Page 98 of The Summer Show

At what point did Nick decide to play along with the show’s script and use me for … whatever it was he was using me for? Were secret cameras rolling while I was in his lap, comforting him after he poured out his sob story about Bryan, his broken employee?

Was there a Bryan, or was he a lie, too?

I thought my heart was broken, but I was wrong. What I had experienced in the amphitheater was simply the first crack. Bits of muscle continued to splinter off the glacier. My heart was calving.

I was so stupid. What a naive moron.

I should have known.

The most galling part was that I couldn’t blame Nick. My emotional turmoil was all on me, the other adult in the room. I was smarter than this, and yet I’d swallowed the lie and smiled for the illusion.

No one followed me out of the amphitheater. Even Memo, who had glued himself to my side for the duration of the show was absent. But the media and a crowd of fans and other curious people were hanging around outside, further down the hill, hoping for crumbs.

Well, here I was. A big crumb.

More of a crouton, really.

A misery-flavored crouton.

What I wanted right now was solitude. To be alone, to lick my wound. Metaphorically, of course. In reality there was no way I could reach my heart, and who knew where the ego was located? I didn’t have the tongue for any of it.

I stared down at the ground and wished upon every falling star that I would turn invisible just long enough to get my body past the small crowd. Why hadn’t I thought to bring a big hat or a hoodie? Something—anything—to hide myself. Even better: dark glasses. Or a combo of all three. Together they would have formed a holy triumvirate of comforting shields against onlookers.

A voice penetrated my inner monologue. “Kathleen!”

With an accent, of course.

Up until now I’d found the way Greek mouths formed my name charming and musical. After tonight, I knew I would never have the stomach for Greek accents ever again. It wasn’t fair to all the Greeks who hadn’t witnessed Nick shaming me for thinking I mattered to him. But that’s how core memories are formed, that’s what they do. They record every detail and use it against you. A favorite song can be ruined for life. A beloved aroma. Anything you love that dares to be present in the bitter moment is wrecked.

Maybe I should change my name.

A possibility to be considered later, once I was alone.

Escape was impossible. Journalists, both professional and amateur, descended on me. That wasn’t including the civilians who wanted selfies.

My head was swimming, and somehow I had to dig deep down and try to be a functioning person. I found a battered smile and hoped my brain didn’t screw up and turn it upside down.

A microphone thrust itself at my face. “Are you off the show?”

“No comment.”

“What about you and Nick? Are you together?”

No. No, we weren’t. And we never would be. But because I didn’t have my contract in front of me, and I didn’t want the producers chasing after me for breaching their piece of paper, I went with another noncommittal “I can’t comment—sorry.”

They kept coming at me with their questions. Some I answered: innocuous things like my favorite color (the whole rainbow, because I couldn’t pick just one), and favorite food (ice cream). Tougher questions I declined to answer because I didn’t have enough knowledge to form an opinion. I mean, what did I know about Greek politics or the country’s economy? Nothing. And really I couldn’t choose between pastitsio and lasagna. They were both culinary delights.

For the next half hour, while my mouth was occupied with handing out vapid answers, in the background my brain twisted itself into knots. Nick’s one-eighty—the highlight reel—played on repeat. His sudden Arctic freeze. The hard, cruel edge of his voice when he demanded the crew evict me from the audience. The psychopathic deadness of his gaze when he told me he understood why my mother had abandoned us—me.

What he did was worse. At least my mother had never pretended to care about me.

Like the pages of an old rolodex, the memories flipped past in reverse order. The piggybacks. Nick rescuing my pen. The way I had almost keeled over from lust and shock when he opened the guest room door, before I even knew he was Ana’s brother. The way he white-knuckled the armrest on the plane as timezones passed beneath us.

When we boarded that flight we were strangers. Neither of us had any way of knowing Greece’s Top Hoplite would be filming on Nera. His fear on the plane was genuine. So was his panic attack when faced with climbing Irini One’s roof alone.

Nobody fakes a panic attack that well, even for a hidden camera. I would bet my life the cold sweat on his face and hands that day was authentic.

“What do you think about Turkey?” the reporter asked me.

---