Page 110 of Hold Me Today

There is no kinder soul than you.

Every monumental event in my life has you written in the seams—and I’m not the only one who’s experienced your friendship. The night of your prom, you spent hours dolling up the girls who made your life hell at school. When Effie and Sarah were on the rocks, you never picked sides even though Effie is your oldest friend. You listened to their heartache and celebrated when they got back together. When Katya moved down south for graduate school, you took time off with no pay so that you could help her make the trek . . . whichyoupaid for. (And, yeah, this is one of those things I only know because Effie told me).

When yourTheioProdromos 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 intoAgape.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, butAgapeis 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—myonetemporary 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 inAgape—appropriately named “love” in Greek—only reminds me of him. Ofus. 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.

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