I act cool, ignoring the ostentatious howling, and elbow-under-the-ribs goading from Shawn.
“I think we’re missing a bit of info here, bro. How did you get so chummy?” He wags his eyebrows.
It’s damn near impossible to keep a shit-eating grin in check. “We ran into each other on Wednesday. Well, she kind of barged into my office by mistake.”
I give them a rundown of the events, but no matter how many times I say Thalia’s fun and just a friend, they don’t believe me. Whatever.
I don’t have to prove anything to them.
NINE
Thalia
CLUTCHING THE BIG, HEAVY SHOULDER BAG close to my side, I knock on the door to Theo’s condo at five to seven in the evening. The neighborhood is one of the fancier ones—upper-middle class, at least. Maybe lower-higher. The snow-white building looks clean and well-kept as if it hadn’t been here long. I cross the spacious hallway, knocking on the door on the ground floor.
Heavy, rushed steps reverberate inside and Theo yanks the door open, his broad chest dressed in a black t-shirt in my face. “Hey.” He steps aside, letting me in. “Did you find it okay?”
I nod, entering an airy entryway with a light brown wooden floor and white walls. It flows effortlessly into the open plan living area, beyond which there’s a sliding window wall overlooking a private, secluded terrace.
What strikes me as odd is that the condo is sterile-clean.
No dirty laundry, empty pizza boxes, or beer bottles in sight. High ceilings, contemporary, minimalistic design, and high-end furniture—casual sophistication.
Theo’s shoes are neatly organized in the hallway, a large flat-screen TV hangs on a marble feature wall in the living room, and an off-white fluffy rug lays under the glass coffee table. There’s even a potted plant by the floor-to-ceiling south-facing windows, all thriving, green and healthy.
“I have hope,” I say, kicking my white sneakers off. “You haven’t killed the plant, so Ares should survive too. At least he’ll let you know when he’s hungry.”
“Thank you for thinking so highly of me. Don’t give me any credit for the plant. Ares knocked it over on Friday, and it stayed on the floor until Mom stopped by to repot it last night.”
He leads me to the kitchen equipped with a breakfast bar, dusty-blue cabinets, and high-end appliances that look brand-new, as if no one has used them yet.
That’s hardly surprising. He’s a man in his twenties and obviously can’t complain about lack of money. I’m sure he doesn’t need to cook his own meals. I’d be willing to bet his diet is comprised of takeout food and cereal, or maybe he lives off, boxed-meals prepared by some new-age nutritionist. It’d explain why there’s not an ounce of fat on Theo’s body.
Navigating life in America may not be tricky, but the culture differs from what I’m used to. I probably got the wrong end of the stick tonight, missing the mark by a mile, but it’s too late to change my mind now.
Americans aren’t as casual as Greeks. We’re loud, proud, family orientated, and we love great food, good company, and cooking. I helped my mother in the kitchen since I could hold a spoon, mastering the art of cooking early in life. Years later, I polished my skills in culinary school and have dreamt of owning a little restaurant ever since.
From what I gathered so far, Americans are a tinge more reserved, making my brilliant idea strikes me as not too brilliant now that I stand in Theo’s kitchen.
Ares runs out of a room further down the hall, wagging his tail and planting sloppy kisses all over my face when I crouch to pet him. “Hello there, I’ve got a little gift for you.” I scratch his ears, then unzip my bag enough to fit my hand inside and retrieve the rubber ball loaded with treats, but not enough to let Theo see the contents. “There. Have fun with that, and don’t chew on Daddy’s shoes.”
He picks the ball and immediately spits it out, sniffing and nudging it with his nose before taking it in his mouth again. Wagging his tail left and right, he runs away to a big, comfy dog bed in the living room.
“Daddy?”Theo echoes, amusement lacing his tone. “I don’t know how I feel about that. You want a beer?”
“Sure.” I drop my bag on the breakfast bar. “This seems like a bad idea now, but here goes...” I slide the zipper, wiggling my fingers. “Have you ever tried Greek food?”
Theo’s eyes jump between me and the ingredients for a meal I planned piling on the counter, his eyebrow curved into a question mark. “You want to cook?”
I can’t tell if he’s surprised, annoyed, curious or if he thinks I’ve lost the plot. “You said we’ll talk about your game. I’m sure it’ll take a while, and I don’t want you to order food because you won’t let me pay,” I huff, dumping the empty bag on the floor once vegetables, meat, and condiments are out. “I hoped cooking for you wouldn’t be emasculating.”
He hands me a bottle of Budweiser, bracing himself against the marble countertop, arms straight, shoulders rolled back. “You want to cook forme. Greek food.”
“Yes. Is that okay?”
“Hell yeah!” Those steady, penetrating eyes of his blaze with excitement and a pleasant shudder of relief rattles through me. It’s a lottery trying to fit in here. “Can I help?”
“Not tonight. Maybe some other time. Tonight, I cook; you ask questions and take notes.”