He was just trying to be nice and I ruined the moment with snot. True romance right there.
The worst part is, I thought at one point he might kiss me . . . we were close, like almost nose to nose because I was standing on my tiptoes, and it could have happened. Maybe. I closed my eyes. That’s what they all do in the movies. They close their eyes and lean in.
But Nick didn’t lean in.
He told me he’s dating this girl he really likes at school. Her name is Brynn and she’s beautiful, he says, and he thinks it might be the real deal.
I thought HE was the real deal.
Stupid me.
So, yeah, bad memories, GSN. I’ll pay to get rid of them. All of them.
I’ll miss you, since today is our last day of Greek school FOREVER. Thank you for listening. It’s nice to feel like someone understands me, even if you’re only a notebook and I’ve probably ruined you with all my bad grammar and misspelled words.
Hugs,
MINA
I close the notebook and toss it back in the bin. It’s either stamp out the emotion or let it consume me, and crying gets a girl nowhere in life. Patience, like I have tattooed on the sole of my foot, gets me places. Soaring, like the set of wings I have inked behind my ear, reminds me to always keep moving, even if my steps are small and measured and frightened by the unknown lingering before me.
But I’ve lived my entire life with some unknown part of me taking up residence in my soul, and I’ve never been all that scared by the what-ifs of the world. What-ifs are useless wastes of time. Get out there, make the magic happen—no matter what—and learn as you go. It’s the key to survival, and how I operate.
I could spend months lamenting Jake the IOU Asshole, but that would get me nowhere. Same with the damn stairs and my sudden move back to my childhood home. It is what it is, and so long as I give my dad a wide birth, I’m sure we can co-exist like normal people.
Shoving the bin back under the bed, I grasp the side of my laptop and haul it to the edge of the mattress. A few strokes of the keyboard later and I’ve officially accepted the invitation to participate in the fashion show.
“There,” I say with an air of finality, “now move on to the next thing.”
I smooth my thumb over the mouse pad. “Moving on to the next thing” reminds me of Nick and all his temporary longing theories. He’s not wrong. Dreams change, they adjust and grow, and . . . I have no idea what in the world I’ll start dreaming about after Agape opens. More clients, maybe, or more stints in hair shows and fashion shows or more followers on Instagram.
Or something.
I’m sure it’ll come to me. It’s not as though my ambition and drive will just roll over and die with the grand opening of a hair salon. That’s not how this dream thing works.
I close my laptop and put it away, then putz around my room. Fiddle with old trinkets I haven’t seen in years. Send Effie a text about grabbing dinner together later this week. Boredom clings to me like a second skin until I find myself stripping off my sweats and putting on a pair of high-waisted jeans and a crop-top sweater with bell sleeves. I grab a beanie hat and gloves and shove my feet into a pair of trendy snow boots.
I leave my face bare of any makeup, without even a trace of my trademark dark lipstick.
Being back in this house doesn’t give me the warm fuzzies. No, it makes me want to run off into the night. Anxiety kicks boredom to the curb as I throw on a heavy wool coat, leaving it unbuttoned, and ignore looking in the full-sized mirror as I head out my bedroom door.
For the first time in years, I don’t have a single destination in mind.
My nerves are on edge, all those long-buried emotions bubbling to the surface. I shouldn’t have popped open Pandora’s box. What good did it do for me, anyway? Add little pinpricks of hurt to my soul after years of carefully removing them all from my childhood?
I should have taken Nick up on his offer to stay at his house. “And here’s another time when you ignored the obvious choice.”
I’m making a bad habit of it, clearly.
The first floor is empty as I head for the front door. The lights are turned off, and my parents aren’t the sort to leave a note on the fridge about their whereabouts—or to send a quick text to let me know when they might be home. More likely than not, they’re at one of their mini-concerts down along the Charles River.
Sighing, I fist the doorknob and pull it open.
My heart flips over on itself at the familiar figure standing on the front stoop. “Nick?”
22
Nick
Mina looks like she’s seen a ghost.
Or maybe it’s that I’m seeing her without makeup for the first time in years. No spiky black lashes or lips painted the color of a deep, red wine. She looks . . . young, impressionable. A little worn down. No less beautiful, though.
And when did you start seeing Ermione Pappas as beautiful? I shake the thought away and give the woman in front of me my full attention, which is probably a good thing because her expression has what-the-hell-are-you-doing-here? written all over it, arched eyebrows and all.
