She responded with a blank look.
“Are you kidding me? The pregnancy test? Are you pregnant, Isabelle?”
“Oh, that.” She grinned. “Turns out, I was just late.”
I shot her daggers with my eyes.
“After all the trouble I went through to get you that test, the least you could do is give me a niece or nephew.”
Isabelle giggled. “Umbrella, Moti. The sun’s hitting my face.”
While our white friends were forever chasing a summer glow, Isabelle and I were raised to covet the other end of the spectrum. Our mothers had a heart attack if our brown skin turned a degree darker.
“Who’s going to marry you now?” they moaned. “An Indian bride should always be fairer than her groom.”
Of course, this wasn’t true for Isabelle and Thomas, and as ridiculous as the notion was, Isabelle felt flawed for it. I’m pretty sure she swapped out Thomas’s sunscreen for tanning lotion. And his hat kept mysteriously disappearing whenever we were out. If Isabelle couldn’t get any fairer, Thomas was just going to have to get darker.
Bake, Thomas, bake.
We were all sweating under the heat of the sun. At Black Beach, the romantic Walk-On-The-Beach Shot turned into a trot because the sand was unbearably hot. Thomas and Isabelle looked like they were treading on burning coals. By the time we got to Oia for the last location on the list—the castle—Isabelle’s feet were angry and charred. She kicked off her shoes and rummaged in the bag for her spare pair.
“Dammit. I think I left them on the boat.”
Thomas, Teri, Fia, and I clustered around to keep the crowds from trampling her as she searched the suitcase. It was still hours before sunset, but everyone seemed to have the same idea—to head to the castle early and snag a spot before the main event. Matchy-matchy couples thronged by, along with women negotiating cobbled streets in high heels and photography enthusiasts with lenses the size of the Hubble telescope.
“Dammit,” Isabelle said again.
“Just go barefoot,” Thomas said. At this point, we were all de-corked, de-fizzed, and ready to call it a day.
“But there’s donkey poop everywhere. Just call them.”
“Call who?”
“The boat. Call Captain Bailey and ask her to send someone over with my shoes.”
Which was how I ended up at an ice-cream shop, waiting for Isabelle’s shoes, while everyone else went scouting for the perfect location to capture the sunset. I had a newfound respect for married people. Taking wedding photos was hard work and also, the last chance to see what your partner morphed into under extreme pressure.
Tucking the umbrella under my arm, I peered over the flavors in the gelateria. Settling under the awning with my waffle cone, I watched one of the employees write on the outdoor chalkboard marquee:Stavros is looking for a wife.
Someone, presumably Stavros’s mother, cackled from the street.
A pink scooter sputtered to a stop outside the ice-cream shop. A girl at the next table elbowed her friend and they both stared at the new arrival.
Alex. In off-duty mode. Frayed jeans, a white T-shirt and messy hair, made even messier by his bike ride.
My cheeks burned when he picked me out and dismounted. Suddenly, I was looking at him through teenage eyes, re-living first crushes—the way your heart pauses, then picks up, double-time.
What the hell is going on with me?
It’s because he can cook,another voice answered.What woman can resist an alpha-beta combo?
“Special delivery.” He straddled the bench across from my table and slid Isabelle’s shoes toward me.
“Thanks.” My skin prickled as his eyes drifted over my bare shoulders. The light was golden, the air still hot and heavy. “Nice ride.” I motioned to his bike.
“The only rental I could get at this time of the day. Captain Bailey said to get these here as fast as possible.”
“Right.” I grabbed the shoe bag from him and stood. “I should get going. Isabelle is waiting on these.”
