates vital information on economic, military, political, scientific, and other developments abroad to safeguard the national security of the United States federal government.
Canadian Institute of Actuaries: The CIA is the national organization of the actuarial profession, dedicated to serving the public through the provision of actuarial services and advice of the highest quality.
Culinary Institute of America: The CIA is the world’s top culinary school. We offer Bachelor’s degrees in applied food studies, culinary science, food business management, hospitality management, and more.
Bingo.
I smiled. Alex really was trained at the CIA.
When I made my way to the sky deck that night, Alex was already there, gazing at the horizon. We were anchored off the shores of Naxos for the night. Between my hangover and my nap, I’d missed the chance to see the beautiful island.
I padded up beside him and rested my elbows on the railing. He said nothing, but his posture made a slight shift—the kind of reaction when someone’s presence affects you. We stood there in comfortable silence.
The sky was freckled with stars. Silhouettes of churches and Venetian castles stood against the moon-bleached valleys and mountains.
“Somewhere out there are farms that grow potatoes,” I said, remembering the scrumptious Naxian potatoes Alex served on the first night of the cruise.
Alex chuckled.
“What?” I prodded.
“I see the moon. Galaxies above us. The sea below us. Over there, I see the rain.” He pointed to a distant spot on the horizon. “I think of wet cobblestones, pigeons roosting under a statue in the plaza, a man hurrying home to his family—coffee in one hand, a wet umbrella in the other. You?” He angled his body toward me. “You think of potatoes.”
“So?”
“So.” He laughed. “I like it. I like that I can never tell what I’m going to get with you. I like that you’re weird and quirky, and you see things I don’t.”
“Thanks.” I gave him the side eye. “I think.”
We went back to gazing at the sea and the sky, and the trail of yellow lampposts that lined the roads like golden orbs in the night.
“Do you come up here every night?” I asked.
“Most nights, yes. I like to look at the lights. Somewhere out there is a mother who has fallen asleep next to her child. And there, in a smoky jazz bar, a couple on their first date—nervous, excited, still to kiss. Over there…” He pointed to one of the lights still burning in the hillside. “A man is leaving his wife in the morning. Next door, someone is putting together a crib for a new baby. You know what they have in common?”
I turned and caught his profile, his hair brushed away from his brow and tied loosely around his nape.
“What?” I asked. In another life, he could have been an admiral, a poet, a pirate.
“Food.” His gaze scanned the island. “They all pass each other in the same markets—the same bakers, the same winemakers. They gather in the town square for mezes and ice-cream, or just to watch the world go by. At weddings, they eat lamb. At funerals, they eat koliva. Food binds them together. You see it no matter where you go. Friends, families, strangers—sharing a meal. Whether it’s in someone’s kitchen, a Michelin-starred restaurant in France, or a street stall in Vietnam.
“Every time you share a meal with someone, you bring your history, your country, your region, your religion, your tribe, your grandmother with you. You sit with your past, your opinions, your love, your curiosity, your resentments, your hospitality. Food is where we all intersect. Everywhere you go, anywhere you go.
“For now, I’m just circling. Learning the language of food. But someday, I want to be one of those lights—somewhere by the water, where people can eat and share and connect. I want to be a link in a story that’s as old as time.”
I sighed. “That’s a beautiful dream.”
“And you? What is it that you want?”
What did I dream of? To be loved. To be happy. But wasn’t that what everyone wanted? My dream felt ordinary next to Alex’s.
“I’d be happy if I could swim,” I said.
He looked at me, as if he were considering what my cheek would feel like, resting on his palm. “That’s not a big thing to ask of the world.”
I turned away, unprepared for the tenderness of his words. “It is when you’re afraid.”
I swallowed the lump in my throat. It wasn’t just swimming I was afraid of. Despite Ma Anga’s prophecy, I wasn’t afraid of dying. I was afraid of dying without living.
This time, the silence made me uneasy because Alex wasn’t looking at the lights. He was still looking at me.
