SAMANTHA
Dinner was a Greek cucumber salad with kalamata olives and feta cheese, and roasted lamb with yogurt sauce over rice.
“Wow, this is really good,” I said. “Are you sure you made it, Christos,” I jabbed, having recovered from my earlier tears in the studio.
“Totally,” Christos insisted.
“He did,” Spiridon assured. “I just made sure nothing burned while you two were, ahem, upstairs.”
I sank down in my chair. Was there room for me to slide under the kitchen table?
Spiridon chuckled. “I didn’t hear a thing,” he smiled.
I literally slid under the table.
Christos and Spiridon laughed.
I wondered if I could wait down there, staring at their knees, until they forgot I was there and they left the room to go looking for me. Probably not. I struggled back into my chair, the legs squeaking on the kitchen floor, further embarrassing me. My face was hot, my cheeks redder than ever.
“Don’t worry about it, koritsáki mou,” Spiridon said. “We’re all grownups.” He lifted a bite of lamb to his mouth and chomped it down. “I was young once too, you know. I remember what it was like.”
I held my napkin in front of my face. I wanted to beg them both to stop. But I also didn’t. They weren’t at all uncomfortable with the topic. They both behaved as if sex and love were a normal part of life, something that normal people could talk about instead of hiding it and pretending it didn’t exist, skulking around the topic like it was offensive, which was stupid.
There was nothing stupid about love and sex.
Where had my parents gone wrong? They never talked about sex, unless it was the topic of birth control or STDs. And they NEVER talked about love. I mean, never. Zero times. I suddenly wondered if perhaps I had been a test-tube baby. Probably.
“Christos told me you changed your major to art?” Spiridon asked.
I lowered my napkin to my lap. “Yeah. I did.”
“That must be exciting,” he said.
“It is. I dropped my accounting class and added Figurative Sculpting.”
“I bet that Marjorie Bittinger is your instructor, right?” Spiridon asked.
“Yeah,” I smiled. “Have you met her, Christos?”
Christos was chewing on salad, and wiped his mouth with his napkin when he was finished. Mr. Manners, as always. “Yeah, once. She’s a tough nut.”
I chuckled. “I think she has it in for me.”
“Really?” Christos asked before taking a swallow of milk.
“Yeah, she took an instant hating to me when I walked in late the first day. And, I think she has a crush on the model. Do you know a guy named Hunter Blakeley?”
“No,” Christos answered.
“Well, I think Major Marjorie has a thing for him big time. I think she sees me as competition.”
“Major Marjorie,” Spiridon chuckled and smiled, “that sounds like her.”
“What’s her issue?” Christos asked.
I suddenly felt like I’d let the genie out of the bottle. Or maybe the fart out of the jar. Was I going to be in trouble for answering this honestly? I sighed. After holding in so many secrets in high school, I was tired of it. I trusted Christos wouldn’t freak out. He wasn’t a Lamian Damian. “This Hunter guy was hitting on me during the breaks, and I think it made Professor Bittinger jealous,” I said nervously.
“No surprise there,” Christos said smiling. “I’d be jealous of you too, if I wasn’t me.” He winked at me.
I smiled at him while I chewed on some lamb. I waited a few moments to see if Christos said anything else on the topic of Hunter Blakeley. Nope. He didn’t seem to care. Wait, did that mean he didn’t care at all? I was suddenly confused. Wasn’t a guy supposed to bang his chest and hoot and holler and fight for you?
Christos was watching me closely. “Don’t worry, agápi mou. If this Hunter guy doesn’t leave you alone…”
I expected Christos to say something violent like he’d beat Hunter up or challenge him to a duel.
“…I’ll set him up with Bittinger. She’s a good looking woman, and I hear she’s a wild cat in the sack.”
Spiridon chuckled. “Send her my way first,” he grinned. “I’ll set her straight.”
I gawked at Spiridon. My grandparents never talked like that!
“I’ll bust that Hunter character’s head myself,” Spiridon finished. He leveled a gaze at me. “You tell him Spiridon Manos is still young and spry, and he better not lay a finger on you,” he chuckled.
Christos grinned. “He’s not joking. He can still throw a wicked uppercut. I know from experience.”
“And don’t you forget it, paidí.” Spiridon said to Christos shrewdly.
When we finished eating, I cleared the table and did the dishes while Spiridon and Christos chatted and joked with me from the table. I so loved being in their house.
When everything was rinsed and in the dishwasher or put away in the fridge, I leaned against the countertop, watching the two of them.
“So, Pappoús, did I tell you that Brandon’s phone is ringing off the hook?” Christos asked. “Seems like everybody wants my paintings after my show.”
“The Charboneaus do good work,” Spiridon said. “I knew choosing them for your first solo show was a wise decision. And that Franco Viviano acted like there was no art market in San Diego.”
Franco was the guy Christos had introduced me to in Los Angeles, the owner of Spada Gallery, which sold Nikolos Manos’ paintings. I felt like I was listening to some private, upper echelon art talk or big back-room deal making bull session.
“Yeah,” Christos continued, “Brandon’s got buyers lining up. He keeps raising the prices every time someone new calls begging for my work.”
“Congratulations, Christos. You’ve worked hard to get this far. You deserve it.”
“I totally forgot!” I blurted. “I need to look for a job!”
Christos and Spiridon turned to face me.
“I’m sorry, I totally interrupted you guys,” I said. All their deal-making money talk reminded me that I wasn’t in nearly such an enviable financial position. It was such a dramatic contrast between Christos’ situation and mine. I had rent to worry about, and groceries, and everything else.
“No worries,” Christos said, slightly confused. “I thought you said you found a job at the museum?”
“Yeah,” I sighed, “but it’s only like ten hours a week. I’m still looking for a second job to pay all my bills.”
“Do you want to use the internet here?” Christos suggested. “See what you can find?”
“Uhhh,” the idea of looking for a minimum wage part-time job while surrounded by the Manos Mansion and the Manos family’s love was somehow depressing, like the good vibes were only fleeting for me, and my reality was back in my lonely one-bedroom apartment.
“I’ll grab my laptop and you can work right here on the kitchen table with us,” Christos said.
“Stay, koritsáki mou,” Spiridon said warmly.
I wanted to cry again. Compared to the way my parents had thrown me to the wolves, I felt like this was a hero’s homecoming.
“I should go home and do it there,” I said, holding back my tears. “I have Sociology and History homework anyway.”
“Do you want me to come with you?” Christos asked.
“No, I, I bah-better go,” I hitched, heading out the kitchen and toward the front door, hoping to reach my car before tears fell.
SAMANTHA
I was almost to my VW when Christos ran outside behind me. “Where are you going?” he asked.
“Home,” I said, grabbing the door handle of my VW.
“Why don’t you move in with me?”
“What?! I couldn’t do that!” I yanked my car door open, my tears threatening to spill.