“Well,” his mother made a noise in her throat. “If you’re in love, I’m happy.”
“I’m notinlove. And anyway, it’s passing,” he muttered.
“Did you call me to debate your heart?”
“I just wanted to hear your voice, Mama.”
And that wasn’t a lie.
“It’s been too long since you called last,” she chided him. “When was it?”
“I called last week,” he reminded her.
“Your sister calls me every morning while she drinks her frappe.”
“Aeliana still lives on Mykonos.”
“I know you calledheryesterday,” she continued. “You talked to your baba even when you called your sister, but you didn’t talk to me because you didn’t call your mama.”
“I’m calling you now, aren’t I?”
“Leonidas, when are you coming home?” she changed the subject and asked her most familiar question. The one he rarely had an answer for.
“I don’t know,” he gave her the same answer as always.
“Can’t you find what you’re looking for here?”
Leonidas stared at the ceiling, his mouth twisted into a painful grimace. He wished he could find what he was looking for in Greece, but for as much as he loved his home, the root of what he wanted was to move, to explore, to grow. He wanted to touch everything and try everything, and he wanted to make art and then, when his bones creaked in the mornings when he woke up, maybe then he would go back home.
“It’s not so simple,” he answered her, since he knew he wouldn’t be able to explain.
“I just want to know what I’m meant to be,” he said softly.
“You’re my son,” she said, so matter of fact.
“Yes,Mama.”
She sighed. “Where are you now, anyway?”
“I’m in Paris.”
“I’m sure you’re eating terribly up there,” she worried.
“I’m really not, I promise.” His stomach growled, thinking about the bag of croissants he’d picked up yesterday morning while he’d been on on the phone with Aeliana. His sister was pregnant with her first child, a boy, she’d told him, and her due date crept closer with every day. She’d been hungry and belligerent on the phone with him, so he’d eaten a warm pastry while he walked back to his flat, keeping her on the phone for the duration. He smiled, remembering her frustrated little grunts and complaints.
“Where to after France, then?” his mama asked.
“Spain,” he said, for at least the tenth time. “I’ve told you before.”
“And how long there?”
“Thirty days.”
“And you insist on walking? The entire way?” She sounded horrified again, as always.
“That’s the point of it,” he reminded her. “That’s whatpateradid.”
“It didn’t make sense to me then, and it doesn’t make sense to me now.”
