He kisses me again, and this time his hand slides under the hem of my T-shirt—hisshirt—his palm splaying across the bare skin of my lower back. The contact is electric. He pulls me flush against him, and I can feel the hard, steady thrum of his heartbeat under my palms, how his breath hitches when I press closer. His teeth catch my bottom lip, a sharp tug of wanting that makes me let out a low, shaky sound.
We have about twelve seconds of privacy left, and we’re using every millisecond. My fingers tangle in the messy silk of his hair, pulling him closer, wanting to crawl inside the feeling of him.
Then, the unmistakableclomp-clompof rubber boots hits the hardwood.
We spring apart, both of us breathing raggedly, my lips tingling, his hair even more disheveled now—courtesy of my fingers. His eyes are dark and his mouth is kiss-swollen, redder than before.
“You look like you’ve been thoroughly kissed,” I whisper, trying to catch my breath, smoothing my hair with shaky hands.
“Good,” he replies, his grin wicked and unrepentant.
“Emma’s going to notice. She has the senses of a bloodhound, I swear.”
“She’s five, Annie. As long as I don’t try to make her eat broccoli, her world view remains unchallenged.”
I tug at the hem of his shirt on me, willing my flush to fade. “Just so you know, if we end up scandalizing the zookeepers, it’s on you.”
“Worth every second,” he says, and the promise in his tone makes my knees wobble.
Emma rounds the corner, looking like a tiny, yellow-booted explorer, her stuffed rabbit tucked under one arm like a seasoned traveler and her disposable camera at the ready in her jacket pocket. “I’m ready! Let’s go see the red pandas!”
Leo catches my eye—one last promising look that says this isn’t over—and then turns to his daughter, scooping her up into his arms. “Alright,koukla mou. Zoo time. Let’s go see those animals.”
Chapter 18
LEO
I really need to stop letting Emma feed the ducks.
Logically, I’m aware of the ecological fallout. Somewhere, beside a layer of algae and behind the weeping willows, there are signs explaining why processed carbs are the silent killers of the avian world. I know I’m essentially handing my daughter a bag of slow-acting poison that bloats their little digestive systems and turns them into feathered junkies. I am a willing participant in a carbohydrate-fueled duck apocalypse.
But emotionally? Emotionally, I’m a goner. Watching Emma’s face light up as she rips off chunks of the squishy white bread—Wonder Bread, no less, the epitome of processed Americana—and flings them into the water is pure, unadulterated joy. Her giggles erupt like fireworks when the ducks swarm, their webbed feet paddling furiously, beaks snapping with a mix of greed and entitlement.
And then there are the backstories. Emma doesn’t just see waterfowl; she sees a complex, bureaucratic society. At this very moment, Emma’s perched at the edge of Conservatory Water, the late afternoon sun glinting off the ripples like scattered coins, the air carrying a faint, earthy tang of pond muck.
“That one’s George,” Emma announces, pointing a sticky finger at a mallard who looks like he’s seen too much. “He’s the Mayor of the Pond.”
Annie, crouched beside her in a pair of jeans that hug her waist just right—the ones I noticed this morning when she bent over to wipe a big chunk of mud off of Emma’s rain boot—tears off a fresh piece of bread, her smile indulgent but genuine. “The mayor, huh? That’s a hefty responsibility.”
Emma doesn’t miss a beat, her pigtails swinging as she tosses the crumbs. “He’s very important. He makes all the rules. Like, no fighting over food, and everyone has to share.” George barrels in, shoving aside a couple of slimmer ducks with zero regard for her edict, his feathers ruffled in victory.
“Ah,” Annie says, her eyes sparkling with a wry amusement that always manages to pull me in. “A populist leader. Very democratic of him.”
“And that one over there,” Emma continues, pointing to a sleeker duck with an iridescent green head, “that’s Kevin. He’s George’s assistant. He does the boring stuff.”
Annie nods solemnly, playing along like a pro. “Like what? Paperwork? Scheduling beak-sharpening appointments?”
“Counting things. Making lists. Keeping the pond organized.” Emma hurls another piece, and Kevin darts in after it.
“Every visionary needs a Kevin,” Annie agrees. I have to look away to keep the laugh from breaking out of my chest.
The zoo was a total victory, albeit an exhausting one. We’d navigated the sea lions (who lounged with the misplaced confidence of trust-fund babies at a beach club) and the polar bears (who looked like they’d just finished a very long, very disappointing board meeting). Emma had documented it all on her disposable camera, guarding that little plastic rectangle like it contained the only known evidence of Bigfoot. I’m fairly certain the developed photos will be sixty percent her ownthumb and forty percent blurry pavement, but the pride on her face is worth the twelve-dollar processing fee.
Now, I’m doing a slow 360-degree scan for Park Rangers or those aggressively civic-minded New Yorkers who live to correct your parenting choices in public.
If I get booked for Duck Endangerment, it’ll be legendary family fodder. My mother will find a way to weave it into every holiday toast for the next thirty years. Maria will ensure my obituary reads:Leo Roussos: Beloved son, mediocre brother, and the man who brought down the Central Park ecosystem with a loaf of white bread.
I pivot, my hand instinctively reaching toward Emma—a reflex, even though she’s safe, giggling with Annie as they dole out the contraband. It’s an older couple, hand in hand, the picture of enduring companionship. The woman is petite, barely cresting five feet in her practical sneakers, her white hair twisted into a neat bun, her face a map of laugh lines etched deep from decades of stories, I’m sure. Her husband towers beside her, stooped but steady, bundled in a wool cardigan despite the unseasonable warmth that clings to the air like a reluctant goodbye to fall.
