Paros’s heart swelled with joy. “Yes,” he said proudly, “her name is Charlotte.”
76
Cord
Cord considered flying to Greece.He almost returned to New York. But he was frozen, stuck in Savannah.Do the next right thing,they said in the rooms, yet another insipid and lifesaving AA platitude. He woke up, drank coffee, read the Big Book, went to meetings, slept in his mother’s bed.
Hello, Step One, my old friend. I’m here to work through you again!
Cord stayed sober. At the Palmetto Shores gym, he lifted and did cardio. The only people he shared his new phone number with were Regan and Giovanni, who texted him to fuck off, which seemed fair. Giovanni added,Not trying to be mean, but I honestly need a break from this.
I love you and I understand completely,Cord responded.
He emailed NYC Ventures that he was on an extended mental health break, and Jacobey responded, “Take care, man,” cc’ing HR. With the help of a Reddit hacker forum, he removed the Sweethearts app from his phone, then deleted Instagram, theNew York Timesapp, Apple News, Facebook, Snapchat, Bluesky, and Twitter.
Cord met Miguel at Sandfly Coffee, paying for lattes and commiserating with the kid about growing up gay in suburbanSavannah. As Cord had been at his age, Miguel was tough, capable, and worried he’d end up alone. He needed nothing from Cord but company.
The strangest development was Cord’s text relationship with Regan. He should have been texting a sponsor when he wanted to drink, but instead he sent notes and emojis to his sister. He sent a fire emoji when he lingered at Publix, dangerously close to putting his hand on the elegant neck of a bottle of wine. She texted back a heart-hands emoji, and this helped him keep walking toward the bakery, where he bought a glazed donut or three. He sometimes ate one before he reached the register, but he “kept his side of the street clean,” fessing up and paying the forty-five cents.
For her part, Regan would text Cord a broken-heart emoji when she wanted to contact her scam lover, François. Cord would text back heart-hands. Did it help her resist? Cord believed it did.
77
Charlotte
Charlotte took a taxi tothe port of Piraeus. Paros had told her during his thrilling phone call that she would findThe Flying Stareasily, as it was the only tall sailing ship docked alongside megaliners. “A sailing ship! How romantic,” Charlotte purred.
“It was the job I was offered,” said Paros. “And Charlotte? Please adjust your expectations. A tall sailing ship is not for everyone.”
Charlotte did love her luxuries—her golf cart, a walk-in closet filled with clothes. And was this really the time for her to go chasing love? Yes, Regan had been located and brought back to her girls, but she was obviously struggling. Charlotte pushed the thought away. She herself was not getting any younger! As the disco song said, this was herlast chance for romance.
Charlotte could see Donna Summer in her mind’s eye, wearing a sequined pantsuit and imploring Charlotte todance the last dance tonight.Charlotte nodded, her mind made up.
Her taxi descended from the heights of Athens toward Piraeus; the city revealing itself in layers—Byzantine churches nestled between apartment blocks, outdoor tavernas where old men played backgammon under grape arbors, balconies dripping with geraniums in recycled olive oil tins. The Mediterranean stretchedbefore them, dotted with ferries heading to islands that promised escape, transformation, or both. Charlotte remembered her first journey to the port, before she had known what it felt like to explode in passion.
Now she knew. And somehow, she had let Paros go, along with his tender kisses and erotic maneuvers. Charlotte had become a doddering, albeit soigné, old woman. She forgot much of what happened to her or was said to her—famous lemon chicken? Remaining cheerful at age eighty-one was, she knew, a matter of calculated ignorance and strategic denial. But what was the alternative? Who the heck wanted to ponder the sadness of waking alone, the fear of falling over and breaking your paper chopstick bones?
Quelle horreur,but no one wanted to think about these indignities, least of all Charlotte.
Anyhoo, her cab stopped, bad brakes squealing, and Charlotte opened her compact to check her lipstick, mascara, and silver eye shadow. She’d used the nose hair trimmer her best friend, Minnie, now dead for a decade, had given her as a joke one year during her golf group’s Secret Santa cocktail party. Minnie’s joke gift had turned out to be useful when wiry hairs started growing past Charlotte’s nostrils.
She wore white Capri pants, a navy-and-white-striped sweater, and gold, anchor-shaped earrings. (OK,gold-plated,but from the Ralph Lauren outlet store on Hilton Head Island.) This was the best she was going to look. It was time.
“Ευχαριστ?,γεια,” said the driver.
“And the same to you!” said Charlotte.
But instead of bounding from the malodorous car, Charlotte remained still. The driver stared at her in his rearview mirror and raised his swarthy eyebrows. His pupils were the color of chocolate, his expression kind and a bit pitying. He probably thoughtshe was a lonely heiress going on vacation by herself, not a single gal having a rendezvous with her Greek beau, the former love of her life, her partner in a torrid Mediterranean tryst on the high seas.
“Ευχαριστ?,γεια,” he repeated.
“Yes, I heard you,” said Charlotte.
“You need…assistance?” said the driver.
Feeling guilty, Charlotte pulled out her phone and called Lee, back at Regan’s apartment. “Lee, darling? I’m about to board Paros’s ship for—well, I don’t know how long. But should I stay? Do they need me? Do you need me, Lee Lee?”
Lee’s voice sounded tired but determined. “We’re fine.”
