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I nod before heading to the bedroom. Milo follows, curling up on the bed as I rummage through my suitcase for something to wear. I settle on a soft pink cashmere sweater and black leggings. I tell myself I’m just getting comfortable, but I can’t help adding a light gloss to my plum-colored lips and twisting my braids into a sexy high ponytail.
By the time I return to the living room, Gio is setting out plates on the table. The aroma of Thai food makes my stomach growl. Our shared love of international cuisine is one more thing I have in common with the Greek mafioso. “Smells amazing,” I say, sliding into the chair he holds out for me. He’s had the table set in front of a roaring fire. There’s something deliciously decadent about the flames dancing on the wall while the world outside stands frozen.
“I can’t wait to try it,” Gio says, handing me a plate piled high with noodles and a spicy peanut sauce. “So, I was thinking… Since we’re sharing new experiences, maybe we could come up with a list of things you’ve never done but always wanted to try.”
I take a bite, savoring the rich, complex flavors, while Gio’s eyes remain glued to my lips. He’s so focused that I discreetly patthe corners of my mouth. Finding nothing, I ask, “Aren’t you hungry?”
“Starving.” The one word hangs between us for a minute before he turns to his plate. “Skating works up an appetite.” After he swallows a bite, he asks again. “So, what did young Jeniah dream about between caring for mom? It wasn’t all just nursing, was it?”
“No, of course not. Gio, I wasn’t a servant. We had plenty of good times. We went to the movies when she had good days, binged, and chilled on the couch when she didn’t. There were more good days than bad for a long time. The doctors wanted to put her in hospice. Said she needed round-the-clock care and that she didn’t have long to live. That was when I first started homeschooling—”
“Wait a minute—your parents wanted you to be at home and watch her die?”
“No, you’re looking at it wrong. I wanted to be there for her. And she wanted me there as well.” He only lifts a brow, but I refuse to see the half-empty cup he’s implying.
“It was cruel, manipulative, and abusive. You were a young girl losing someone you love—that shit is hard enough. But to force you—”
“I told you, no one forced me.” The words blast from a well of anger I didn’t know I had. Where did that rage come from, and why was he the only person in my life who cared enough to see it? “I’m sorry.” Dammit, why am I apologizing? I have a right to be angry. “You didn’t know my mother. Mama was… she just was. A damn near perfect mother; patient, funny—she wouldmake me laugh until I almost wet my pants. She knew every riddle that had ever been told. I could never stump her. On snow days, when I had to stay home, she would make hot chocolate from scratch—none of the packaged stuff. And then we would sit and color for hours or do puzzles. Puzzles were her favorite.”
Gio’s giving me the same intense focus that Milo does. “You don’t need a lot of physical strength to work a puzzle. It’s so hard to have a person’s mind alert and active while their body withers away.” Tears well in my eyes, and I look away, refusing to blink. “She was terrified of dying alone. I’d never seen her scared until they told her she wouldn’t have six months, and she made it almost five years. Every time they counted her out, she rallied. People think I get my strong will from my father but…”
“He was the weak one,” Gio correctly determines.
I sniff and nod, twisting noodles around my fork and untwisting them. “You don’t have to feel sorry for me. I’m not the only twenty-year-old who had to take care of a sick parent.”
He reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “I have never, not even for a second, felt sorry for you. I see the strength and the determination—not stubbornness.” He draws a smile from me that shores up the dam, holding my tears.
He pulls his hand back and freezes. “Wait, you’re only fucking twenty? And you let me serve you Sangria?”
I laugh at the stricken expression on his face. “I’ll be twenty-one next month. Besides, what’s the legal drinking age in Greece?”
“Eighteen, but we’re not in Greece. You’re so mature for your age. It never occurred to me. Tell me it wasn’t your first drink.”
“It was.”
He buries his face in his hands and groans. “Jeniah, I’m going straight to hell.”
“That’s very possible, but I doubt it will be over this.”
“Only mango tea for you from now on.” He relents and adds, “Or at least for the next month.” I try to look chastened, but I’m not. “This brings us back to where we started. What other new experiences have you been dying to try?”
Do I dare say it? “I’ve never been to a club.”
“And you can’t go to one until next month.”
“Gio, please. I know you can make it happen. I don’t want to drink or do drugs—”
“Theé mou,” he mutters in what I assume is some kind of prayer.
“I just want to get dressed up and go dancing.”
“Like Cinderella, eh?”
“Like girls my age have done for decades. And speaking of age, how old are you?”
“Twenty-eight.”
I fake shudder. “Ancient.”