“Maybe you’d consider a trade-off?” he said. “I’ll teach you how to swim. One lesson every night. In exchange, you help me in the kitchen. An hour or two every day. My sous-chef, the guy who was to bunk with me, had to skip this charter, and I could use an extra pair of hands. What do you say?”
I considered his proposition. Apart from the scheduled activities, I had plenty of free time.
A voice much like Dolly’s chimed in: Time you’re supposed to use getting to know Nikos.
But he’s not around, and I promised myself that I would learn to swim.
“Deal,” I said to Alex.
“Great.” He pushed himself off the railing. “Let’s get started.”
“What? Now?”
“You have ten more nights to learn in the luxury of your own private pool. After that…” He shrugged.
“You’re right.” I ticked off the dates. We were already on night number four. “I don’t have my swimsuit on though.”
“You don’t need it.” Alex dragged two swim mattresses out from the bunker and placed them side by side. “Come lie down.”
I stretched out beside him and we stared up at the sky.
“Um, what are we doing?” Maybe taking swimming lessons from a chef isn’t such a great idea.
“We’re learning to float.”
“How exactly are we learning to float?” Yep, definitely a bad idea. A chef’s sole purpose is to ply you with food. The more you eat, the more you sink.
Alex chuckled. “Did you ever watch The Karate Kid?”
“Yes.”
“You remember the part where Daniel thinks Mr. Miyagi will teach him karate, but he makes him do all the chores instead? Wash the car, sand the floor, paint the fence.”
“Wax on, wax off.” I made the hand motions that went with the famous line.
“That’s what we’re doing. Stargazing. Looking up at the sky. Shoulders back, head up, arms and legs easy, letting the mattress support our weight. That’s how you do the back float.”
Hmmm. Maybe Alex knows what he’s doing, after all.
I relaxed and let myself open up to his instructions.
“Extend your arms like an airplane wing and point your belly button to the stars. That’s it. Chin up. And breathe. Imagine yourself floating down a river, being carried like a feather on the water. Softly, effortlessly.”
With my eyes on the constellations and the sea lapping around us, it was easy to give in to the sensation. I was suspended between the sea and the sky. Peaceful, serene, secure.
Moments ticked by before Alex spoke again. “Are we floating yet?”
“It’s nice.” A smile broke through my voice.
“Learn the feeling. Tomorrow, we do it in the water.” He got up and held out his hand.
“You really think I’ll be able to do it?” I asked, as he pulled me up.
“Easy as pie.”
“I suck at pie.”
“Well, I excel at pie,” he said. “At least you’re learning from the best.”
Later that night, when we were both in our bunk beds, I found myself talking to him in the dark.
“Alex?”
“I’m listening…”
“How ma
ny lessons before you learned to swim?”
“Lessons?” His laugh was loud and throaty. “I was thrown into the sea, clinging to my Pappou’s neck.”
“Your Pappou?”
“My grandfather.”
“And you kept going? You kept getting into the water with him?”
“It was either that or suffer a few hard whacks of the pandofla—his hard, leathery slipper.”
I giggled at the thought of it landing on little Alex’s butt, which immediately took me to grown-up Alex’s very round, very firm butt. Yeehaw.
“You laugh? Where is your sense of outrage?”
“Please.” I cuddled deeper into the covers. “My mother used to come after me with a wooden spoon.”
“Because you wouldn’t go swimming?”
“Because all my American friends got an allowance, so I demanded one too. I got it then for the first time, and it came out whenever I rolled my eyes or muttered something under my breath.”
“Hm.”
“Hm, what?”
“I have a lot of wooden spoons. I’ll have you swimming in no time.”
I kicked the bottom of his bed. “You wouldn’t dare abuse your sous-chef. I’ll report you to the CIA.”
Alex laughed, and in that moment, I felt buoyant—like a bubble was growing inside me. Maybe if I just allowed myself to be, I’d get carried to the top, and there, like a champagne bubble, I’d break through the surface with a bright pop.
