When your Theio Prodromos passed away in the car accident, it was you who hopped on the first flight to Greece to see him in the hospital before he died. It was you who helped your grandparents with the funeral arrangements. You did it without thought because someone you cared about was hurt.
What I’m trying to say—and maybe failing at—is that you deserve so much more than what your parents have given you. But what I’m also trying to say is, blood isn’t everything and you are so much more than you see.
Not because of your Greekness or your “otherness” but because I’ve never met another person who can make someone feel like they belong—not the way you can.
You may be Bad Girl Mina Pappas.
You may be Barbie-Loving Mina.
But you are also Ermione Pappas, and to put it bluntly, there is no one else like you.
Hugs,
Nick
38
Mina
No one bats an eye when I speed-walk through the lobby of Effie’s building looking like an absolute mess exactly one week post Bethel, Maine.
I’m wearing yesterday’s sweatpants—honest to God sweats, not a cute pair of leggings—a Patriots sweatshirt that has a coffee stain over the mascot (which is unfortunately placed over my nipple), and two different sneakers.
The right is black and the left is gray and if that’s not a metaphor for my life then I don’t know what is.
“Slow it down, lady,” one guy mutters in a thick Dorchester accent when we bump elbows near the elevator. “We’re all goin’ to the same place.” His gaze falls to my feet, narrowing imperceptibly. “You mean to be wearin’ two different shoes?”
No, I just decided to hell-with-it when I walked out of my apartment forty minutes ago. Of all the sarcastic retorts in my arsenal, I practice some award-winning self-restraint and only throw him a droll look. “It’s a new trend, sir. All the kids are doing it nowadays.”
He grumbles under his breath, and I’ve got no doubt that it’s highly uncomplimentary if his middle finger skating up alongside his temple is any indication.
Lucky for me, I only need to put up with his ba-humbug attitude for three floors. He gets off with another disgruntled look in my direction, and I jab a finger at the CLOSE DOORS button once again.
My mouth hitches up at the memory of blockading Nick in the elevator at Toula’s wedding. And then I’m not just thinking about the elevator but the email I printed out and stuffed into my purse.
The email that Nick sent me just two hours ago.
Because the man is not content with only turning my life virtually upside down. He wants to worm his way into every breath, every crevice, and every single moment of my existence. I would hate him for it, if one week isn’t already long enough to know that my days feel emptier without him.
In the week that we’ve been back in Boston, I’ve thrown my entire self into Agape. I finalized interviews and scheduled them for next week. I went to a local thrift shop to find original (albeit cheap) artwork to hang on the walls. I talked to the building inspector who gave me the thumbs-up—not only can I move back into my apartment and out of my childhood bedroom over the weekend, but Agape is ready to rock n’ roll . . . even if I have only stepped inside for a matter of minutes on the day the inspector came to visit.
The salon reminds me of Nick. My lifelong dream—my one temporary longing—has the memory of Nick Stamos imprinted all over it.
So, I stayed away. Because Nick told me to figure my shit out and being in Agape—appropriately named “love” in Greek—only reminds me of him. Of us. And the fact that speaking the words “I love you” anywhere outside of my head leaves me feeling lightheaded.
Nick’s email might not have explicitly said those three little words but I heard them all the same. I heard their resonance in every comma, every letter, and for a girl who hates to read, I’ve poured over his email no less than twenty times since it hit my inbox.
He loves me. He loves me. He loves me.
It’s the mantra of the week and I’m terrified—terrified for all the wrong reasons—and it’s desperation that turns my hand into a fist as I bang on my best friend’s door.
My knuckles thunder away as I knock, knock, knock, and then finally the door cracks open and I don’t wait for Effie to welcome me in or kiss my cheeks or give me a hug. I burst through like a pebble springing from a sling shot.
“Are you wearing different-colored shoes?” she deadpans as I push past her.
“I’m having a moment.”
Effie slides her gaze down over my outfit. “Understatement of the century, I think.”
“It’s your brother’s fault.”
“My brother made you come here looking like that? He’s not heartless. And you should really burn that sweatshirt. The stain is unfortunate.”
Ignoring her side commentary, I dig through my purse for Nick’s email. Like it’s a Wanted ad and I’m not sure I want to touch it, I pinch the corner between my thumb and forefinger. “Do you see this?”
My best friend looks from me to the paper and back to me again. “Do I need to get my glasses for this?”
