by kc dyer
A bell begins to ring through the phone. “Yikes—that’s a code blue. I gotta go,” she says. “But stay in touch, okay? I’ll be checking for your texts.”
“I promise. Love you, Dev.”
“Love you too, crazy person. Be safe.”
And without another word, she’s gone, off to put out whatever the emergency room fire of the moment is. She’s very good at what she does.
I check my phone to see if a message has come through from Anthony, but when there’s no joy, I tuck it into my pocket and head for the nearest exit. Time to find the real crazy person in this scenario.
* * *
—
Luck is with me, in that my cab driver speaks excellent—if heavily accented—English, and we are soon hurtling away from the palm tree–lined streets around the airport and heading toward the city. My eyes are burning from lack of sleep, but I can’t tear them away from the view outside the window. The airport itself is—apart from the Greek signage—almost identical to every airport I’ve ever been to at home. Buses line up outside, surrounded by yellow cabs zipping across the lines of traffic. But as soon as we pull away from the airport, it’s clear I’m not in Kansas anymore.
There’s not a single cloud in the sky, which has darkened to a deep indigo blue. To one side of the perfectly ordinary freeway, rolling hills in the distance are backlit with a single line of gold where they rise up to form low, rounded mountains. Seconds later, the palms disappear, and the trees lining the freeway become short and scrubby. The air swirling in through the window has a tang to it that I can’t quite place. It smells of the sea, yes, but is different from the funky, industrial odor that lingers around the docks at home. Saltier.
Can air smell like olives?
I lean back in my seat and close my eyes at last, breathing in the fragrance that is Greece and wishing my best friend and my fiancé liked each other a little more.
If I try to pinpoint it, I think I first noticed her active animosity toward him after the proposal. In the beginning, she’d been as dazzled as I was with the flowers and the expensive restaurant dates. In a way, she benefited too, at least in the form of the foil packets twisted into swans that I brought home to share after elegant dinners with Anthony. But Devi is a Yankees girl, born and bred, and the day Anthony proposed, she watched the whole thing on television while she was supposed to be studying for her last exam.
When I finally made it home that night feeling—I have to say—thrilled and stunned in equal measure, she started in on me as soon as I walked through the door.
“Three months,” she said, pointing to the calendar we have hung on the only open wall space in our tiny kitchen. “Two months and twenty-nine days, if you want to get technical. That’s less than a hundred days you’ve known this guy, Gia. And you said yes?”
I remember feeling immediately deflated. “Don’t you want to see the ring?” I pleaded, forcing my left hand into hers. But she barely gave it a glance.
“It’s huge,” she said flatly. “No surprise there.”
“It’s gorgeous,” I said, still feeling shocked at the weight of it on my finger. “Rose gold and platinum, Devi. And the diamond is . . .”
“I don’t care how fucking big the diamond is,” she snapped. “It’s too soon. You’re being railroaded, Gia. Did you know what was coming when you went to the game tonight?”
I admitted that I hadn’t. And by the end of our conversation, I was forced to concede that the public nature of the proposal had thrown me. It had been one of the first games that a large crowd had been allowed back into the stands, and the mood of the place was boisterous.
“How could I say no? The entire stadium was watching.”
Devi scoffed. “The entire country, more like. It was the game of the week, Gia. People watching in Omaha saw him drop to one knee. People in Kentucky.”
I plopped down beside her on our old sofa and put my newly heavy left hand on her knee. “Exactly. Like, I’m going to say no under those circumstances?”
She clutched my hand in both of hers. “Did you want to say no? Because if you even thought about it—that’s intimidation, Gia. He’s using his wealth and his power to intimidate you into saying yes.”
“I wanted to say yes,” I insisted. “I did. I do, I mean. It’s just—unexpected, is all.”
She snorted. “I’ll say. You hardly know this guy.”
“Come on, Dev! I know him—I do. Anyway, he’s a public figure. Everyone knows he’s a great guy.”
Devi rolled her eyes at me. “Oh my god, girl. Will you listen to yourself? Look—I’m happy for you. I mean—I will be happy for you if this is what you want. It just feels too early. Too rushed somehow. Less than three months together, and you’re ready to commit for the rest of your life?”
“I love him,” I said, fighting back weepiness. “I do. Life has been so awful for so long, and getting married is supposed to be a celebration, Devi. You’re my best friend. You’ll be my only bridesmaid. I want you—of all people—to be happy for me.”
She flattened my palm against her pajama-clad thigh and stared down at my new ring for a long moment before letting out a tremendous sigh.
“Okay. I will be happy for you. But just promise me you won’t have a whirlwind engagement. Give it some time, okay? It’ll be a big society wedding, of course. Those things take at least a year to plan, don’t they?”
I duly promised and was freed at last to take my spinning head to bed.
Of course, within a couple of weeks I found myself explaining to Devi how lucky Anthony had been to secure a venue—the venue of our dreams—with only two months’ notice. And worse—how Anthony’s three younger cousins had counted on standing up for him at his wedding their whole lives. Besides, no one ever just has one bridesmaid, do they?