“Nick?”
She says my name like I’m the last person she ever expected to see show up at her parents’ house—she’s not out of line to wonder. I came here on a whim because I . . . missed her. Rewind. Scratch the hell out of that. I didn’t miss her exactly. More like, all day I wondered what it might be like to hang out with Mina Pappas. Grab some food for dinner or head to a bar for a cocktail. Engage in conversation that matters because I’ve got the craziest feeling that Mina and me, we’re not so unlike as we’ve always thought.
Except that “hanging out” has never been our style.
Then again, up until three days ago, kissing wasn’t our thing either.
Now look at me, standing on the Pappas’ front stoop, hands buried in my pockets since I came empty-handed, wondering if the woman who claims she can never get a read on me can see that I’m wracked with nerves.
Clearly, I’ve stepped over the threshold into insanity.
I wasn’t nervous about being “rejected” on national television. Hell, even on my wedding day while I waited for Brynn to walk down the aisle—before I realized that shit was about to implode and blow up in my face—I was completely calm. Meanwhile, my mom sat in the pews hyperventilating about her baby boy becoming a husband. My yiayia, as can be expected, sat knitting a baby blanket—as one does at a wedding.
The same can’t be said for my state of being right now.
Oh, how the mighty have fallen.
Clearing my throat, I nod to Mina’s getup, taking in the nondescript, gray beanie hat she’s tugged down over her ears. “Heading out?”
She mumbles something under her breath, then steps out on the front stoop and tugs the door shut behind her. Louder, like she expects me to put up a fuss, she says, “I’m going on a walk.”
A walk? To where, Antarctica? The ice rink? Granted, the latter is probably open but the last time I checked, Mina can’t skate for shit. Her balance sucks, and she always throws her arms out wide like she thinks if she evenly distributes her weight, she might not face plant. It never did work for her. She’s a beach girl, sandals optional.
Blocking her path to the frozen tundra, I stand my ground and point to the slick frost coating the grass. “You don’t do ice, Mina. Or snow. You’re overestimating the right time for a walk by at least three months, maybe four if the snow gods want to play a sick joke on us.”
“I can take care of myself, you know.” As though determined to prove her point, she kicks out one foot, gesturing at her black snow boot like it’s the miracle of all miracles. “I’ve got kicks.”
Pressing my lips together, I pray for patience. Slowly, evenly, I mutter, “They have pom-poms.”
She stands on her tiptoes and those furry, ridiculous pink pom-poms do a jig, bouncing this way and that. “They’re stylish.”
Because style really matters when you’re wiping out on black ice and looking like an extra out of a horror movie. “Stylish,” I draw out slowly, “is a nice leather shoe or a sleek-cut jacket, not—”
“Nick, you do realize you’re getting wicked worked up over a piece of fake fur, right? You’re practically frothing at the mouth.”
“I—” My jaw clamps tight, back molars cracking together. Scrubbing one hand over my lower face, I remind myself that I didn’t come here to battle it out with Mina on who can outwit the other. Although I’d be lying if I say that her feisty attitude and quick comebacks aren’t part of her draw. “How ’bout we start over?”
“I’m not going back in the house, only to come out into the cold again. That’s cruel.”
“I’m not that much of a jerk, Ermione.”
“Says the man who insulted my pom-poms.”
Grimacing, I open my mouth and promptly dig my grave: “They look like something my grandmother would wear.” At her furrowed brow, I hastily add, “Not that there’s anything wrong with that. They’re . . .”
“Stylish.”
“Right. Stylish.” One curt nod that’s so formal I might as well just salute her and snap my heels together like a cadet. I don’t do either, and preemptively I keep my hands in my coat pockets before I can dig myself any deeper into dangerous territory. I do, however, give her my most charming smile before asking, “Do they come in men’s sizes?”
Whatever she’s got on her mind must be troubling her pretty bad; she doesn’t laugh at my joke, though her expression does soften, and when she sidesteps me, it’s with a squeeze of my forearm. I curse my coat for blocking the heat of her gloved hand on my skin.
“You’re ridiculous,” she tells me, already heading down the walkway to the sidewalk. “And I’m still going on that walk.”
Stubborn. She’s so damn stubborn and it makes me want to drive her to distraction some other way, with my mouth molding over hers until the only comebacks I hear are those sexy whimpers of hers.