Hold Me Today

by Maria Luis

  My heart skips a beat. “Naí?”

  “Yeah.” She glances up, tears coating her dark lashes, happiness swimming in those honey eyes of hers. “A dance like on prom night—but this one can be under the stars.”

  My hands find the dip in her back, and I pull her flush against me. “I’m thinkin’ this one should end on a kiss.”

  So, we dance. In the middle of her salon, in the middle of the day, underneath a painted mural of sunsets and stars that peek out through the clouds. I hold her tightly, spinning her around to the music no one else can hear. I catch our reflection in the mirrors.

  My work jeans and messy, curly hair.

  Her mismatched shoes and bare, beautiful face.

  “Nick?”

  My hands skim the curves of her body as I prop my chin on the top of her head. “Yeah, agape mou?”

  She smiles up at me. “I was always yours.”

  I kiss her fully, then brush her hair to the side so I can trace a pair of soaring wings. It took me a trip to the altar and one stint on a bat-shit-crazy reality show to see it, but this I know to the bottom of my heart: “I’m hopelessly, recklessly, in love with you.”

  40

  Mina

  Two Weeks Later

  “I don’t know if I can do this.”

  Beside me, my boyfriend—boyfriend!—leans forward to knock on the wooden door to my parents’ house. “You can do this. Deep breaths, remember? I know you’ve got this.”

  My heart gives a swift, I’m-so-lucky-to-have-this-man kick in my chest. “You have such faith in me.”

  Nick gives a low, sultry laugh. “Always, koukla. I wouldn’t let just anyone pick out ink for me, you know.”

  “You mean you weren’t pleased that I strayed from the arrow pointing to your dick?”

  A masculine hand circles my waist and squeezes me tight. “So long as you’re the only one to know that it’s there, I’d be fine with—”

  The door swings open and I stifle the panic rising within me. It’s not my mom who stands there but my dad—my adoptive father, anyway—and I don’t miss the way he looks from me to Nick, curiosity furrowing his already craggy features.

  For years, I’ve let this man ruin not only how I react to life but how I look at myself. I can’t do that anymore. And I won’t allow either him or my mom to drown me in their never-ending fight. If they want to hash it out with each other for the next sixty years, that’s on them. But I want to live, and I’m tired of letting their shame hang over my head.

  “Ermione,” my dad grumbles, his expression neither pleased nor upset to see me back on his doorstep, considering I moved all my stuff out two weekends ago. I can’t say that my apartment is homey, especially in comparison to Nick’s humble abode, but it works for now. Until Agape is up and running, I want to stay close to the salon and put out the fires as they come. But I’m lucky—because Nick knows what it takes to kickstart a business, and rather than asking me to move in with him, he’s effectively moved all of his stuff into my place instead. It’s small and cramped, and every time he takes to the stairs, I know he sees his life flash before his eyes, but he never complains.

  And, boy, do I love him for it.

  Turning my attention back to Yianni Pappas, I note his impassive demeanor and the surly tilt to his mouth. I don’t know how I ever managed to think he and Nick were ever alike, and the point is hammered home when Baba snaps, “What are you doing here?”

  The words fire at me in Greek, and I tip my head back to meet his green eyes. “I need to have a little chat with you and Mama. Is she home?”

  He steps back, begrudgingly inviting me in. “In the kitchen.”

  “Great!”

  I storm past him, not bothering to pause and give him a hug. I learned many moons ago that hugging Yianni Pappas is like trying to hug a rattlesnake. He rejects affection the way my body rejects latex leggings; though I’ll admit that, for the sake of fashion, I’ve stuffed myself in a pair or two over the years anyway.

  Nick follows behind me, one hand rooted to the small of my back. He’s the one who convinced me to come today. No matter how many times I tried to play devil’s advocate and count all the ways confronting my parents was a bad idea, he quashed each one into the ground with the heel of his massive boot. He was right, of course. I can’t move forward with us until I settle the past with them.

  I throw a thank-you glance over my shoulder, to which he only mouths, You can do this. I love you.