But even as I assured Devi of her inalienable position as maid of honor, I could see she was digging in her heels. And when that girl makes up her mind?
It’s not easy to change, is all I’m saying.
chapter five
SUNDAY LATE
Pink Lemon Ouzo
Gia Kostas, once aspiring-journalist, now parental overseer
A unique, Greek take on spiked pink lemonade. This sweet, licoricey concoction goes down like candy floss, but it’s got a kick like a bronco if you’re not careful. Begin with a handful of mint, crushed into a tall, slender glass . . .
My phone rings for a second time just as I collect my credit card back from the cab driver. He’s pulled over at the side of a cobbled lane that runs in front of the hotel address I culled from Evan’s file folder. I climb out, slam the car door before the taxi pulls away, and manage to answer the phone on the third ring.
“What. The. Actual. Fuck. Gia?” Anthony’s voice comes exploding out at me in a tone I’ve never heard before.
“I—uh—hi, Anthony.” I can’t help glancing up at the hotel entrance, where a young woman dressed in a yellow bikini top and black sparkly miniskirt is staring at me with undisguised interest. “I guess you got my voice mail?”
He has indeed and is not at all happy about it, he tells me, in no uncertain terms. He is not happy, the cake baker is not happy, and—worst of all—his mother is not happy. She has, he tells me, called half a dozen times since I’ve gone AWOL, her list of concerns growing with each call. I listen in jet-lagged silence until the tirade finally slows enough that I can get a word in.
“Of course, I want a lovely wedding—I want that as much as you do. But it’s months away, Anthony. This situation with my dad is an emergency that I need to deal with right now.”
At the mention of my dad, Anthony’s tone softens a little.
“Look, honey,” he says. “I know you’re worried. But flying to Athens? I just hope it’s worth losing the best baker in the city.”
The lights of a small bar next door to the hotel tw
inkle gaily in the darkness, in direct contrast to the feelings inside me. I can hear the quiet strains of a piano through the open door.
“I—don’t even know how to answer that, Anthony. This is my dad’s life. Yes, it’s worth missing out on some stupid cake—god!”
Tears of fury and exhaustion spring to my eyes, and I slump back against a car parked at the curb. This is the first real argument I’ve ever had with Anthony, and on top of the fear for my dad and the jet lag, I don’t have any resources left to deal.
Clearly, I’m not the only one. All traces of Anthony’s earlier conciliatory tone disappear in an instant. I yank the phone away from my ear and punch the volume button down.
“Seriously? Seriously? Gia, if you’d been paying attention, you’d know that tomorrow is my company’s initial public offering. And the entire thing has fallen on my shoulders because my father is less than useless. As a result, I have had an incredibly shitty day, everything is going wrong, and now I’ve got my mother all over my ass about wedding plans. I’m just fucking ready to call this whole thing off, do you hear me?”
“Call what off?” I say, slowly. “The public offering?”
His voice explodes out of my phone. “Jesus CHRIST, are you a complete idiot? This IPO is my entire future. I thought you knew how important this was to me, Gia. I—I don’t even know what to say to you. We’re done, man. Done.”
I suddenly feel entirely awake. A cool wind swirls around me, raising goose bumps on my arms. Propping the phone to my ear with my shoulder, I tug down the sleeves of my cardigan. I have never heard him sound so angry.
“You don’t mean that,” I whisper, but he’s not listening.
The dark, such as it is on a city street, has folded in on me now, which at least gives me a little cover. I wipe my nose with the cuff of my cardigan and take a shaky breath.
“I just need to find my dad, okay? I’ll hand over the medication he left behind and make him promise to take it. I can be back in a couple of days, and I’ll—”
“What is it about the word done you don’t understand?” he says coldly. “Call me when you get home, and we can sort things out then.”
And he’s gone.
I pocket my phone and turn to find the girl in the bikini top proffering a somewhat tattered-looking tissue at me. I can feel myself blushing as I reach to accept it and swipe quickly at my eyes.
“No need to be embarrass.” The girl offers a sympathetic smile. “My boyfriend asshole too. We fight all the time.”
She swings open the doorway to the hotel and gestures me inside with a sweep of the hand.
“Oh, we weren’t—that is—he’s not . . .” I begin, and then give up entirely and step through the doorway. As I hurry toward the front desk, her voice follows me, a clarion call from the dark entranceway.
“I keep him around because he has nice motor and is excellent lover. Does your man have nice motor?”
I affect the time-honored tradition of pretending not to hear her and cross the floor at a swift trot. The hair on my arms stands up as I hurry through the startlingly cool interior. A scent of onions cooking permeates the air, coupled with the slightly unsettling undertones of mildew and Pine-Sol. As I reach the front desk, an elderly man wearing a stiff, black polyester suit and an enormous mustache nods at me formally. A shiny gold bar pinned to his lapel identifies him as Konstantin.
“Good evening, madam. You have reservation?”
“Vroom, vroom!” calls the girl from the door, and the elderly man leans to one side.
“Sikka,” he warns. “Figue!”
She gives a last giggle before slamming the door behind her.
