All the love he holds in his body directed at me and Ifeelit.
If it weren’t for the whole restaurant being busy, I’d linger.
But I pull back before I break. Before he feels me shaking. Before I confess everything into his shoulder and make him an accessory to my felony evidence tampering.
Because that’s what love does. It makes you want to confess.
And that’s exactly why I can’t.
“Come, come.” Dimitri doesn’t let go of my shoulder. Steers us deeper into the restaurant. “Your table is ready. Nikko is finishing your meal right now.”
“Thank you, Baba Dimitri.” The words come out automatically. Fifteen years of Sunday dinners. Fifteen years of being claimed by this family.
After my dad died, Dimitri filled the space without ever trying to replace him. Just opened his arms and saidyou’re ours now.And I was.
“Dylan!”
My mother appears from the hostess station, pad in hand, that worried smile already in place. Patricia Wells—sixty years old, fifteen years a widow, fifteen years of working at this restaurant because Dimitri gave her a job when she needed one most. She couldn’t go back to teaching and he was the first to tell her she didn’t have to. She’s wearing her work uniform—black slacks, white blouse—but I can see the English teacher underneath. The posture. The way she holds the pen like she might grade me.
She pulls me into a hug that smells like hairspray and the lavender lotion she’s worn since I was a kid.
“You look thin,” she says immediately. Not hello. Not how are you. Straight to the maternal anxiety.
“I’m the same weight I was last week.”
“No, you’re—” She does that thing with her hands. Frames my face. English teacher analyzing sentence structure. “Something’s different. Your face. Are you sleeping?”
“Mom—”
“Because you look like you haven’t slept. How many hours last night?”
“Some.”
“Someisn’t a number, Dylan.” Teacher voice activated. “I’m asking for quantifiable data.”
“I slept fine.”
“That’s a complete sentence with no actual information.” She’s still holding my face. “Try again.”
“Patricia, leave the girl alone!” Sofia Archangelis emerges from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. Alex’s mother—same age as mine, same worried energy, but Greek where my mom is anxious white suburban Philadelphia.
Sofia makes the sign of the cross the moment she sees us. “Panagia mou,” she mutters. Holy Mary. “You both look like ghosts.”
“We’re fine,” Alex says, but her voice is too bright. Performance mode activated.
“Fine.” Sofia doesn’t buy it. She pulls Alex into a hug, kisses both her cheeks, then turns to me and does the same. “You’re not fine. But you’re here. So we’ll feed you until you are. Come, come.”
“Your table, your table.” Dimitri guides us toward the back corner. The reserved table. Always reserved for family. Big enough to seat twelve, though tonight it’s just the core group.
Alex’s knee bumps mine as we walk. Translation:We can do this.
I bump back. Translation:Can we though?
Another bump.Yes. We have to.
Showtime.
Twelve
