Page 64 of Legs

I inhaled until my chest hurt, then released my breath to the count of five. “He’s a bartender, not a drug dealer. He’s Greek and grew up in Napa Valley, but no, he doesn’t have a fancy car or dress like Mitch and his friends. Jimmy’s smart and sweet, and he makes me happy. If you give him a chance, you’ll see that.”

“Greek,” she mumbled, as though unfamiliar with the term. Like our family trip to Greece had never happened. Like we didn’t eat at Andros regularly.

“Yeah, Greek. You love Greek food. You order souvlaki all the time.” And her not-a-Greek salad.

But I wanted to grab the nearest fork and stick it in my eye. This conversation was nearing the ridiculous, talking about Jimmy as though he were defined by his culture’s food. My father had been Jewish, my mother was Catholic, my grandparents from Europe and the United States. We had family dinners on certain holidays, and I was told stories of my heritage, but neither background drove my choices. Apparently my urge to please those around me did. As did my need to prove myself successful. Unlike Jimmy, who owned who he was, regardless of what others thought.

Pride surged at the strong man he was.

My mother straightened, the soft drape of her cashmere sweater a contrast to her stiff posture. “Have you sampled his souvlaki? Is that what this is about?”

Oh my God. “Ma, keep your voice down.” My cackle almost escaped, nervous energy and frustration bubbling up.

Her loud-nasal tone didn’t abate. “It’s like Gabe all over again—you rebelling, wanting to have fun with the boy from the wrong side of the tracks.”

“You are impossible,” I whisper-yelled. “He’s from Napa Valley, and I wouldn’t even care if he’d grown up in a trailer park. And he’s nothing like Gabe. I fought my feelings for Jimmy at first, for the same stupid reasons you’re judging him now, and I won’t make that mistake again. He’s the real thing. And yes, I’ve sampled his souvlaki.” I rolled my shoulders back. “It’s the best I’ve ever tasted.”

“Honestly, Rachel.” My mother fanned her face, unsure what to make of my outburst.

We’d rarely fought since Dad died. We quipped at each other, pecking like hens, but there had been no drawn out arguments, and we’d certainly never dissected my sex life. She’d gone too far, though, her inappropriate comments proving what I’d come to know.

I was in love with Jimmy Giannopoulos.

There was no maybe about it. No hesitation in my pounding heart. I wanted to fling my body over his, protect him from her negativity. This was not a fight she would win.

Her brown eyes welled, a look I’d come to dread. She was about to unleash the Maternal Guilt. “It’s all my fault. The piano lessons I forced on you. The job for Uncle Charlie. The men I set you up with. You’re rebelling because of me.”

She was impossible. “It’s not you. It’s not the fact that I was bottle-fed or that you told me the Tooth Fairy wasn’t real. I’m with him. That’s the end of it, and I hope you find it in your heart to support me.”

A vein in her left temple throbbed, her heated face nearly matching her pink lipstick, but she didn’t speak.

I shook off my irritation and searched for my Zen. “Remember the day Dad was out of town and you rear-ended his car in our driveway?” Frowning, she nodded, and I went on. “I waited in the living room with you, and I’ll never forget how foolish you felt. How terrified you were to tell him. Do you remember what he said?”

Chin trembling, she sighed. “As long as I get to spend the rest of my days with you, you can smash my car to pieces.”

It was the day I understood what it meant to be in love.

I pressed my tongue to the roof of my mouth, suppressing the urge to cry. “I always admired your marriage. Dad supported everything you did. You made each other better. That’s how I feel about Jimmy. What else matters?”

She flattened her lips. Whether to tame her emotions, like me, or in defiance, I couldn’t be sure. But I’d said my piece. I swiveled and pulled the sliding door open, praying Mitch and Cora had more tact. If they were asking Jimmy about his freaking souvlaki, I’d claim adoption.

Twenty

Jimmy

Rachel walked into the living room—cheeks flushed, head bent—like her butt shot had just gone viral. Mitch was sharing a priceless story about the time twelve-year-old Rachel had peed her pants on a family trip to Mexico. Their father’s weak Spanish had led to him asking a waiter for polla, thinking he’d ordered chicken. Turned out, he’d asked for a “woman.” The conversation that followed had Rachel laughing until she’d wet herself.

As much as I wanted to hear more embarrassing stories, her look of mortification deepened as the gist of our conversation sunk in. She gawked at her brother. “Seriously? The polla story? Can I still file for emancipation and sever ties with this family?”

Cora giggled, the airy sound matching her appearance. She had boy-cut blond hair and big blue eyes. Her pink dress hung loose over her sprite-like frame. She placed a dainty hand on Mitchell’s knee. “You should stop. It’s not fair to Rachel.”

“Was it fair when Rachel told you about the pot brownies and my bathing session in Huntington Park fountain?” He quirked an eyebrow. When no one answered, he said, “Consider us even.”

But the evil look in Rachel’s eye as she sat next to me and glared at her brother said otherwise. She settled into my side, hand on my thigh. I shifted, stretching my arm behind her on the couch. Stanley took advantage of the move and tried to shove her nose between my legs, again. The damn dog was relentless. I held her off with a calculated knee shift.

“She must have a thing for souvlaki,” Rachel murmured. Her maniacal laugh erupted, and she slapped her hand over her mouth.

Lydia entered then, a tray of dip in hand. Her face was an emotionless mask. “Contain yourself, Rachel.”