P.S., I aim to please. Always.
13
Nick
Even when we were filming Put A Ring On It over the fall into early winter, there was never any doubt that, next to Savannah Rose, Dominic DaSilva was man of the hour.
There wasn’t a date he didn’t score, a challenge he didn’t win, a friend he didn’t make. The other guys in the mansion swarmed to his side like locusts, and every one of them had something to offer to the former NFL player.
“You know,” one of the guys said, “I got this badass bachelor’s pad up in Manhattan. When we get out of here, you should totally come and hang out.”
Another one, a doctor, praised Dom every chance he got: “Dude, if I had arms even half the size of yours, I never would have needed to come on this show. Talk about a chick magnet. Girls love arm porn.”
There were only two of us who hadn’t kissed Dom’s ass and offered him our dicks and firstborns: a tattooed, bearded dude named Owen-something-or-other. He was sent home on the very first night, much to the delight of every other guy in the house. Never let it be said that men can’t turn into catty assholes—not a single person was sad to see Owen go after the first ring ceremony.
And then there was me, the other non-ass-kisser.
“It can’t be that bad, man,” I tell America’s favorite bachelor over the phone now, using my shoulder to keep the phone pressed to my ear as I sit on my mom’s balcony, beer bottle clasped in one hand. It’s February in Boston and my balls would be playing hibernation, if it weren’t for the heating lamps I installed out here a few years back. One of the best decisions I made for the remodel of my parent’s place. “Are they looking in your window, trying to get a free view of the goods?”
Dom snorts derisively in my ear. “You want to trade places?”
Beer bottle to my mouth, I take a long pull. Then, “You think they can handle that? One of us is well-hung, DaSilva, and it ain’t you.”
“Asshole,” he grunts, even though I can hear his low chuckle. “Not all of us can be a pretty boy like you.”
“And it’s all natural, too. A gift from the gods.” I lean back in the Adirondack chair, bottle resting on the armrest. Warmth toasts my scalp and shoulders. I would have had this conversation inside, but my mom is bustling around the house, preparing everything for the family dinner. Including for some girl she wants me to meet. As if I haven’t gone on enough blind dates to last me a million years. “Don’t be jealous.”
“Only thing I’m jealous of is the fact that you’re being left alone. One TMZ article and you’re flying clear while I get the shit end of the stick.”
“No one told you to catch balls for a living.”
“Jesus, did you have to put it that way?” A low groan echoes over the phone, and I can practically see the guy banging his head on a wall. There’s a clear-as-day thunk and I bite back a grin. “You think Savannah is getting it worse than us?”
Any worry that I’ll feel like shit at him mentioning Savannah Rose disintegrates instantaneously. I made the right decision in letting her go, even if I ended up looking like the idiot on national television as a result. It was worth it, to make sure she came out unscathed. It’s not her fault I didn’t feel the chemistry between us.
But even though I didn’t want to marry her, doesn’t mean Dom didn’t . . . or doesn’t still want to, I’m not sure.
Knowing that he probably won’t want to air his feelings but going for it anyway, I ask, “You good, man? I know you liked her a lot.”
Silence greets me, and then I hear shuffling on the other end of the line. “Sometimes what we want and what happens aren’t the same thing. Not the first time I wanted a girl who didn’t want me back.”
“Really?” Because I want to make him laugh, I go for sarcasm. “You mean this isn’t the first time your heart’s been broken?” I mock-gasp like an asshole. “Someone actually turned your arm-porn down?”
I get the result I’m looking for, and he barks out a sharp laugh. “Smartass. And, full confession here, because I think you’re an okay guy who’s not gonna sell me out, I haven’t been turned down since high school.”
“Welcome to the land of mortals. We’re experiencing a cold front—hell hath frozen over now that the infamous Dominic DaSilva has joined us.”
“I mean, at least I haven’t been left at the altar like someone I know?”
Now it’s my turn to laugh. “Savannah knew what she was doing when she turned you down. Total prick.”
“Correction, big prick. Massive. The biggest one there is.”
“And now it’s clear why she said no. Sometimes there is a thing called too big.”
“Says the guy with the micro-penis,” Dom chimes in.
I roll my eyes, then take another pull of the beer. “Envy isn’t a good look on you, maláka.”
“Don’t say sweet-nothings in my ear, Nicky. You’ll just give me the wrong idea.”