  Funny how the admission coming from his pillow-soft lips doesn’t make me want to run—not anymore. He’s my rock, my best friend, and I mouth back, S’agapo.

  I square off my shoulders, then cut the corner into the kitchen. Immediately, I spot my mom standing near the kitchen island, a glass of champagne in hand while she flips through some magazine. She looks elegant and poised and I shove away the long-time hurt that she’s so obsessed with the image of the perfect Greek family that she can’t see that she’s lost us all. Me, Katya, Dimitri.

  “Ermione,” she exclaims when she spots me. Her gaze tracks over to Nick, and though her smile falters at the sight of him, she’s quick to recover. “And Niko, agori mou, how good to see you.”

  At the “my boy,” Nick grumbles something beneath his breath. Not for a second do I think it’s complimentary. He’s not the biggest fan of Kyrie and Kyria Pappas. Then again, to be fair, it’s tough to see the good in vultures when you’ve got Aleka and George Stamos in your corner. Even Nick’s yiayia has softened toward me, though I know it’s only because she wants grandbabies and lots of them.

  Slowly, my dad moves to stand beside Mama. His hand on her shoulder, the way he curls his fingers in—that possessive incline to his chin that’s so very him. “Do you need to come back home, Ermione?” he asks.

  Never.

  “Óxi.” My voice is clear, succinct. “I came here to tell you that I’m done with your games.” I turn to my mother. “I’ve spent years wondering who my real dad is.” She gasps—no doubt shocked I’d mention any of this in front of Nick, a “stranger” to our home. She’ll get over it, just as how I had to get over the prospect of ever waking up to discover that my parents are sweet, caring, loving. Our realities are much more cut and dry: she slept around on her husband and I’m the result. “I’ve spent years feeling chained to this idea of who I should be, because you and Baba force-fed me toxic ideologies since I was a kid.”

  “Ermione,” my mom starts, finally putting down the champagne, “mipos theloume—”

  “No. I don’t care what you two only want—it matters what I want. And as my parents, you should encourage me. Boost me up. Take pride in the fact that your baby girl, your daughter, has her own salon, runs her own business, and she’s done it all on her own.” Nick’s hand falls from my back as I step forward. Confidence kicks up my chin and clenches my hands into fists. “It is not okay for you two to make me feel stupid. Better yet, you shouldn’t tell me I’m stupid either. It’s not okay.”

  My dad barks out my name, like the drill sergeant he’s never been. “You will not speak to us this way, Ermione.”

  Pity pushes aside the anger streaming through my veins. “Respect is earned, Baba, not given with blind loyalty—and neither of you deserve mine.”

  “Do you speak back because I will not say who your father is?” It’s my mom who utters this, and I wish—oh, I wish—she looked anything more than frustrated right now. A hint of compassion would ease the burn. A show of affection to me, her eldest, would erase the need to be done with them both . . . or at least it would make me think again about severing all ties. “Is that what you want?” she demands, this time in Greek.

  Ten years ago I would have said yes.

  A month ago I would have said yes.

  But as my heart races, I hear myself say, “It doesn’t matter what I want, does it? You won’t tell me and I’m tired of asking. It’s your secret to keep but I’m tired of feeling like a secret too.”

  Mama’s expression ti
ghtens, and her fingers begin to tap on the magazine. Her eyes dart to my father, and then fall to the kitchen island. Alarm bells sound off in my head at the tension I spot in the line of her trim frame. But it’s those tapping fingers, exactly the same nervous twitch of my own, that hold my attention.

  “Mama?” I ask, my hands down at my sides.

  “Yianni, I need you to leave the room.”

  My father’s face turns a blusterous red. “Óxi.”

  It’s all he says, and my mom physically shrinks into herself. Her shoulders round and her olive skin pales and the tapping increases speed. “Yianni, now.”

  It’s the first time in my life I’ve ever seen her stand up to him, this man who isn’t my biological father and doesn’t even deserve the right to be my adoptive one either. He doesn’t move a muscle, not until Nick steps forward.

