The right thing to do would be to move into his house and uphold my end of the bargain. The right thing, maybe, but not the smart thing. I want to kiss Nick again. And, yeah, I want to strip him naked and let him return the favor. But I don’t want to actually sleep with him, not together in one bed. That sort of proximity breeds closeness and deeper bonds, and the thought of baring more than just my body to Nick terrifies me.
It’s one thing for him to look at me and feel like the attraction is lacking physically—another thing entirely for him to see into all the dark places in my soul and realize that my baggage, my insecurities, are not at all what he’s looking for in a partner.
“It’s not the same.” Rising to the balls of his feet, Nick grabs his jeans and pulls them up his legs. Already I mourn the sight of all those muscles on display. He has the legs of a rugby player, and I can’t help but wonder what sort of activities he does in his spare time because mortal men are not built like him. “It’s not the same at all,” he repeats roughly. “I figured we’d head into Boston, do something big and elaborate and public. Maybe post a picture on Instagram—even though that’s against my contract with the show. Not”—he spears his fingers through his hair—“have someone camped outside of my parent’s house on a Sunday night. Where’s the common decency these days? Aren’t there any goddamn boundaries? Fuck.”
I drop my elbows to my knees. “So, I guess moving into your house is out of the equation then, right?”
Deep, husky laughter curls around me. “You’re a piece of work, you know that?”
“I specifically remember you telling me that I get mouthier every year.”
At my pointed stare, he only laughs again. “You’re a woman of many talents, Ermione Pappas.”
I throw him an exaggerated wink. “Just you wait and see, Saint Nick. Just you wait.”
20
To: Mina Pappas <[email protected]>
From: Nick Stamos <[email protected]>
Subject: question about flooring
What’s your favorite food?
P.S., I shifted some things around in the budget and managed to work in your slate floors. And, yes, I promise that I ONLY shifted around the budget. Before I pick them up from the warehouse tomorrow, I want to know how you want them laid out? On your Pinterest boards, you’ve got everything under the sun. Square? Large and rectangular? Herringbone? Something else? Any preference before I get to work?
To: Nick Stamos <[email protected]>
From: Mina Pappas <[email protected]>
Re: Subject: question about flooring
How in the world did you work around the budget for that? Please tell me you didn’t break a leg and donate it . . . although, that would be very gallant of you. (But, really, please tell me how??? Also, whatever you think looks best—and is the cheapest option.)
P.S., How are you feeling? I didn’t make it into Agape the last two days now that I’ve been forced to evacuate the premises under someone’s dictatorial orders. I won’t name names to protect the guilty. (Good news: I booked a few clients and am doing house calls all week.)
P.P.S., Please tell Vince and Bill thank you for getting my stuff out of the apartment for me. I really appreciate their help. And yours.
P.P.P.S., I’m going to sound like a traitor of the highest order here, but . . . Italian food. Do I get to ask you a question now?
To: Mina Pappas <[email protected]>
From: Nick Stamos <[email protected]>
Re: Re: Subject: question about flooring
Wow. Throw down the gauntlet and tear my heart out. Italian? You don’t like cannoli so that can’t be the draw. It’s the pasta, isn’t it?
And ask away.
P.S., I’m feeling all right. My pride is more bruised than my leg ever was. All’s well over here.
P.P.S., We’re happy to help, Ermione. I know it’s not easy but we’ll get you back in there soon enough, I promise. Trust me on this.
To: Nick Stamos <[email protected]>
From: Mina Pappas <[email protected]>
Re: Re: Re: Subject: question about flooring
Mr. Stamos, you didn’t answer my question about the slate floors. Do a girl a favor and tell me you didn’t axe something important . . . like a toilet.
P.S., Your pride can handle the fall. Your butt too—it’s made of 100% steel, right?
P.P.S., It’s totally the pasta. Carbs are my worst enemy (after you, of course) but also my fiercest lover. As for my question . . . are you a fan of Lord of the Rings?
To: Mina Pappas <[email protected]>
From: Nick Stamos <[email protected]>
Re: Re: Re: Re: Subject: question about flooring
Toilet’s out. Sorry to be the bearer of bad news. I’ve decided to dig a hole in the ground and buy one of those pop-squatter things from the store. Cheap and efficient, and you can admire your pretty slate floors as your clients throw fits about the lack of restrooms. You’re welcome, Mina.
P.S., All steel, baby.
P.P.S., Two things. 1) Elijah Wood may have done a good job as Frodo, but that doesn’t mean Frodo isn’t the dumbest character on the face of the planet. STAY IN THE SHIRE, FRODO. 2) My precioussss.