“Yes.”
Effie nods, then tilts her head to the side. “Should I bust out the Tito’s too?”
“Might as well.” I plunk down on her sofa, kicking off my mismatched sneakers, and smooth the email over my lap. The words stare back at me, all blurring together. For once, it’s not my dyslexia playing tricks on me. Nope, that would be emotion bubbling its way up to the surface and threatening its presence with a possible tear. Or two. “Do you have tissues?”
“Are you planning to cry?” Effie asks, not sounding at all horrified by the prospect.
“I might, I don’t know.”
It’s probably best that she doesn’t know I’ve been a crying mess all week. Because what thirty-year-old woman can feel the most important words of her life inside her heart but can’t find the strength to say them out loud?
As Effie trots off to grab our—my—supplies, I envision Nick as he uttered the words that tilted my world on its axis: and I certainly wouldn’t do it to the woman I love. Since the age of six, I’ve seen my best friend’s older brother impassive, I’ve seen him throw his head back in laughter, I’ve seen him so hot for me that I’m sure I’ll combust at first contact. But I’ve never seen him like he was on our last night in Maine.
Resigned.
Like he’d already expected my response.
Only, words, as they always have, failed me when I needed to tell him—not show, as is my habit—that I care so damn much that I felt crippled when he walked out that door.
Rock bottom, you’re a goddamn bitch.
“Here.”
On cue, the bottle of Tito’s appears before me. I take it from Effie with a pathetic sniff, twisting the top off and tossing it on the glass coffee table. “Please, read this.” I slip the paper from my lap and place it down on the cushion to my right. “And then feel free to tell me how much of an idiot I am.”
The sofa sinks with Effie’s weight. Quietly, she picks up the email her brother sent me. She says nothing as she reads and I do nothing but stare at the label on the vodka bottle, unable to suck down any of the booze.
I don’t want to wash away the pain.
That’s been my lifelong M.O. Anytime the hurt and sadness and frustration has carved another notch in my flesh, I’ve shut it down and focused on Agape and on the dream. If Nick is my kryptonite, then my hair salon is my crutch.
Put all your love and hopes into the dream and nothing else can disappoint you. Not your parents or your peers who don’t believe in you. Not anyone.
Until I disappointed myself by chasing Nick away.
My socked toes curl in as I lean forward and put the vodka on the table. “Your brother loves me, Ef,” I say to my best friend, my voice hollow.
I hear the paper crinkle in her grasp. “I know.”
“And I’m an asshole.” I don’t dab at my eyes or reach for a tissue, even when tears well up behind my eyes. “I’m that asshole who just stood there while he opened up. I wanted to say the words. They were there and they were ready and I-I couldn’t say anything.”
There have been many times over the years when the words wouldn’t come and I stammered and clammed up. Visions of Greek school flit before me, one embarrassing moment after another of impatient faces and tapping feet. Other memories, too, of hearing my dad berate me for whatever it was that day, and yet me saying nothing at all.
From a young age, words—and, yes, sometime speech—have never been my friends.
But as I darted in front of Nick to beg him to stay, I have never felt so betrayed by my body as I did in that moment. He accused me of wanting to run, and he’s not wrong. I did, I do, but only because I’m tired, so damn tired, of feeling like there’s something so intrinsically wrong with me.
“First,” Effie tells me, reaching out to poke me in the upper arm, “you’re not an asshole.”
“You say that because you love me.”
“And that brings me to point number two.” She holds up her index and middle fingers like two mocking bunny ears. “Answer me this, how many people have you ever said I love you to? Accurate count here, please.”
“I don’t know. That’s a weird question.”
“It’s really not.” Effie scoots in close to me, until our thighs are flush and she’s flattening the email over our side-by-side knees. “You don’t say the words often, Mina. Not to me, not to Sarah, not to your siblings.”
Staring down at Nick’s words, I suck my bottom lip in and try to sort through my chaotic thoughts. Do I really not tell the people I love how much I care about them? I know that I show them in other ways, but . . . “People lie, Ef.”
My whole life has been a front. Baba wanted the world to believe that I was his and Mama wanted us all to pretend that she didn’t sleep with some unknown American dude who acted as the prodigal sperm donor. One lie bleeds into the next, and promises, vows, and, yes, love, are the first to be sacrificed to preserve the façade.