I’m nervous.
Not about the food or the noise or even the overwhelming chaos of this family. I’m nervous because I want them to like me.
I’ve never cared about making a good impression with anyone’s family before. With Daniel’s parents, I just showed up and smiled and said the right things because that’s what was expected of me. It didn’t matter if they actually liked me—they liked my last name, my father, the idea of me, and that was good enough.
But this is different. These people don’t care about my last name. They don’t know who Graham Collier is and they wouldn’t care if they did. They care about Leo. And Emma. And whether or not I’m good enough forthem.
And I want to be good enough. I want Michalis to keep showing me photo albums and telling me stories. I want Ireneto teach me how to make Greek food. I want the aunts to stop calling me too thin and start calling me family.
I want to belong here.
“Annie!” Tasia is waving a serving spoon at me. “You are not paying attention! You need themoussaka!”
“Sorry, yes—moussaka!Please.”
She plops a huge square of it onto my plate, which is now in serious danger of collapsing under the weight.
“Thank you,” I say to the aunt, and I mean it for so much more than the food. “It all looks incredible.”
The front door blows open a few minutes later, letting in a gust of cold air and two familiar, laughing figures bundled in coats. Cori’s hair is in a perfect French braid, her cheeks pink, and Marcus is in a gray beanie, rubbing his hands together.
“Sorry to just barge in!” Marcus calls out, spotting me. “There was a lady on the stoop smoking a cigarette who just waved us through.’”
I don’t know who he’s talking about, but it tracks. Before I can even wave them over, Irene and a phalanx of aunts materialize around them, a whirlwind of kisses and exclamations.
“Kalosorisate!Welcome, welcome!” Irene greets, grabbing Cori’s hands and kissing both cheeks, then doing the same to a bewildered but grinning Marcus. I catch Cori’s eye; she looks exactly how I felt a little bit ago—baffled, slightly overwhelmed, and completely charmed.
“Give me the coats,mou,” Irene says, already reaching for them. “So happy you come! Any friend of Annie is family. Go, go to the table. We have enough to feed an army.”
As Cori slides out of her heavy winter coat, the effect is instantaneous. Under her oversized cream knit sweater, her baby bump is now a perfectly defined, unmistakable round curve.
It’s like someone pulled the pin on a joy-grenade.
“Opa!Look at this!”
“Mikros!Oh, the little one!”
“Ti omorfo paidaki!What a beautiful baby!”
Suddenly, Cori is surrounded. Four different pairs of hands—warm, smelling of flour and lemon—are reaching out to gently touch the curve of her belly. Cori freezes for a split second, then her face breaks into a wide, slightly helpless grin as the women start cooing in a mixture of Greek and English.
Tasia, who was just force-feeding me moussaka, bustles over. “A baby! Is boy? Is girl?”
“It’s a surprise,” Cori says, laughing as she looks at me for backup. “I’m waiting to find out.”
Tasia clicks her tongue, clearly dissatisfied with that answer. She turns and yells toward the hallway, “Elena!Ela do!Come here!”
An older woman I haven’t met yet—Elena—wanders over. She has a magnificent cloud of steel-gray hair, a wine glass in one hand and a cigarette dangling precariously from the other, looking like the undisputed matriarch of the East Village.
“Look at this,” Tasia says, gesturing to Cori. “She does not know the gender yet. Tell her.”
Elena doesn’t say a word. She hands her wine glass to Tasia with the practiced air of a surgeon handing off a scalpel. She takes a long, thoughtful drag of her cigarette, then steps close, her weathered hands moving over the slope of Cori’s bump with a terrifying amount of focus.
Cori locks eyes with me over Elena’s head, her eyebrows disappearing into her hairline. I press my lips together, trying desperately not to let a snort of laughter escape.
Elena stands back, retrieves her wine glass, and takes one final puff before speaking. Her voice is deep, raspy, and certain.
“Boy,” she declares, nodding once. “Is boy.”
