“You speak Greek?”
“I should hope so or I wouldn’t be able to talk to a lot of my family, but I never hear the end of how much I butcher it.”
“You never told me that. Do your parents speak Greek to you at home?”
“Not usually. They’re first generation, but they wanted us to assimilate, so they mostly speak English with us. It’s more thatmy yia yiadoesn’t speak any English, so it’s sink or swim.”
“Your yia yia?”
“It’s Greek for grandmom. Luckily, we had Greek school on Saturdays.”
“Greek school? What’s that?”
I rolled out of bed to take care of the condom as I said, “Just the greatest thing ever.”
“School on a Saturday?”
“Yeah, but fun.”
“School was never fun for me. What did you learn?”
“How to write the Greek alphabet, traditional dances, history, stuff about Greek heritage, food.”
I dropped back onto the mattress and pulled her against me, hoping she didn’t mind cuddling.
“And on Sundays, we went to church and sometimes didn’t get home until later that night.”
“You spent the day at church?” She sounded freaked out.
“Not at all. After church, we’d go to someone’s house and eat and eat and eat.”
“Well, that sounds more like it.” She rested her head against my shoulder, her fingers tickling the hairs on my chest. “Are you very religious?”
“Me? I go to church with my parents when I’m home.”
“Greek Orthodox, right?”
“Mmm hmm.” I kissed her forehead, so comfortable with this girl in my arms. “My dad’s more about Greek history and tradition than religion. If you’re smart, you won’t ask him to tell you about where he comes from unless you have a couple of hours and a six-pack of Red Bull.”
“Sounds fascinating.” Her knee slipped over my thigh, ankle hooking my calf. She was so sexy, so soft, molded into me, all I could think wasmine, even though that was the one thing she swore she’d never be. “You’re lucky. My dad never gave a crapabout wherever our family came from.”
She’d mentioned her dad that first night at the bar, and I got the sense she didn’t usually share whatever trauma he’d left her with, that she’d opened up to me only on that dare. “Where is he now?”
“Who the fuck knows?” She stiffened, and I braced for her to pull away, but she said, “What’s your mom like?”
“Ma?” How did you describe a mythic figure? “Fussy. She cares a lot about family and food. Oh and she’s incredibly superstitious—like black cats, evil eye, jinxes, the whole nine yards.”
“Seriously? Like broken mirrors, Friday the thirteenth?”
“Tuesdaythe thirteenth, if you can believe it.”
She snorted. “What? Why?”
“Because Constantinople fell on a Tuesday.”
“The thirteenth?”
“Um. No.” I sighed, my dad’s nerdiness coming to haunt me. “But as I understand it, if you sum the digits of the year 1453, you get—”
