I shake his hand, studying him. He’s nothing like Demetria’s usual type—not flashy or overtly confident. Instead, there’s a quiet intelligence in his eyes, a thoughtfulness to his demeanor. “Likewise,” I reply. “Though I feel at a disadvantage since I’m only just meeting the man my sister is about to marry.”
Julian nods and smiles goofily. “It has all happened rather quickly, I know. But when it’s right…” He glances at Demetria with undisguised adoration, who, in return, has zeroed in on the cake.
“Is that your almond cake, Mama? God, I’ve been craving this!” She cuts herself a generous slice—not even aslice, more like a chunk—then cuts another piece and adds it to her plate.
That’s when I really look at her—beyond the initial excitement of our reunion. Her face is fuller, her cheekbones less pronounced. The oversize top suddenly seems less like a fashion choice and more like a strategic garment. My eyes narrow as I catch her unconsciously resting a hand on her lower abdomen.
Oh.
“Demetria,” I say, rising from my seat. “I just quickly need your opinion on my outfit for tomorrow. Could I show you my options inside for a moment?”
She looks confused, as I’ve literally never asked her for fashion advice, but follows me into the house. Once we’re in the kitchen, out of earshot, I turn to face her.
“Seriously, Dem?” I whisper-hiss. “Is this why you’re rushing the wedding?” I place my hand gently on her belly, feeling the slight but unmistakable curve there. “You’re pregnant?”
Demetria gasps. “How did you know?”
“Half a cake and a top that could double as a tent?” I shake my head, but I’m smiling. “How far along are you?”
“Almost thirteen weeks. I didn’t know. I only found out right after I came back from Vegas,” she admits. “It wasn’t planned, but…I’m actually excited about it now. Julian is too.”
“Was it Mom?” I ask, lowering my voice further. “Did she pressure you into getting married?”
Demetria hesitates, which is answer enough. “Look, it doesn’t matter,” she says. “I’m pregnant and I love him, and he loves me. It’s happening a little faster than expected, but I’m okay with that.”
“You’re okay with a shotgun wedding?”
“Yeah. Believe it or not. Julian’s a good guy and steady in all the ways I'm not.” She smiles softly, her hand unconsciously returning to her belly. "I know it seems crazy—especially with my track record. But when I told him about the baby, Athena... you should have seen his face. He wasn't freaking out. He was thrilled.”
I’m not convinced but all I can do is be supportive. I reach out and squeeze her hand briefly. “As long as you’re sure. I don’t want you to do anything you’ll regret just because Mom worries about reputation.”
FIFTY-SEVEN
RUBY
The evening air is fragrant with lemon and oregano as we’re gathered around the long table on the terrace. Flickering lanterns cast a glow over the feast spread before us: platters of grilled fish, lamb souvlaki, roasted vegetables, and countless small dishes I’m still learning the names of. My wineglass has been refilled so many times I’ve lost count, and the conversations ebb and flow around me in a blend of Greek and English, courtesy of Athena’s extended family, with the occasional French between Julian’s parents and his best man.
I’m seated between Athena and Ariana, her nine-year-old niece once removed. Ariana’s sister, Delphi, is currently teaching Julian’s best man, Phillipe, Greek. He’s butchering the pronunciation, which sends the girls into fits of giggles.
“Ef-cha-ri-sto!” Phillipe declares triumphantly, raising his glass. “Did I say that right?”
“Almost!” Ariana calls out from beside me. “But you say it like this: ef-KHA-ri-sto.” She emphasizes the middle syllable, her small face serious with the responsibility of her teaching role.
Phillipe repeats the word, still getting it wrong, and the girls dissolve into laughter again.
Across from me, Julian’s parents sit quietly, smiling politely but looking slightly overwhelmed. The Beaumont couple are elegant and reserved, a stark contrast to the boisterous Stavros clan. When Julian’s father hesitantly reaches for more bread, Athena’s mom immediately leaps up to pile more food onto his plate, ignoring his protests.
“You must eat!” she insists. “Tomorrow is a big day! No one leaves my table hungry!”
Demetria and Julian sit at the far end, hands intertwined on the table. Her glow is unmistakable now that Athena has told me in confidence about her pregnancy. I’ve also noticed Sophia is pouring alcohol-free wine into Demetria’s glass. Clearly, this is not a thing until they’re married.
Athena’s aunt, Ana, is engaged in animated conversation with her son and daughter-in-law, their hands flying as they speak rapid-fire Greek. Every few minutes, Ana turns to include Julian’s mother in the conversation, switching to broken English before inevitably slipping back into Greek as the discussion intensifies.
“I warned you,” Athena murmurs in my ear. “Total chaos. Are you regretting coming yet?”
I turn to her with a smile. “Not even a little. This is wonderful. All of it.”
And it is. The noise, the laughter, the constant flow of food and conversation—it’s overwhelming in the best possible way.