“My apologies, madam,” Konstantin murmurs. He runs a finger over one unruly eyebrow, which is only marginally less bushy than his mustache. “My niece, Sikka. Just returned from her semester at English university, and she is quite impossible. These young people, so filled with high spirits, eh?”
I join him in shaking my head at the state of young people these days and then confess that while I don’t have a reservation, my father should be in residence. When I give him my dad’s name, Konstantin’s face breaks into a wide smile.
“Ah—you are daughter of Dr. Kostas? Lovely man, your father. Lovely man. Is not so busy right now. I find you a room.”
I feel a flash of fury at my father, the lovely man. Chasing him down has just cost me the most romantic relationship of my life, and I could just as easily strangle him at the moment. But before I can say another word, Konstantin pulls out a registration card for me to sign.
“No need to fill details—I get from your papa in the morning.” He slides a key across the desk and points me toward a darkened corridor. “Room sixteen. Sleep well!”
“Oh, but I was hoping to meet up with my father tonight.” I pick up the key. “Can you tell me which room he’s in?”
Konstantin points to the stairs. “Room thirty-six. Top floor. Only the best for your papa. But he is sleep early—much jet lag.”
I stare up the steps for a long moment, trying to decide what to do.
“You need assistance with your bags?” Konstantin asks, at last.
“No—no thank you,” I say, unable to keep the defeat from my voice. “This is all I have. Good night.”
I shoulder my bag and aim myself toward my room.
* * *
—
I’m just about to turn the key in the lock of room sixteen when fury overtakes me. I’ve come all this way—at a huge cost to my life and my own relationship—and I’m supposed to respect his beauty sleep?
Not this Kostas.
Trembling a little from the combination of anger and exhaustion, it takes me a couple of minutes of fishing around in my bag before my fingers close around the pill bottle. I yank the bottle out, toss the bag inside my room, and stomp up the stairs.
It turns out that room thirty-six is three winding and super rickety sets of stairs up. By the time I get to the top, I have to pause and gasp a few times to catch my breath, which takes the edge off my fury, a little.
There’s only the one numbered door on this floor, so I feel very little guilt about pounding on it. No answer.
“Pops?” I not-quite yell and then knock again, so hard that the number six spins on its nail to become a nine.
Still nothing.
I’m just balling up my fist to go again when the door to the tiniest elevator I’ve ever seen clanks open behind me, and Sikka steps out. She’s carrying a teetering stack of folded towels.
“Heavy sleeper, your papa?” she says, as I resume pounding. “I can hear you all the way up in lift.”
“I just need to get him to take his medication,” I say, pausing long enough to rub my knuckles, which are getting seriously sore. “I don’t know why I’m bothering. He drives me crazy.”
Sikka shoots a glance down the stairwell I’ve just climbed up and thrusts the towels into my arms. “All Greek men are like that. Is a curse on us women.”
Reaching into her pocket, she grins at me. As the key clicks in the lock, her eyes meet mine.
“Don’t tell Konstantin, okay?”
“I won’t,” I promise, and she gives me a final grin before scooping up the towels and heading off down the hall.
Inside, the room is shrouded in darkness, but a thin line of light shines from what turns out to be the bathroom door. My father is an indistinct, snoring lump under the bedclothes.
I march into the bathroom, fill a glass with water, and leaving the door wide open, return to my dad’s still sleeping form. He’s always been a heavy sleeper, but I’m not going to let that stop me now.
“Pops,” I say into his face. “Wake up.”
I have to actually shake his shoulder before he sits up and stares at me blurrily. “Marta? What are you doing here?”
I thrust the glass of wat
er into his hand, and when some of it slops over the edge and onto the covers, I feel grimly delighted. “It’s me, Pops—Gia. You forgot to bring your pills, and you need to take one now.”
He blinks slowly, twice. Then without another word he pops the proffered pill into his mouth and takes a swallow of water before rolling back under the covers. “Thank you, koritsi,” he mumbles. “You always take such good care of me.”
I stare down at him. “For crying out loud, Pops. You are seriously not even going to speak to me after I’ve come all this way?”
A gentle snore is the only reply.
The light from the bathroom illuminates the shock of grey curly hair that is now the only part of him visible above the bedclothes, and I briefly consider murdering him in his sleep.
But in the end, I give it up as a lost cause and stomp back down the stairs to my own room.
The room is very small, but like my dad’s, it’s got a tiny en suite bathroom and a bed, and at the moment, that’s all I care about. A night-light glows in one corner, and I can’t be bothered to even flick on the light switch. It’s not until I throw myself down on the bed that I realize his pill bottle is still clutched in my hand.
I gaze at it blankly and, for a moment, contemplate heading back up to shake the stupid things in his face, but the thought of those three flights of rickety stairs is too daunting.
And there’s no way I’m setting foot in that tiny, creaking elevator.
Rolling over, I stare at the ceiling feeling exhausted and strung out and helplessly angry. At my dad, for creating this situation.
But also at Anthony.
I replay the argument in my head, and the more I think about it, the less reasonable his whole diatribe seems. His life is crazy at the moment, I know. All the same, my actions—however ill-advised—definitely did not deserve that kind of response. I’m just worried about my father. Who doesn’t worry about their parents?