We both know that the Greek translation for “maláka” isn’t, and will never be, classified as a sweet-nothing. Idiot. Fucker. The exact definition depends on the inflected tone, but even so, it’s no “sweetheart,” that’s for sure.
Sitting up, I swing my legs down from the footrest to the old-paneled floorboards. I bought this house for my parents two years after starting Stamos Restoration. Neither my mom nor dad wanted it at first. They put up a fight, dug in their heels, but I didn’t let up. They’d had me less than a year after immigrating to America, and though Dad finally opened his pizza place and Ma worked at a hair salon, the odds were stacked against them from the beginning. I was born, then Yiayia and my grandfather came to America, too. They moved in with us, and if the apartment wasn’t tight enough already with five people, then came Effie. My parents deserve it all, and if I could give them the world, I would. Anything to make their lives easier, especially after everything they sacrificed and gave up for the sake of Effie and me.
“Come over to Boston.”
Dom’s shock practically radiates through the phone. “What?”
Thinking back on what Mina wrote to me in her email, I push to my feet. She was right, of course. Dom and I are friends—you don’t go through three months of what we did, with TV crews in your face 24/7, and not come out on the other side feeling like brothers instead of strangers. Which means I’m gonna do for Dom what I’d do for Vince or Effie or my parents. Or Mina. My thumb slides heavily over the edge of the phone case. Yes, or for Mina, my little sister’s best friend. “You want to get away from the rest of the world and nurse your broken heart, right? Well, no one’s gonna expect to find you here. Not when you live out west.”
“I . . .”
“You start crying on me, man, and I’ll send you mini condoms for the rest of your life.”
“Sorry.” His voice is thick with emotion. “Yeah, yeah that could work. I’ll book a room for a few days.”
“As long as you need. I’d say you could stay with me, but I’ll murder you within five minutes if I have to deal with your color-coordinating again.”
“Hey,” he protests, “did I or did I not do your laundry while we were holed up in that mansion for weeks on end?”
“You were a great TV-show wife, DaSilva. Maybe a little heavy-handed on the softener but—”
“I hate you.”
I bark out a laugh. “Let me know what day you’re coming in.”
“Will do, man. And thanks.”
Aleka Stamos is a force to be reckoned with, but even she can’t compare to my father’s mother, my yiayia, whose sole purpose in life is to see me married and popping out children while she’s still drawing air into her lungs.
“This girl,” she says to me in Greek when I walk into the kitchen after hanging up with Dom, “this girl, is she the one?” She’s standing at the oven, vehemently whisking something in a black pot. The black pot matches her black sheath dress and the black sparkly slippers on her feet. She hasn’t worn any other color since my grandfather died ten years ago.
Opening my mouth to tell her “probably not,” I’m cut off by the sound of my sister’s voice. “Of course she is, Yiayia!” Effie shoots me a saucy wink that might as well be synonymous with fear me, older brother. “What’s her name again, Nick? Your one true love?”
I don’t even know what this girl looks like, let alone her name. Hell, my mom didn’t even mention that we were having company until this morning. Because that’s the sort of low-ball chess game Aleka Stamos is into: she doesn’t play fair, and she rarely plays with honor. Not when it comes to seeing her kids happily married. “Something with a T.” I squint up at the ceiling. “I think. Maybe.”
“No, Niko mou,” the woman herself says as she sweeps into the kitchen, wearing a glittery dress that looks more at home on a mannequin in the department store than in this house. Who the hell is she inviting tonight? The queen of England? “Sophia. That’s her name.”
I narrow my eyes. “Sophia who?”
She spares me a side-glance that I don’t trust. “Sophia,” she repeats, bustling over to the counter where she pulls a wine opener from one of the drawers.
“Ma.”
Her shoulders inch up closer to her ears like she knows I’m not going to appreciate her answer. “You went to Greek school with her.”
Oh, fuck. That Sophia.
Effie bursts out laughing, and visions of sororicide start dancing in my head. “I can’t,” she whispers, clutching at her stomach as she collapses onto the closest chair, “I can’t breathe.”
I’m glad one of us finds this funny. “I’ll keep Sarah in the living room so she can’t resuscitate you.”
I make the rookie mistake of not keeping my distance, and Effie promptly nails me in the shin with her pointy shoe. My sister is a lover not a fighter, but I’ve had permanent bruises on my body since opening Stamos Restoration and Co. eight years ago—her kick barely registers.