Page 48 of Beachside Kisses With My Enemy

“Aw, cuz. You know I’m the queen of happily ever afters. Reading about them, not living them out, clearly.” She gives a wry smile. “And you know I’d be sooooo happy for you if you found the man of your dreams. You deserve happiness more than anyone I know.”

My eyes sting, and I push my finger harder along the rim of the couch.

“But just…be careful, okay? Those first loves have a way of holding onto you and never letting go.”

And now I wonder if April’s talking about me or her—and Scarlett’s dad, whoever he is. But either way, she’s got a point. Maybe what’s happening between me and Blake is inevitable. Maybe my feelings for him are so wrapped up in the past that what’s happening now is just a continuation of that.

Maybe there’s nothing real there now. Maybe it’s all a result of the years of longing.

Ugh, I don’t even know if I’m making sense. Thankfully, my brain is given a break when Aunt Bea declares it’s time for dinner and says everyone better get in the kitchen and grab all the fixins for tacos and enchiladas. Then it’s chaos again, and that drowns out the doubts and questions in my brain for the time being. I’m not thinking about Blake or the failing restaurant or anything except the joy of being with my family.

Even if I’ve always felt a little on the outside of it all—an honorary aunt and daughter only—I’d still do anything for these people, and I love being with them. But being with them always brings out a longing deep inside me. One I don’t often let myself dwell on.

I want this. I’ve always wanted this—to build something like Burt and Bea have built. Something I didn’t have growing up with my parents because I didn’t have siblings and Daddy died so young. Mama did her best, I know, but part of her best was bringing me here, letting Bea and Burt have a hand in raising me. I’m grateful. But I’m also sad that it wasn’t different in my own home.

Still. Maybe someday, I could have this with someone.

If I can find the courage to risk my heart—to risk the heartache that Mama felt when Daddy died—then a version of this could be mine.

I’m quiet as dinner goes on, as plates are filled and then emptied, as stories are swapped and laughter rings out. I’m just soaking it all in.

As I’m leaving, there are hugs all around. Uncle Burt gathers me up and pulls me off my feet with a “boy, howdy, we sure miss you around here.” Aunt Bea pulls me to her large chest and kisses my head, then slips a postcard into my bag. “From your mama. Not sure why she sent it here.” She pats my cheek, as if she knows how that probably hurts to hear.

Mama—that’s another subject I have pushed to the periphery of my mind, because thinking about the unanswered text I sent her in reply to her text a week ago makes my chest ache.

“Oh, Bea, don’t forget to ask her about Sunday.” Burt winks at me, stuffs his hands in the pockets of his overalls, and walks away whistling.

“What’s next Sunday?” I ask.

Bea studies me, pensive. “Father’s Day. He wanted me to make sure you were coming over for dinner. Said it wouldn’t be a good day without all three of his girls here.” Her eyes go all misty, and I’m hit in the chest with my aunt and uncle’s love for me all over again.

It’s strange—losing a parent at a young age. You grow up with this sense that you’re missing something, but because you only had that something for a handful of years, the memory of the actual thing kind of fades, and you’re left with a hollow that can never be filled…because you’re not exactly sure what actually fits there. Only what you think maybe should.

All of this—Mama, Daddy, Blake, my failings, April’s warnings, the postcard—hits me at once.

And it’s all I can do to hold it together as I kiss Aunt Bea, assure her that of course I’ll be at dinner next Sunday, and race out to my car without completely losing it.

Tomorrow. I’ll deal with the emotions tomorrow.

Because right now, I’m going straight home and getting that bubble bath I promised myself two nights ago.

* * *

I did not go straight home for the bubble bath.

Instead, like an idiot, I pulled the postcard Aunt Bea gave me from my purse and, leaning against my car, read it with starlight streaming down around me as I stood in my aunt and uncle’s driveway.

The postcard was bright blue, and the picture showcased rows and rows of white buildings on a hillside. The words scrolled in a flourish across the top: Greetings from Santorini. I flipped it over and saw Mama’s chicken scratch: “Had some baklava today and thought of you.”

A memory teased and shot forward in my mind. The two of us had been out taking a walk in our old neighborhood in Texas. I was nine, maybe ten. We walked past a Greek restaurant, one of those fancy kinds where they put the menu in the window. I assumed because there were no prices on the menu, it was all free. Mama had laughed and said, “Not quite, Baby Girl.”

My eyes immediately roamed to the desserts section (um, hi, whose wouldn’t?) and I’d tried to pronounce baklava. Pretty sure it came out back-lava. “What’s that, Mama? Can we try some?”

That might have been the first moment I really realized we were poor. Daddy’s life insurance (I later learned) ran out quick, because there wasn’t much to it in the first place, and Mama had gotten a job as a lunch lady at my school. I’d always worn second-hand clothes she’d bought at Goodwill, but I was never much into fashion, so I didn’t mind.

But what I saw on Mama’s face that night…well, she was sad she couldn’t take me into that restaurant and let me have baklava.

Still, when Mama puts her mind to something, she makes it spectacular. And her solution was much better anyway. We hightailed it to the nearest grocery store, bought all the necessary ingredients, and made our own baklava in the tiny kitchen of our apartment. We threw on My Big Fat Greek Wedding in the background, and then we baked up a storm. (And when I say “we,” I really mean she. But she let me help smash nuts with a kitchen mallet and do a few other things.)

---