  They exchange words in Greek that I fail to interpret quickly enough, and then my dad is storming out of the kitchen. I don’t expect him to leave, not completely, but either my mom doesn’t care or she’s itching to get whatever it is off her chest because her voice comes low and hurried.

  “Prodromos.”

  One word. One word, and my knees buckle.

  I expect to hit the floor but a pair of familiar, bulky arms catch me. They haul me upright, tugging me into a broad chest. I feel his heart hammering against my back. “Mama—”

  “I will not say this all again, Ermione.” Her face pinched, she casts a hasty glance toward the living room. “And he knows. I told him after Prodromos passed, and never once before. It was not . . . Your theio—your father—and I were, how do you say it? Together?” At my shallow nod, her lips flatten. “Only one time.”

  “But you said he was American!”

  Her cheeks flush with color. “I lied, koritsi mou. Because I was ashamed of my cheating, and Yianni and I were only just married. We were . . . Prodromos was a kind man, Ermione. A gentle, funny man, and yet my parents picked his brother instead for me. You know that our marriage was arranged.”

  My breath comes fast and swift, and I’m thankful to Nick because without him, I’d be flat on my ass in shock. “Did Theio—did Prodromos know . . . about me?”

  Shame chases its way across her features. “Óxi, no.”

  I swallow, and it hurts. God, it hurts. All these years, I saw him, my real dad, and neither of us ever knew. He taught me how to ride a bike. He sat with me while I braided his hair and used butterfly clips to hold the dark, curly strands in place. I was the last person, outside of my grandparents, to sit with him in the hospital just before he passed. A drunk-driving accident—and not his fault.

  I’m desperate for the rage to come. I’m desperate for anger to sharpen my tongue and say spiteful things. In the end, I only ask the one question that matters most: “Did you love him?”

  Mama bows her head and her shoulders rise with a sharp breath. “I loved the idea of him, and I wanted . . . Koritsi mou, it is all I wanted for you to meet someone nice, someone who will treat you well and love you, someone who reminds me of . . . someone who reminds me of Prodromos.” Her gaze tracks from me to Nick, as though wondering if I’ve found the nice, Greek boy she’s always wanted for me. “I have not shown you the best love.”

  But I tried.

  I hear those three words even though she doesn’t say them out loud.

  That’s the thing about secrets: they fester and they ooze with toxins and they infect every person around them.

  I’m done being infected, even if that means removing myself from the inner Pappas circle. Except that you really are a Pappas. The news of my birth is shocking, and yet somehow not shocking at all. I’ve always seen Baba’s controlling nature. I’m not sure why today of all days my mom thought it fit to finally tell me who my real father is.

  And that’s okay. It has to be okay, I repeat to myself.

  “No,” I finally say, “you haven’t.” Because it’s clear to me that my mom is fighting demons that only she can battle. No matter how I was conceived, I’m hers. Mother or not, blood ties or not, I can’t go down in the flames alongside her. As for Theio Prodromos, I’ll mourn his loss when I’m back in the safety of my home. “I want you to know, Mama, that I’m thankful—because if it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t be me, and I love me.” I reach blindly behind me, seeking Nick’s hand. Relief swallows the restlessness as soon as our palms kiss, his heat engulfing me. “I hope, one day, that you might be willing to share that best kind of love with me. I’m always here to talk, even if . . . even if it’s about Baba. You can be happy, Mama. You can be so much happier than you are now. And if you need me, I’ll always listen.”

  Because that’s what true families do: they forgive and they learn and they adjust.

  I hope, one day, that my parents will realize that they’ve driven everyone away. Deep down, I wish that my mom will see that an arranged marriage can be unarranged. She’s already given herself three decades to a mean bastard, but that doesn’t mean he’s entitled to another thirty years of her time.

  Quietly, I tug on Nick’s hand, our signal that it’s time to go.

  “I love you,” he murmurs to me, “and I’m proud of you.”

  “Proud enough that you’ll let me convince you to stay home for the rest of the day and watch Lord of the Rings with me?”

  “One bowl of popcorn or two?”