“This wasn’t a fair exchange.” I used my wrist to nudge my hair out of my face. One hand held a knife, the other an onion.
Alex placed a basket of green-topped carrots before me, adding to the chaos on the counter. “You’re looking a little red in the face. Having trouble keeping up? We have a special meditation chamber if you need to cool off.”
“Oh yeah?” I looked up.
He unlatched the walk-in refrigerator and held the door open for me. A cool blast of air hit the back of my neck.
“This was not a fair exchange,” I repeated, and went back to sniffling over the diced onions. “You get to stargaze and I get stuck cutting and chopping and peeling.” I gestured to the vegetables around me.
“You’re free to leave any time you want. In fact, if Captain Bailey finds out you’re in here prepping meals with me, she’ll have my head.”
“I’m surprised she’s not after you already. Aren’t you supposed to be wearing a hairnet?” I pointed to his half-bun. I wasn’t really concerned about food hygiene. I just wanted to throw a hair net on Alex. Anything to flatten, constrain, and keep his magnetic appeal from crawling under my skin.
Working in close quarters with Alex was playing havoc on me. The scent of his shower gel when he opened the hot oven. The brush of his skin as he reached over to grab a pan. His movements were smooth and precise, like a conductor orchestrating a symphony, keeping time and track of all the parts that went into feeding everyone on the yacht. He had a bulletin board crammed with paper clippings, handwritten menus, prep lists, names of passengers and their preferences, names of crew members, highlights of food allergies and special diets.
“Yes.” Alex heaped grated tomatoes on barley rusks and plated them with a sprinkling of herbs and cheese.
“Yes, what?”
Alex zoned in and out when he was working. One moment he’d be talking to me and the next, he’d get so focused on what he was doing, he’d tune everything else out. When he was alone, he put on his earbuds and listened to an eclectic mix of Greek songs and 80’s music. When I was in the kitchen, he streamed his playlist through speakers.
“Yes, I should be wearing a hairnet.”
He gave no explanation for why he wasn’t. If Captain Bailey ever called him out on it, she’d probably get a rebellious hair flip.
I moved on to the carrots. I was preparing what Alex called a mirepoix—a mixture of onions, carrots, and celery—used as a base for soups, sauces, stocks, and stews. I felt pretty good about my slicing and dicing, given that Dolly always lamented my lack of kitchen skills. Maybe I should take a video for her.
Look Ma, I’m getting domesticated.
On second thought, no. She’d probably upload it to a matchmaking site:
Looking For A Nice Indian Boy With Three Thumbs.
“Hey.” Alex rapped his knuckles on the counter. “No daydreaming when you’re working.”
“Oh please. What’s the worst that can happen? I’ll end up dicing the potatoes instead of the carrots?”
“A girl lost her finger on a boat one time. In a galley just like this. On a chopping board just like that.”
“That’s horrible.” I shuddered. “What did you do?”
“I didn’t say I was there. I’m just saying be careful.”
I made a face but paid more attention to what I was doing. As I slid the first batch of carrots off the cutting board, I noticed an hourglass by the sink. It hung in a white frame on rubber feet and was filled with bright, yellow sand. I flipped it over and watched the tiny grains empty into the bottom chamber. Something about watching the cheerful pile dwindling away was both sad and lovely. It was a little like the hopes I’d pinned on this trip, pivoting my life around these fourteen days on the water. But the days were slipping away and nothing had changed.
I glanced at Alex. He was seasoning something on the stove. My fingers closed around the hourglass, stopping the rest of the sand from emptying out. It was small and slender, and fit perfectly inside my pocket.
I picked up the knife and went back to dicing the next batch of carrots.
“Three minutes,” said Alex, without looking up from the pan.
“Sorry?”
“The hourglass takes three minutes to empty.” He rested his wooden spoon on the rim of the pan and turned around. “I use it to time poached eggs.”
