And just like that, she’s walking away, leaving me standing in the middle of a Halloween-decorated street with more questions than answers and the distinct feeling that Annie Collier is running from something she doesn’t want me to see.
Chapter 15
ANNIE
The silence that follows Leo closing Emma’s bedroom door is one that only happens after a kid has finally surrendered to a sugar crash. He walks back into the living room, looking like he’s just gone ten rounds with a glitter-covered heavyweight.
“She’s out,” he says, leaning his head back against the wall for a second. “I think she was asleep before her head actually touched the pillow. The cat ears stayed on, though. I didn’t dare try to move them.”
“Probably for the best,” I say, leaning against the counter. “Attempting to de-ear a sleeping mermaid is a level of danger you aren’t trained for, Leo. It’s like disarming a sparkly bomb.”
He huffs a tired laugh. Joe and Allison headed out twenty minutes ago, taking a very cranky ladybug and a sleeping infant with them, leaving just Leo’s family and me. The apartment looks like a party store exploded. There’s half-eaten cake on the kitchen counter, frosting smeared on the plates. Wrapping paper is everywhere—crumpled pink Barbie paper, ribbons, bows that somehow ended up on the ceiling fan, and balloons are drifting across the floor like colorful tumbleweeds.
In the corner sits the crown jewel: a toy kitchen Leo spent three hours assembling last night. It’s got a tiny yellow microwave and a plastic stove that makes a clicking noise(complete with pots and pans and a sink that actually runs water if you pour it in the top). It’s currently surrounded by a fleet of new Barbies, a Lite-Brite that’s already missing half its pegs, roller skates from Maria, puzzles and a Barbie Dreamhouse from his parents that’s basically the size of a real house.
The sink is a whole other disaster. It’s piled high with cake platters, forks, and coffee mugs—a monument to a successful birthday.
There’s no way Leo’s getting all of this done tonight.
“You need help?” Maria asks, surveying the damage.
Leo shakes his head, running a hand through his hair—his nervous tell, the curls bouncing back into a mess as soon as he lets go. “No. I’ve got it. You guys should get going. It’s late.”
He’s lying. He looks like he could fall asleep standing up.
Maria turns her dark eyes on me, ignoring him completely. “Annie. What are your plans for Thanksgiving? It’s only a few weeks away.”
I swallow. Maria’s intimidating, and not just because she’s probably the prettiest person I’ve ever seen in real life—and I’ve met a lot of beautiful people, a lot of celebrities. She has this confidence, thisdon’t fuck with meenergy that makes me want to stand up straighter and also hide. “Oh. I haven’t really thought that far ahead yet. I’ll probably just do something small with my roommates. We talked about making a turkey in our toaster oven, which will likely end in a 911 call.”
Irene, Leo’s mom, looks at me like I’ve just said I plan to spend the holiday eating gravel. Her face crumples in genuine horror. “Ti les?You have no place? No, no. This is not right. A girl like you, eating with roommates in a…toaster? You come to us!”
Leo tenses. “Ma, she probably has her own things to do. Don’t pull her into the vortex.”
Irene shoots him a glare that could halt traffic. “I am not talking to you, Leo. I am talking to Annie.” She turns back to me, her expression softening into something so warm it feels like a physical embrace. “I make the pastitsio, the roasted lamb with lemon potatoes, and moussaka, the best you ever have…Everyone says, ‘Irene, your spanakopita is the best in Astoria.’ You will come. You will eat until you cannot walk.”
Leo’s dad, Michalis, chuckles and leans in, smelling faintly of coffee and tobacco. “I should warn you, Annie. Our Thanksgiving…it is very loud. We have the cousins, the uncles…all the people who come from Greece and forgot to leave. You never know what will happen. One year, we have a goat in the backyard. Don’t ask.”
“The year the grease fire started during the traditional bouzouki dance?” Maria adds, her eyes dancing. “That was a highlight.”
“Or when Uncle Stavros tried to explain the entire plot of The Godfather in broken English and accidentally insulted the priest?” Leo chimes in, his voice losing some of its edge as he gets pulled into the memory.
I find myself laughing, a real, belly-deep sound. The warmth in this room is infectious, a contrast to the cold holiday I was expecting in my cramped apartment. “I wouldn’t want to impose,” I say softly. “A family thing like that…I’m just the nanny.”
Irene waves a hand dismissively, as if she’s brushing away a fly. “Impose? Pfff. You are the girl who makes my granddaughter look like a queen. You are not an imposition.” She reaches out, gently pinching my arm. “Besides, we need to put more skin on these bones. You are too skinny! Like a little bird.”
Leo rolls his eyes, though there’s a softness there. “Ma, you tell everyone they’re too skinny. You told Joe he was too skinny and he’s been a gym rat for ten years.”
Irene huffs, her hands going to her hips. “Because it is true! In this country, you eat only the air and the stress. Inmyhouse, we eat the love.” She looks at me, her gaze final. “You come, Annie. I will not take the ‘no’ for an answer.”
I look at Leo, expecting him to give me an out, but he’s just watching me. He doesn’t look annoyed anymore. He looks…curious. Like he’s waiting to see if I’ll actually step into the madness.
“I’ll be there,” I say, and the words feel like a tiny anchor dropping into the harbor.
Irene’s face glows with a quiet, triumphant satisfaction. She’s a woman who wears her history in the best way possible—deep, crinkly smile lines around her mouth and eyes that suggest decades of laughter and very little time spent worrying about things like Botox or brand-name handbags. She’s tiny, maybe topping out at five-three or four, with dark thick hair that’s starting to surrender to silver in a way that looks intentional and regal. Her eyes are the same liquid brown as Leo’s, but where his are usually calculating the next five steps, hers are just…open. She’s beautiful in that uncomplicated way that some women just are, where you know she’s never thought about it for a single second of her life.
She, Michalis and Maria grab their jackets from the coat rack by the door. Michalis pauses, taking my hand in both of his. His palms are calloused and warm. “It was good talking to you, Annie. Next time, I have more history stories for you.”
“I’m holding you to that,” I say, and the weird part is, I actually mean it.
