“My cousin Gabe uses it,” he explains. “Sometimes I take him for a ride on the weekends to our grandmother’s condo on the harbor.”
I point to the winged horse. It has three unicorn horns. “Tri-corn?”
He shrugs. “He’s really into horses right now, and he wanted it to have three horns.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but I remember another boy who loved sea monsters. The kraken?”
“The kraken,” he says excitedly. “Yes.”
“Giant octopus that takes down ships.”
“Badass, right? So much better than a flying horse. Still a fan of the kraken, actually. But Gabe is scared of anything with tentacles.”
“I see.… Don’t remember your cousin Gabe.”
“He moved here after you left. He’s nine, but he’s got a big head for a kid—this is actually an adult helmet that I tricked out for him, so it should fit, I think? Better than my brain bucket.” He helps me slip the helmet on my head. “Yeah. See? Your dome is protected by the power of Trig-asus. Hop on, shutterbug. You’re street legal now. And you get to reintroduce yourself to my big Greek family. This is what happens when you walk into the boatyard and chat with my mother.”
“Sort of regretting that now.”
“As well you should. Too late to turn back now. May God save you.”
Following his reminders about how to ride, I straddle the Superhawk’s seat behind Lucky and put my arms around him, pretending it’s no big deal. I did it before when we went to the hospital. It’s practical,notsexy, and I should not be enjoying the smell of his leather jacket or how solid he feels under my arms.… Wait. Oh God. He can probably feel my breasts pressing against his back.
How can he not?
Oh God.I think I’m going to have a nervous breakdown.
Right. That’s it, then. Should probably just bail now. Jump off the bike and run. No one would blame me. But he’s right. It’s way too late now. With a rev of the engine, we’re pulling out of the alleyway, and me and my boobs and my anxieties will just have to cling to him and pray he doesn’t notice any of us.
The motorcycle bounces on setts and cobblestones as we turn down the boulevard and head west, away from the harbor. We pass a slew of eighteenth century houses with historic-registry signs like the one on our house, two Revolutionary War statues, and a white church with a grand steeple. And after several blocks, when the tourist traffic clears and the streets widen, I spot the familiar sign for Greektown.
No turning back.
The Karrases’ house is a pale blue Cape Cod and not unlike most of the others on the quiet, tree-lined block—simple NewEngland homes with small, neat yards framed in white picket fences. Cars line the curb on both sides of the street, and more are driving around the block, looking for a place to park. Lucky squeezes his bike between two Nick’s Boatyard trucks in the driveway and stops in front of the detached garage that’s painted the same pale blue as their house.
I’ve been here a hundred times before. Hundreds. Literally.
It feels like the first.
And when we get off his bike and remove our helmets, he doesn’t seem to be anxious or showing signs that he’s been going through the same mental gymnastics I’ve been experiencing on the ride over here. He’s not even looking at my face. It’s like night and day from the smiling guy who met me in the alley.
I try to forget about it and focus on my surroundings. I can already see across the sidewalk between the house and the garage that the fenced-in backyard is packed with people.
“Come on,” he says, urging me forward with a hand guiding me behind my back—behind, but not quite touching me. “Remember the drill? Nothing much has changed. It’s a serve-yourself kind of deal. People come and go. It’s casual. It’s not usually this many people, so don’t freak out.”
“I’m not freaked out.”
“No?”
I glance at his tight eyes, and I remember what he’s said about me being a terrible liar. No point, really. Plus, it’s a relief not to pretend around him. “I’m terrified. Sunday dinners were someof my favorite times of the week when we were young. I love your family. I’ve missed them. But everything has changed, and I’m afraid they won’t accept me anymore. I’m afraid … What if they’ve seen my mom’s photo?”
His face softens. “They haven’t. You think my working-class aunts and uncles move in the same circles as the Goldens across town? They couldn’t care less about anything a dink like Adrian Summers has to say.”
I laugh a little, still mildly nervous but improving.
He knocks his shoulder gently against mine. “Don’t worry. They accept you, because I do. Nothing’s changed.”
That’s not entirely true. The first minute in the backyard is a blur: white fairy lights strung across the top of a wooden pergola; the scent of smoke, grilled meat, and garlic, and my stomach growling with hunger despite my rattled nerves; people joyfully shouting“Yiamas!”while toasting with plastic wine glasses; kids running underfoot. And between all this is Lucky’s name being called out repeatedly as he puts his hand lightly on the small of my back and weaves us between several picnic tables and too many patio chairs to count. He waves at people, nods his chin, laughs at a joke, but keeps leading me past pair after pair of curious eyes until we get to the boss.
