Page 40 of Hold Me Today

Knowing what I do now, no matter that Mina probably didn’t intend to let it slip about her learning disability, I can’t help but get the feeling that Mina questioned herself more than she ever let on otherwise, thanks to judgmental people like Sophia.

The thought sits like acid in my stomach.

“Ma—”

The doorbell rings to the tune ofZorba the Greekplaying throughout the house. I did it as a joke when I first bought the place for my parents. Only, the joke’s on me—they thought it was the best thing ever and refused to let me rewire the doorbell to, you know, play somethingnormal.

“Niko mou,” Ma exclaims, “get the door, will you? Effie, bring the wine to the table. Where’s Sarah?”

Something tells me that I won’t just find Sophia on the other side of the front door, and sure enough, when I pull it open, I’m met with two pairs of eyes staring back at me.

Fuck my life.

14

Mina

You know you’re officially an adult when you’re standing next to the girl who made your life hell back in grade school—and all you want to do is offer to redo her hair because it looks like a Cheeto mated with Tony the Tiger and puked all over her head.

I clamp my hands behind my back, all the better to not pluck at her orange strands.

She stabs the doorbell for yet another time like the prospect of waiting with me is not something she particularly enjoys.

Right there with ya, lady.

Sophia’s dark eyes narrow when a familiar tune erupts inside the house. “Please tell me that’s notZorba the Greekplaying.”

I avert my gaze and stifle a grin. “It’s notZorba the Greekplaying.” Except that it totally is, and I can’t help but tap my shoe along to the beat as we wait, side by side.Play nice, Ermione. “How’ve you been?”

Sophia stiffens next to me. “Great. Totally great.”

I bob my head in a quick nod, keeping my gaze locked on the door. “Divorce all finalized?”

“H-how?”

Tap, tap, tap-tap-tap. “Your husband used to come into the salon I worked at. I’m sorry that he was such an asshole to you.”Tap, tap. “And that he did what he did.”

“H-he didn’tdoanything.”

Her ex-husband made it no secret that he was having an affair with a woman who worked in his office. He came in every Friday, as routinely regular as my period, to have his hair trimmed before he and his mistress (side piece? cheater-in-accomplice?) left town for the weekend. Sophia may have been my own personal Regina George fromMean Girlsback in high school, but no one deserves the backstabbing assholery her husband put her through. On more than one occasion, I reached out to her over social media to broach the subject. On more than one occasion, she read my messages and never responded.

Zorba the Greekdescends into silence, and then the front door pulls open and Nick is standing there. He looks . . .yummy, my brain happily supplies. Dark jeans, which seem to be his favorite; those amazingly soft leather shoes he wore for Toula’s wedding; and a Red Sox T-shirt that lends him a casual vibe that I like more than I should.

His gaze visibly widens at the sight of us.

“Sophia,” he greets roughly, and then his pewter eyes zero in on my face. Veer down the length of my body in a slow perusal before swinging back up again. “Ermione.”

Ermione.

When he says it like that, all deep and masculine and confident, it sounds less mocking and more suggestive.

You do not like the suggestive! Remember what Effie said!

As though I can possibly forget. Plus, she’s not wrong in her assessment: Nick and I want two very different lives. Aside from that one, delicious moment earlier this week, he’s made no move to make me think he wants anything more than a fake girlfriend to ward off the crazies.

I peek over at Sophia. Years ago, I would have labeled her as a crazy. Thequeenof the crazies, even. Now, though, she just looks worn down, a little defeated by love and life.

As much as I’d love to throw my arms around Nick’s neck and play up the fake-relationship factor, it seems cruel to throw that in Sophia’s face, given the circumstances. I mean, the girl hasorangehair, for God’s sake. Forget Tony the Tiger, it’s like a traffic cone has taken up residence on her head. If that’s not a cry for help then I don’t know what is.

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