“I…” My protest was crushed by the uncomfortable sensation that goes with betraying someone. “I—”
“I see you, Moti.” He rested his hands on either side of me, trapping me against the counter.
I stood frozen to the spot, my heart thumping in my chest.
“I see you.” He unclenched the knife from my hand, bits of carrot peel still sticking to its edge, and dropped it in the sink. “I’ve seen the bag you have, stashed under your bed. A light bulb, coffee stirrers, a playing card, a pen, a ping-pong ball… I didn’t know what to make of it, but I see it now.” His hand slid into my pocket and he pulled out the hourglass. It caught the sun between us and sent glints of light into his eyes, warming up the cinnamon specks.
Something in me twisted as he held my gaze. It slid into my core and latched on to my trembling gut. No one had ever caught me stealing before. No one had confronted me over it. I bit down on my lip to steady myself and stand still. I bit until salty blood filled my mouth, but I still felt naked and vulnerable. I waited for Alex’s gaze to cloud with judgment, disgust, accusation.
Instead, he slipped the hourglass back in my pocket.
“I…” I wanted to apologize, to explain, but how could I? I didn’t understand it myself.
“You’re hungry,” he said. “People don’t take things unless they’re hungry. For food, for love, for a buzz, for attention. For whatever they feel is missing.” He touched my bottom lip with his thumb, prompting me to free it from the clamp of my teeth. “Don’t beat yourself up over it.”
Then, as if nothing had happened, he picked up his spoon and went back to stirring.
I stood hunched over the sink a few minutes, light-headed, feeling like my skin had been ripped off, leaving me with nothing to hide behind. Then I picked up my knife. The mechanical slicing and dicing soothed me. I was almost done when Alex spoke again.
“Eddie is getting ready to take everyone ashore.” He nodded toward the window, where the deckhand was lowering the small boat into the water. “You should get going. You don’t want to miss Paros. Naousa is one of the prettiest villages in the Cyclades.”
I nodded and untied my apron. Washing my hands
, I felt the weight of the hourglass in my pocket. Part of me wanted to put it back, but the other wanted to keep it hidden. Who wants a reminder of their shame on the counter?
“Try this before you go.” He held out his spoon, his other hand hovering beneath it to catch any spills. Steam rose from the vibrant yellow broth.
“What is it?”
“Avgolemono soup. Well, my version of it.” He lifted it to my lips.
I closed my eyes, savoring tangy lemon, shredded chicken, rice, spice. Simple, light, and comforting.
When I opened my eyes, my gaze was level with Alex’s chin. His mouth was a soup spoon away—soft and pink, nestled in the angular planes of his stubble. A familiar feeling shot through my veins. The urge to take. The urge to steal. But this time, a kiss.
I wanted to feel Alex’s lips on mine.
The realization made me jolt back.
Raspy vocals streamed through the speakers: Sign your name across my heart…
No. No.
This was going very wrong. I wasn’t supposed to feel this way for Alex. I was supposed to feel this way for Nikos. People wait their whole lives for a sign and I had a clear-cut sign Nikos was the one for me. And Dolly was watching and waiting to see if I messed up, if I fell short of her expectations once again.
I backed out of the kitchen, clutching the hourglass in my pocket.
When was I going to stop taking things that weren’t meant for me?
We walked down the narrow, cobblestone streets of Naousa in pairs:
Joseph Uncle and George (fathers of the bride and groom).
Kassia and Fia (mother of the groom and the bride’s godmother).
Rachel Auntie and Dolly (mother of the bride and my mother).
Teri and me (the hired maid of honor and the fired maid of honor).
Isabelle and Thomas (the bride and groom) had chosen to skip the onshore excursion, preferring to spend time alone before the big day. Naani also stayed onboard, partly to keep an eye on them, and partly because her unbalanced gait made her a hazard on narrow streets. Naani’s chaperoning duties, however, were redundant. Before we left, Isabelle pulled me aside for a top-secret mission: to buy a pregnancy test and smuggle it back without anyone finding out.