It’s impossible to stop a small disappointment from settling in my stomach like a stone when I read the message on my phone screen, no matter how sweet the words sound.
Nero / prince:
I’m sorry,Little Fae. I won’t be able to make it today. Tomorrow, same time?
Less than a week after our day at the beach, this would have been the fourth time Nero and I went out together. The feeling in my chest isn’t because he’s canceling. It’s because I won’t see him. And still, I don’t think it’s fair to blame him for it.
It’s New Year’s Day.
And even though Nero didn’t say anything about it, I know that if we went out together for the first-day-of-the-year traditions, we might give the wrong impression about what’sreally happening between us. It’s a fair reason to cancel—even if he didn’t use it.
I look at myself: the blue dress fitted at the waist with a loose skirt, the high heels on my feet, the colorful bracelets on my wrist matching this week’s nail art—floral, cheerful.
An insecure part of me wonders whether this cancellation has anything to do with the revelation I made to Nero at the beach, but as quickly as the thought appears, I push it away.
We’ve had other dates since then, and Nero has been nothing but perfect on all of them. If being a virgin were a reason to back out, there wouldn’t have been a second date—let alone a third.
I type a quick reply saying it’s fine, set my phone on the living room side table, and go look for my mother. I find her in the kitchen and stop in the doorway, crossing my arms as I watch her.
My mother is dancing without music, distracted as she decorates the small jars ofvassilopittaswe’ll distribute in the street as part of the Greek New Year tradition.
She doesn’t notice me for nearly five full minutes. When she finally turns around, a scream bursts from her throat and she clutches her chest as if that might stop her heart from racing.
I throw my head back and laugh. My mother mutters a thousand different complaints in Greek and Italian.
“You don’t do that, Nina!”
“Do what? I didn’t do anything!” I protest, and she pouts.
“Did Nero arrive?”
“It’ll be just the two of us this afternoon,” I explain, and her brows lift. I wave off her concern.
“And do you have to sound so disappointed about it?” she asks, making me roll my eyes, because I’m pretty sure I did no such thing. “We carry them for nine months, suffer through childbirth, and then get relegated to second choice,” she dramatizes. “Life is unfair.”
I rest a hand on my hip and step into the kitchen, stopping in front of her and narrowing my eyes.
“You know the plan was always for us to take part in the tradition together, right? It’s not like I’m using you as a backup, Mom!”
“That’s not important,” she declares, barely hiding her shameless smile.
“Of course it isn’t,” I grumble, laughing, and head to the sink to wash my hands.
I dry them and stand beside my mother at the counter, helping her organize what we need, separating ingredients into little bags.
“Do we have the pomegranates?” I ask, mentally checking the list.
“We do!” my mother replies. She opens a cupboard, pulls out a basket with a bag inside, opens it, and offers it to me. I pick two and slip them into my dress pockets.
I fill a small paper bag with tiny stones and a linen pouch with larger ones, carefully tie both to the belt on the counter, then fasten it around my waist.
I turn to my mother and nod, confirming we’re ready. The sound of triangles ringing and children singing grows closer and louder by the minute. We need to hurry.
“Come on, Mom—we have to open the shop doors before they get here!”
“Help me with thevassilopittas,” she asks, and I comply. I stack the small jars in my arms and leave the house carrying as many as I can.
We cross the corridor, and when we enter the shop, I see the children arriving through the window.
