I feel Athena tense beside me, her fork pausing midway to her mouth.
“No,” I reply carefully. “I was married, but my wife passed away a few years ago.”
“Your wife?” Sophia asks. A moment of silence falls over the table. I watch the information register on their faces and suspect she’s more shocked about the fact that I’m gay than that I’m widowed.
But then she reaches across the table to briefly touch my hand. “I’m so sorry,” she says. “That’s a terrible loss.”
“Thank you.” I take another sip of wine, grateful for its steadying effect. “It’s been a difficult journey, but I’m doing better now.”
“And you’re good friends with my daughter?” Something in her phrasing makes me wonder if she suspects more than she’s letting on.
“We’ve been there for each other,” I say honestly. “Athena has been…very supportive during a difficult time.”
“That doesn’t surprise me.” Sophia’s gaze shifts to her daughter with unmistakable pride. “She has always been empathic.” Athena looks uncomfortable with this characterization and Sophia shakes her head. “There’s no shame in having a caring heart, honey.”
Demetria laughs. “Don’t let her fool you, Ruby. Behind that heart is a will of steel. When Athena decides she wants something, she gets it—one way or another.”
I blush, remembering Athena’s voice in my ear, her hands on my body.You’re mine.
“So, how is Julian’s exhibition coming along?” Athena asks, clearly desperate to change the subject.
“Dramatically, as expected,” Demetria replies, launching into a story that I soon figure out is about her artist boyfriend’s latest creative crisis.
As Demetria talks, I observe Athena with her family. She’s different with them—there’s a softness I rarely see. When her mother laughs particularly hard at something Demetria says, Athena watches her with such undisguisedlove that it brings a lump to my throat. I’m not sure why I’m feeling emotional tonight. Maybe it’s the aftermath of the club, or perhaps it’s something about this rare glimpse into Athena’s private world. Tonight feels special, intimate, as if I’ve been granted temporary passage through a doorway she keeps firmly closed to most. With each laugh shared between mother and daughter, each touch or knowing glance, I’m piecing together a different Athena than the one I thought I knew—a version of her that exists only within the orbit of those she truly loves.
The conversation flows around me, carrying stories and laughter. I’m drawn into their warmth, this family circle momentarily expanded to include me.
Sophia rises from her chair to collect our empty plates. “Now, who’s ready for dessert?”
“I’ll help,” I offer, standing to gather dishes.
In the kitchen, Sophia pulls a baking dish from the oven. The smell is heavenly—butter, sugar, and something citrusy.
“It’s galaktoboureko,” she explains, noticing my appreciative sniff. “Semolina custard in filo dough, soaked in citrus syrup. Athena’s favorite since she was small.”
She begins cutting the dessert into squares. “You know,” she says without looking up, “in all the years Athena has lived in America, she’s never introduced us to a friend before. Not once.”
I’m not sure how to respond to this, so I simply wait.
“My daughter is very private about her personal life,” Sophia continues. “Always has been. Even as a child, she kept her hurts to herself. Her joys too.” She glances toward the dining room where Athena and Demetria are still talking, then back to me. “It makes me happy to see she has someone here who understands her.”
There’s something in her tone that makes me wonder again how much she knows.
“Athena is…” I search for the right words. “She’s remarkable. I’m lucky to know her.”
Sophia studies me for a long moment, then nods, apparently satisfied with that.
“Yes, I think perhaps you are both lucky.” She hands me two of the dessert plates. “Now, let’s not keep them waiting.”
THIRTY-SIX
ATHENA
I watch Asha wandering through Ruby’s kitchen like a lost tourist, opening one cabinet after another in search of cleaning products. Her familiar routine has been disrupted by our temporary living arrangement, and the strain is starting to show. She opens the cabinet under the sink, finding nothing but an ancient bottle of dish soap and a stray sponge.
“Ms. Stavros,” she says, her usual composure cracking slightly. “Where are the cleaning supplies? And the vacuum?”
“In the closet in the hallway,” I reply, though I’m not entirely certain. Ruby showed me around in a hurried tour, pointing out essentials. Most of what she said has blurred together in my mind.
