“No, of course not,” I say. “But a conversation. A real one, just between you and your mother. She invited me here, Athena. She likes me. That has to count for something.”
Athena looks at me, her expression softening slightly. “You don’t understand Greek mothers. They can love you fiercely and still never accept certain parts of you. They can invite your ‘friend’ to family events while deliberately denying the nature of your relationship.”
From the terrace comes the sound of renewed conversation, gradually rising in volume. Life continuing despite our momentary drama. Demetria’s laugh rings out, musical and carefree.
“Tomorrow is your sister’s day,” I remind her. “Whatever happens between you and your mother, it should happen after the wedding.”
Athena sighs, the fight draining out of her. “Is it my sister’s day, though? Because from where I stand, it looks more like my mother’s day. It wasn’t my sister’s idea to get married, and she’s always made fun of mom’s yacht club and the women who hang out there. Now she’s going tohave her wedding there, and all mom’s friends are invited.” She shrugs. “But you’re right. I’ll let it go for now.”
“Hey.” I touch her cheek, drawing her gaze to mine. “I’m here for all of it. And if you want me to talk to your mom…”
“Thank you. But this is something I have to do myself.” She leans into my touch, her eyes closing briefly. “Let’s go back outside. I promise I’ll keep the peace before the wedding.” She lets out a sarcastic chuckle. “Besides, it’ll be interesting to watch my mother dig herself out of this hole. People will surely be asking why it’s ‘inappropriate’ for us to share a room.”
I can’t help but laugh along. “Okay. That sounds uncomfortable.”
“It will be,” she says. “But Mom brought this on herself. If she wants to play the denial game, she’d better be ready for the championship round.”
FIFTY-EIGHT
ATHENA
I pause at the threshold of the living room, which has been transformed into an impromptu bridal salon. Our normally calm space is now a whirlwind of activity and loud chatter. The furniture has been pushed against the walls to make space for five ornate full-length mirrors arranged in a semicircle. Portable styling stations festooned with white and pink ribbons, fresh flowers, and enough products to stock a small beauty supply store crowd every available surface. The air is thick with competing scents of hairspray and perfume, and it’s making me nauseous.
A few bridesmaids in various states of preparation are sitting behind the stations, others are drinking champagne and animatedly talking, all dressed in matching pale pink dresses. Makeup artists and hair stylists flit between the women, wielding brushes and curling irons like weapons.
Demetria sits in the center on what can only be described as a makeshift throne—our grandmother’s antique Louis XV chair that normally resides in the formal living room, now decorated with fresh white roses. She’s sipping something that’s supposed to look like champagne andlaughing as a stylist arranges her dark curls into an intricate updo. Her bridal gown hangs from a stand nearby, protected by a garment bag.
I haven’t slept. Not really. After last night’s confrontation, Ruby insisted on sleeping in the guest room—“to keep the peace,” she said. I’d almost protested but knew she was right. This house has enough tension without adding more fuel to the fire. So instead of the comfort of her body against mine, I spent hours staring at the ceiling, replaying my mother’s words in my head. Every creak of the old house made me wish I could sneak down the hall to Ruby’s room, but I stayed put, trapped in my childhood bed with my very adult frustrations. I opened an email from Demetria with the table plan attached and my frustration mounted.
When I finally drifted off around dawn, my dreams were a jumble of memories—Elena, my father’s funeral, my casino opening, Ruby’s face the night we met. I woke disoriented and irritable, reaching for a body that wasn’t there.
And now, several hours and one too many family interactions later, I have to wear pink. Soft pink, to be precise—a color I’ve actively avoided since childhood, when my mother dressed Demetria and me in matching outfits that made us look like twin scoops of strawberry ice cream. All to ensure I don’t upstage Demetria, the allegedly virginal bride in white, whose pregnancy we’re all pretending not to notice.
The men are getting ready in the east wing of the house—Julian and his groomsmen safely segregated from all this feminine energy as tradition demands—while we navigate this absurd charade. The irony would be comical if it weren’t so infuriating.
I refused the billowing soft pink bridesmaid dress that would have made me look like an escapee from a 1980sprom night. Instead, I brought my own pantsuit with a satin wrap jacket in the palest blush and matching pants—a compromise that honors the color scheme without compromising my dignity. The outfit hangs in my closet upstairs, waiting, while I steel myself for the inevitable battle about hair and makeup.
My mother and Aunt Ana are already dressed and coiffed to perfection, looking like they’re attending a royal wedding. Mom’s wearing a powder-blue dress with an elaborate lace overlay, her hair swept up in a style that surely required an engineering degree to create.
She spots me hovering in the doorway and rushes over, her Chanel No. 5 arriving a split second before she does. Her face is a mask of forced cheerfulness, the kind she wears when she’s determined to maintain appearances despite whatever chaos might be unfolding beneath the surface.
“Athena! Finally. Where were you? Everyone is almost ready, and you haven’t even started.” She surveys me with the critical eye that has made me second-guess my appearance since adolescence. “They’re waiting to do your hair—we’ve saved you a place next to Ruby.” She gestures toward where Ruby sits, a makeup artist applying something to her eyes.
I see her, and my heart does that ridiculous flutter that still catches me off guard. Ruby looks relaxed, smiling at something the makeup artist has said. She’s in her element here, comfortable in a way I never am around beauty rituals and feminine traditions. She catches my eye and gives me a subtle wink.
“No, Mom,” I say, stepping farther into the chaos. “I’ve already done my hair, and I don’t need makeup. I prefer it simple.” The thought of sitting in that chair while somestranger tugs at my scalp and covers my face in products I never use makes my skin crawl.
My mother’s smile doesn’t falter, but her eyes narrow slightly, the way they always do when I’m not following her script. “Don’t be ridiculous. The hairdressers are geniuses—they’ve worked with celebrities. Your hair needs…” She makes a vague gesture toward my head, somehow implying with one hand movement that my entire appearance requires professional intervention. “And where’s your dress?”
“My hair is fine,” I insist, resisting the urge to touch it self-consciously. I own part of the Vegas Strip, but somehow, my mother still manages to make me feel like an awkward teenager. “I brought my own pantsuit. I’ll change and be ready in twenty minutes. I just came to get a coffee.”
“Pantsuit?” Her voice rises almost an octave, drawing the attention of several bridesmaids, who quickly pretend they weren’t eavesdropping. “But all the bridesmaids are wearing the same pink dresses! We ordered you one too.” She gestures to Demetria’s friends.
“I’m not a bridesmaid, I’m the maid of honor,” I reply, trying to keep my voice level despite the growing tension headache behind my eyes. “And my outfit is perfectly appropriate.”
My mother sighs, the sound heavy with disappointment. “At least let them do your makeup. Look at what they’ve done for Ruby.” She points across the room. “Doesn’t she look beautiful?”
I turn toward Ruby again and smile. She’s wearing a deep-emerald dress, the color complementing her auburn hair and making her eyes seem even more vibrant. The fabric drapes her body in a way that’s both elegant and sensual, revealing just enough skin to be alluring withoutcrossing into inappropriate territory. Her hair has been styled in loose waves, and her makeup brings out the delicate structure of her cheekbones and the fullness of her lips.