  I wink at him, feeling the broken pieces of my heart mold back together—because of him. “Is that even a question? Two, of course. So we have backup after we demolish the first.”

  We almost make it to the front door when I hear my mom shout, “Ermione, are you and Nick . . . together?”

  I raise my gaze to the man himself. His pewter eyes glitter with good humor and love, and I’m pretty sure I’ve never felt so lucky in my life. “Naí, Mama. You told me to find myself a good, nice Greek boy, so I did. Only, he’s not always so good and he’s not always so nice, which means . . . he’s my perfect match.”

  Epilogue

  One Month Later

  Celebrity Tea Presents:

  Is that an ENGAGEMENT RING on Mina Pappas’ finger?

  Dear Reader, it should come as no surprise that the Put A Ring On It franchise is in meltdown mode. With the show about to begin airing on TV late next month (ahead of schedule by THREE months, mind you), it only makes sense that they want their contestants on lockdown. There are a few problems with this, the first being that runner-up and resident Adonis, Nick Stamos, has flashed the network the middle finger by not only proposing to his girlfriend, Mina Pappas, but by broadcasting it on social media.

  We’ve seen the ring, and I’ll be the first one to say . . . it’s pretty but not as glittery and obnoxious as I’d hoped? Set in rose gold, the marquis stone is made of amethyst. Small diamonds decorate the intricate band.

  The gem’s creator, a man who would like to remain anonymous, but who can be found in Bethel, Maine, of all places, told Celebrity Tea, “I think I remember them coming in! But, honestly, the shop is so busy in February, that I can’t be too sure. As for the price of the gem, I can’t specify but I can tell you that nothing goes for more than $200 in my shop. I like to keep our prices low for the guests.”

  So, there you have it. Not only has Stamos put a ring on Mina Pappas, but second runner-up Dominic DaSilva has issued a restraining order on a certain member of the press—not I, dear reader—and Savannah Rose, America’s darling, has retreated from the limelight completely.

  The tea has been spilled, Dear Reader, and I know that I’m just dying to know what will happen next.

  Epilogue

  Nick

  One Year and Four Days Later . . .

  “She’s here, right?”

  “Jesus Christ, Stamos, ask me that one more time and I’m going to introduce your pretty boy face to my meaty fist.”

  I don’t bother to look up at Vince from where I’m studying my reflection in the floor-length mirror. My clammy hands make it difficult to pin the damn boutonnier
e to the lapel of my wedding tux, forcing my best friend to swat my hands aside so he can do the honors himself.

  “You’re sweating like a whore in church,” he grumbles.

  “Technically we are in a church.” It’s the same Greek Orthodox church as the one Brynn stood me up in. I wanted to go for another one, but Mina put her foot down. It’s within this building’s walls that we attended Greek school together for years. We danced yearly at the festivals and reeked of gyros and souvlaki when it was our turn to serve the food. It’s the church we attended every Sunday for mass, our families sitting beside each other, while Effie sandwiched herself between me and Mina so we wouldn’t kill each other. It’s our heritage, and our community, and I’ll be honest—I’m not one to tell my fiancée no.

  In about thirty minutes, she’ll be your wife.

  I swallow past the nerves and avert my chin so Vince can work without poking me with the pin.

  “Stamos, man,” Billy says, “do you need some water or something?”

  The group of them hover like mama birds: Bill, Mark, Vince, and Dominic DaSilva.

  But it’s my sister’s voice that pulls me out of the funk. “Your nifi looks beautiful, Nick.”

  Nifi. Wife.

  I turn to my sister and clear my throat before I make an utter fool of myself. “Aren’t you supposed to be with Mina right now? You didn’t leave her alone, did you?”

  Effie laughs, punching me in the shoulder before pulling me into a hug. “Lord, you’re a nervous wreck. She’s with Ma and Katya right now. Kyria Pappas—am I still supposed to call her that, now that she’s getting divorced?” Her nose scrunches. “Anyway, she’s gathering up the flower girls and putting everyone in their place. She keeps popping in to check on Mina, though, and I’m pretty sure I saw her stuffing a box of tissues into that big ol’ purse of hers.”