Page 39 of Hold Me Today

“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 isa force to be reckoned with, but even she can’t compare to my father’s mother, myyiayia, 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 withfear 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 aT.” 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.ThatSophia.

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.

Ignoring my sister, I turn to my mother. “I invited Mina to dinner.”

“Pappas?” she says, tugging at the cork in the bottle until I usher her out of the way and do it myself. “I love Mina! Do you think she remembers Sophia? How wonderful that we can all be together tonight.”

Do I think Mina remembers Sophia? There weren’t many of us kids at Greek school, which belonged to our local church. Maybe forty in total, throughout all the grades, which means that it’s near-on impossible tonotremember Sophia.

She used to cling to my arm. Sit next to me at every opportunity. Latch onto my hand whenever we lined up for our traditional Greek dancing lessons. And, always—always—she made sure to laugh at Mina’s Greek accent.

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