Page 118 of Hold Me Today

A masculine hand circles my waist and squeezes me tight. “So long as you’re the only one to know that it’s there, I’d be fine with—”

The door swings open and I stifle the panic rising within me. It’s not my mom who stands there but my dad—myadoptivefather, anyway—and I don’t miss the way he looks from me to Nick, curiosity furrowing his already craggy features.

For years, I’ve let this man ruin not only how I react to life but how I look atmyself. I can’t do that anymore. And I won’t allow either him or my mom to drown me in their never-ending fight. If they want to hash it out with each other for the next sixty years, that’s on them. But I want tolive, and I’m tired of letting their shame hang over my head.

“Ermione,” my dad grumbles, his expression neither pleased nor upset to see me back on his doorstep, considering I moved all my stuff out two weekends ago. I can’t say that my apartment is homey, especially in comparison to Nick’s humble abode, but it works for now. UntilAgapeis up and running, I want to stay close to the salon and put out the fires as they come. But I’m lucky—because Nick knows what it takes to kickstart a business, and rather than asking me to move in with him, he’s effectively moved all of his stuff into my place instead. It’s small and cramped, and every time he takes to the stairs, I know he sees his life flash before his eyes, but he never complains.

And, boy, do I love him for it.

Turning my attention back to Yianni Pappas, I note his impassive demeanor and the surly tilt to his mouth. I don’t know how I ever managed to think he and Nick were ever alike, and the point is hammered home whenBabasnaps, “What are you doing here?”

The words fire at me in Greek, and I tip my head back to meet his green eyes. “I need to have a little chat with you and Mama. Is she home?”

He steps back, begrudgingly inviting me in. “In the kitchen.”

“Great!”

I storm past him, not bothering to pause and give him a hug. I learned many moons ago that hugging Yianni Pappas is like trying to hug a rattlesnake. He rejects affection the way my body rejects latex leggings; though I’ll admit that, for the sake of fashion, I’ve stuffed myself in a pair or two over the years anyway.

Nick follows behind me, one hand rooted to the small of my back. He’s the one who convinced me to come today. No matter how many times I tried to play devil’s advocate and count all the ways confronting my parents was a bad idea, he quashed each one into the ground with the heel of his massive boot. He was right, of course. I can’t move forward with us until I settle the past with them.

I throw athank-youglance over my shoulder, to which he only mouths,You can do this. I love you.

Funny how the admission coming from his pillow-soft lips doesn’t make me want to run—not anymore. He’s my rock, my best friend, and I mouth back,S’agapo.

I square off my shoulders, then cut the corner into the kitchen. Immediately, I spot my mom standing near the kitchen island, a glass of champagne in hand while she flips through some magazine. She looks elegant and poised and I shove away the long-time hurt that she’s so obsessed with theimageof the perfect Greek family that she can’t see that she’s lost us all. Me, Katya, Dimitri.

“Ermione,” she exclaims when she spots me. Her gaze tracks over to Nick, and though her smile falters at the sight of him, she’s quick to recover. “AndNiko, agori mou, how good to see you.”

At the “my boy,” Nick grumbles something beneath his breath. Not for a second do I think it’s complimentary. He’s not the biggest fan ofKyrieandKyriaPappas. Then again, to be fair, it’s tough to see the good in vultures when you’ve got Aleka and George Stamos in your corner. Even Nick’syiayiahas softened toward me, though I know it’s only because she wants grandbabies and lots of them.

Slowly, my dad moves to stand beside Mama. His hand on her shoulder, the way he curls his fingers in—that possessive incline to his chin that’s so veryhim. “Do you need to come back home, Ermione?” he asks.

Never.

“Óxi.” My voice is clear, succinct. “I came here to tell you that I’m done with your games.” I turn to my mother. “I’ve spent years wondering who my real dad is.” She gasps—no doubt shocked I’d mention any of this in front of Nick, a “stranger” to our home. She’ll get over it, just as how I had to get over the prospect of ever waking up to discover that my parents are sweet, caring,loving. Our realities are much more cut and dry:sheslept around on her husband and I’m the result. “I’ve spent years feeling chained to this idea of who I should be, because you andBabaforce-fed me toxic ideologies since I was a kid.”

“Ermione,” my mom starts, finally putting down the champagne, “mipostheloume—”

“No. I don’tcarewhat you two only want—it matters whatIwant. And as my parents, you should encourage me. Boost me up. Take pride in the fact that your baby girl, yourdaughter, has her own salon, runs her own business, and she’s done it all on her own.” Nick’s hand falls from my back as I step forward. Confidence kicks up my chin and clenches my hands into fists. “It isnotokay for you two to make me feel stupid. Better yet, you shouldn’ttellme I’m stupid either. It’s not okay.”

My dad barks out my name, like the drill sergeant he’s never been. “You will not speak to us this way, Ermione.”

Pity pushes aside the anger streaming through my veins. “Respect is earned,Baba, not given with blind loyalty—and neither of you deserve mine.”

“Do you speak back because I will not say who your father is?” It’s my mom who utters this, and I wish—oh, I wish—she looked anything more than frustrated right now. A hint of compassion would ease the burn. A show of affection to me, her eldest, would erase the need to be done with them both . . . or at least it would make me think again about severing all ties. “Is that what you want?” she demands, this time in Greek.

Ten years ago I would have said yes.

A month ago I would have saidyes.

But as my heart races, I hear myself say, “It doesn’t matter what I want, does it? You won’t tell me and I’m tired of asking. It’s your secret to keep butI’mtired of feeling like a secret too.”

Mama’s expression tightens, and her fingers begin to tap on the magazine. Her eyes dart to my father, and then fall to the kitchen island. Alarm bells sound off in my head at the tension I spot in the line of her trim frame. But it’s those tapping fingers, exactly the same nervous twitch of my own, that hold my attention.

“Mama?” I ask, my hands down at my sides.

“Yianni, I need you to leave the room.”

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