P.P.P.S., In case you couldn’t tell from above, the answer to your question is . . . yes.
To: Nick Stamos <[email protected]>
From: Mina Pappas <[email protected]>
Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Subject: question about flooring
You never cease to surprise me.
P.S., I left you a gift on the receptionist’s desk. Because I love to spoil surprises, here are the details: it’s an empty box, fitted perfectly for the size of your heart if I learn you did away with my toilets or anything else important. You’re welcome, Nick.
21
Mina
Returning home after the stairwell debacle wasn’t my first choice.
To be honest, it wasn’t my second choice either . . . or my third.
I wait for guilt to assail me for preferring to be anywhere but where my parents are, but it doesn’t come. It rarely does.
Sitting on my old twin-sized bed, I cross my legs and prop my laptop against my shins. Plastered all over the walls are magazine cut-outs of models from various catwalks around the world, mostly dated to the late 90s and early 2000s. In the corner of the room, beneath the old, white desk I rarely used as a kid, is a tub stuffed to the brim with dolls. I remember needing to sit on the plastic lid while Katya helped me duct-tape it shut.
I feel a pinch in my heart that I studiously ignore by dropping my gaze to the voice-recorder app I’ve left open on my phone. Tapping the red, record button, I lean back on my childhood mattress and speak clearly for the microphone to pick up. “Date recorded: February seventh. Received invitation from local fashion show to participate as one of the hairstylists on recommendation from Tanya Banks, an old client and sister to model Chantelle Banks.” Leaving the app to record, I reach for my glass of water off the bedside table and take a sip. “Must leave confirmation of participation by the twenty-fifth. Also, uploaded job posting for Agape interviews.”
After another sip of water, I pause the app and save the voice memo to my drive, as well. I’ll play it back later and make any notations in my calendar for cross-referencing, like the fashion-show gig. It’s not the first time I’ve participated in large-scale shows, but this is the first time I’ll be representing my own salon and my own brand. My stomach still flutters with giddiness whenever I think about the call I received early this morning.
But, good news or not, being back in this house and under my parent’s roof, is a time warp I’d rather do without.
The mattress dips as I set aside my laptop and swing my legs over the side of the bed. The fuzzy carpet greets my bare feet as I crouch low and lift the old-fashioned skirt that my mom picked out years ago from some catalogue she obsessed over. I thrust a hand under the bed, patting around in the darkness for the slim box I know everyone but me has forgotten. My fingertips graze plastic, and I drag it out into the light.
Turning onto my butt, I pop off the box’s lid and take a moment to breathe. I breathe in the old desperation to fit in with my family, with my Greek community, and breathe out a sixteen-year-old’s identity crisis.
Finally, I peer into the box. Spiral-bound notebook after spiral-bound notebook greet me, my name written in my sloppy Greek script across the front of each one. Ερμιόνη Παπάς. The metal binding protests with a whine as I crack open the notebook sitting on top of them all. My sixth-grade handwriting is atrocious. “So bad,” I whisper, flipping through the pages. But not as bad as all the eraser marks and crossed-out words in the columns of each page.
I toss that notebook to the carpet and reach in for another. Seventh grade. A small part of me hopes this one will be better and show some progression. I see my attempts to remember the proper way to conjugate the past perfect tense of the verb, to love. Agape—the noun, not the verb. I don’t think I ever quite got the hang of it, but that didn’t stop me from slapping it across my LLC and DBA and the sign I ordered offline that’s sitting in my apartment.
One by one, I move through the grades until there are none left to review but one.
I don’t know why I feel the need to look through them all. It’s not anything I don’t still know: I never would have passed any grades in Greek school if it weren’t for the fact that kids flunking out didn’t happen.
I passed on the sheer merit of pity from my teachers and some made-up rule by the priests of the church, who only cared to see kids in the ecclesia and learning the mother tongue. Kids like Nick and Effie, Katya and Dimitri, and, yes, even Sophia, earned their way through to our senior year. I faked it till I couldn’t make it anymore, and then I kept faking it because to do otherwise would admit the truth: that I wasn’t as Greek as them all, both by blood and otherwise.
My forearm rests on the plastic lip of the box as I hesitate over the final notebook. I drop my head back against the edge of the mattress. Why torture myself with yet another workbook memorializing my weaknesses? Why bother going through them at all? Self-punishment, maybe? Or a push to get me moving faster and turn the wheel of ambition once more?