Page 39

Athanasios

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

"So, Brooklyn, what did you do before you fell into a coma? Did you ever work?"

My girlfriend’s foot starts tapping against the floor, and anger rises within me. I place my hand on her thigh to try to calm her, but I think the tremor has become almost a nervous tic since the evening began.

"Is this an interrogation, Mrs. Pappakouris? Do I need a recorder? A notepad?" L.J. asks sarcastically.

To a less attentive observer, he might have sounded casual, even playful, but I’ve known him my entire life, and I know he’s as irritated as I am.

My mother, usually an impeccable hostess, hasn’t given Brooklyn a moment’s peace, bombarding her with invasive questions.

"It’s fine, L.J.," Brooklyn replies. "I was a hairdresser, Mrs. Pappakouris, and I loved—love—my profession."

"Oh!" my mother exclaims, and I feel my jaw tighten.

I squeeze my woman’s hand over the table, in full view of everyone, ready to get her out of here, but she doesn’t look at me. Instead, she holds my mother’s gaze evenly.

"There’s nothing wrong with being a hairdresser, my dear," my father says, trying to smooth over his wife’s rudeness.

"I’m not ashamed of my profession, Mr. Pappakouris. When Athanasios met me, I told him what I did."

"Technically, he didn’t ‘meet’ you," my mother presses on. "My son didn’t have much of a choice since he was responding to a request from the Kostanidis family."

"How do you know that?" I ask, now genuinely pissed off.

"I have my ways of finding out whatever I want. That’s not the point. I know he would never refuse to help his friends, and the Kostanidou are like us. It wasn’t a critique of how you two met but rather that I wanted to know more about your . . . girlfriend , son."

"Look at me," I say to Brooklyn. Even then, it takes her a moment to respond, clearly determined not to lower her guard against my mother. "We can leave."

"Athanasios," my mother calls.

"Excuse me, Mom, I’m talking to her."

Throughout my life, Medeia Pappakouris and I have had our disagreements. To be frank, her shallow ways have always drained me. I have zero patience for manufactured drama, like the color of napkins for a dinner party—a topic she once obsessed over while I was growing up.

However, aside from her obsession with marrying me off to Febe, she’s never lost control the way she did tonight.

"Brooklyn," I insist.

"No, Athanasios. There’s no reason for us to leave before dinner is over. After all, your mother went to the trouble of organizing everything. It would be a sin to waste such a delicious meal."

The rest of the evening passes without incident, but I keep a close eye on her, watching for any signs—however small—that she wants to leave. Yet Brooklyn remains steadfast, even managing to chat with my father and laugh at L.J.’s antics.

William is tense, and I know my friends, like me, are counting the minutes until the night is over.

Finally, after dessert, we say our goodbyes.

"Bring the twins for us to meet, Brooklyn," my father says as he escorts us to the door.

My girlfriend gives him a tight smile, offering no response. But I know her well enough to guess what she’s thinking: Absolutely not. Given what happened tonight, I can’t blame her.

Outside, L.J. suggests, "I don’t know about you, but I could use a drink."

I’m ready to decline—I want to be alone with her and process the damage my mother has caused—but Brooklyn surprises me.

"I’d like that," she says.

"Our usual spot?" William asks, referring to our weekly meetup location.

I shrug. "Sure."

We each get into our cars, and my friends don’t even blink when they notice the two additional vehicles following mine. I’ve never hidden anything from them. They know Brooklyn is under heightened security. They’re also the only ones, aside from me, who know my biological mother is hospitalized in our facility.

As soon as the driver pulls away and I ensure her seat belt is secure, I pull her close to me. I can’t put into words how angry I am, and the tension in her body against mine tells me she’s been putting on a brave face all night.

"I’m not upset with you. You couldn’t have known she’d act that way."

"I never would’ve brought you to this dinner if I had." I almost tell her about Febe and my mother’s wish for us to marry, but then I decide she’s had enough for one night.

"She wasn’t rude—just a bit malicious. But I think many mothers might react the same way. You and I come from different social circles."

"What she wants or expects for me doesn’t matter, Brooklyn. We’re together, and nothing she says or does will change that."

She nods, resting her face against my chest. "I think I came out of the coma more sensitive. I used to be tougher."

For the first time all night, I relax. "You are tough. You handle me in bed all night without complaining."

"Oh my God, only you would think about sex two seconds after leaving your parents’ house."

"I think I’m addicted to you," I whisper in her ear, "addicted to your body and your taste." Sliding my hand along her inner thigh, I confirm what I already suspected—she’s wet.

"Ahhh," she moans as I press my fingers against her barely-covered heat.

"Why are we going out with them? I don’t want a drink . . . not the kind they’re offering. I prefer your flavor."

She takes my hand from between her legs, kisses it, and presses it against her cheek. "You’ll have plenty of that later, but I want to talk to your friends. You said they’re close to you. They must know you well. I want to learn more about your world, Athanasios. At least L.J. and William don’t seem to hate me."

I lean my head back against the seat and close my eyes. "My mother doesn’t hate you; she’s just a bit spoiled. My father indulged her, I think."

"I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have to clench my jaw for most of the evening. But if your mother thinks I’ll give up on you so easily, she should study my past. Nothing in my life has been easy. I’m not a quitter. I want you. I love what we have together, and only one person could ruin it: you."