Chapter 6
Three Months Ago
That first night in Santorini, Wren couldn’t believe how quickly Angelos stole her heart.
Despite her jet lag and how far she’d traveled just that morning, she could not pull herself away from him.
It was like every joke and every story he told was the very best she’d ever heard.
After a third glass of wine, he paid the restaurant owner and led her into the glowing white streets, throwing his arms toward the starry sky above and crying out, “This is my island! Welcome to my island!” Wren could have kissed him right then and there, but she didn’t.
She’d never been keen on making the first move, which went against everything else in her life. When it came to romance, she was shy.
Angelos was different from any of the men she’d ever liked before.
Maybe it was his European-ness or his island-ness or maybe it was because he’d studied film and had big dreams. But as they sat at yet another Greek taverna and sipped red wine and talked about the past and the present, she found herself dreaming about a future with him. She couldn’t believe it.
Around two in the morning, Angelos brought her back to his parents’ inn.
They stood on the front step for ages, unable to stop talking.
Wren half expected one of his parents to yell out the window for them to go to bed.
Wren’s stomach was twisted in knots, and every cell in her body screamed for Angelos to kiss her already. He did, but only on the cheek.
As soon as Wren got to her room, she collapsed on top of the comforter and slept for ten hours.
It was noon when she tumbled out of bed, and she was sweaty, as she hadn’t remembered to turn on the air conditioner.
She checked her phone and found messages from her editor, Max, asking how it was going in Santorini. She wrote him back right away.
WREN: Just arrived and got some much-needed rest! Heading out to take some photos. You’ll have plenty to choose from tonight.
Five minutes later, Max responded.
MAX: That’s my girl. If this works out, I have another long list of Greek islands I want you to photograph.
WREN: When has it not worked out with me? Haha.
Max sent back a laughing emoji, then.
MAX: You’re right. You’re my most reliable photographer. Thanks again. Oh, and I wanted to say that I might be in Greece toward the end of the month. Maybe we should finally meet each other in person?
In the shower, as Wren scrubbed herself clean of airplane smells and her long night with Angelos, she thought about what it would be like to meet Max.
He was from England, an editor at the travel magazine she’d worked at for many years at this point, and she was pretty sure he was married with children.
Maybe he was ten or so years older than she was.
Would it be nice to meet in person? She wasn’t sure she needed that.
But if it helped maintain their professional relationship, she supposed she had to go for it.
After grabbing a coffee and a quick bite, Wren headed off for a full day of taking pictures.
As she adjusted her lenses, she fell into a persona that she could only describe as not herself.
When the camera was in front of her, she no longer existed.
She was the air, the light, the water, the sand.
She tried to capture the mystery and spirit of a place.
And after eight hours of traveling around the island, she had what she’d come for.
Back in her hotel room, she lightly edited the photographs and sent them off to Max. He wrote back right away.
MAX: I can’t believe some of these shots, Wren. You’re getting better every month, it seems like. Send me more tomorrow, and we’ll see where to send you next.
Wren blushed. Although she knew it was wrong to agree with him verbally, she did feel she was getting better and more confident and more consistent.
Feeling excited and no longer jet-lagged, she changed into a sundress and headed outside, eager for a celebratory glass of wine and maybe, just maybe, a run-in with her favorite Greek.
It didn’t take long to find him. In fact, Angelos was waiting for her in the foyer of the hotel, smiling nervously. “I was hoping to see you today,” he said gently. He wore a linen button-down shirt and a pair of slacks and was more dressed up than he’d been the day before.
Wren’s heart flipped over. Now that her job in Santorini was coming to an end, she knew better than to throw herself into the complications of whatever this was. But the dark glint in Angelos’s eyes told her that maybe she didn’t have a choice. Her heart needed him.
* * *
Over the following two weeks, Wren was sent all over the Greek islands—from Santorini to Mykonos to Paros to Antiparos (where Tom Hanks apparently lived part-time).
Wren took thousands of photographs of beaches and sunsets, of platters of food, of donkeys and vegetable sellers in squares and old white churches.
Every hour, she found herself falling deeper in love with the Greek culture.
She couldn’t believe how magical it was.
Throughout, incredibly, Angelos came to meet her.
He arranged his schedule at the inn so that he could take a few days off at a time and stay with her in her accommodations.
With Angelos by her side in these places, she felt doors opening that might not have if she’d been alone.
Angelos could speak the language, and he was utterly charming.
Every woman fell in love with him, and every man wanted Angelos for a son or a best friend.
Together, as the sun slid into the sea once more, Angelos and Wren sat on Antiparos and sipped cocktails and discussed what came next. Angelos was needed back on Santorini in a couple of days, but Wren needed to head to Amorgos to take photographs soon.
“But I can come back to Santorini after that,” she said sweetly, kissing his cheek.
Angelos tugged her into him, so that she felt wholly protected in his strong arms. “We’re going to make this work, Wren,” he told her.
“I’ve never felt this way about anyone before.
I want you to know that it’s different with you and me.
” He swallowed. Wren could feel how panicked he was.
“I know you are a free spirit, but would you ever consider making Greece your home base?”
Wren closed her eyes and imagined a beautiful future with Angelos.
She imagined living on Santorini, swimming in the sea every day and eating all that divine food.
She imagined falling deeper and deeper in love with him, photographing their children, and occasionally taking trips all over the world to photograph for money.
Then again, maybe she could distance herself from Max and create her own photography practice.
Maybe she didn’t have to run around the world anymore.
Would she miss it? Could she trade her life for one with Angelos?
“You don’t have to answer now,” Angelos told her gently.
By way of answering, Wren kissed him passionately, then pressed her nose against his. Her heart told her what she’d never imagined it would: this was it.
That night, Wren and Angelos were curled up in bed.
Angelos was asleep, but Wren couldn’t calm herself down.
She was too excited about what came next.
In the middle of the night, she checked her phone, hoping it would distract her from her racing thoughts.
It was then she read the message from Max, one she hadn’t seen earlier.
MAX: Heading to Antiparos tomorrow. Let’s have dinner before you head to Amorgos.
Wren groaned inwardly, then set her phone down gently on the side table. She’d let herself forget that Max was coming to Greece in the first place. She’d thought maybe she could get out of it, but now that they would both be on the same tiny island, she saw no way to avoid him.
It wasn’t that she necessarily didn’t want to see Max.
It was just that she was having such a daydreamy time with Angelos that she didn’t know how to pull herself away.
Then again, if she and Angelos were going to really have a life together, if they were really going to pursue their romance, then a little dinner with her boss wouldn’t hurt.
The following morning, as Angelos and Wren enjoyed a sunrise walk along the coast, she told him that her boss was on his way to Antiparos and wanted to have dinner.
“I’d love to meet him!” Angelos said. “The more the merrier, as you say in English.”
Wren’s heart skipped. She wasn’t sure why, but she felt that Max wouldn’t necessarily want Angelos at their dinner. But she didn’t want to tell Angelos that. What if Angelos got the wrong idea about Max and Wren and what they were to one another?
“I’ve never met him in person,” Wren said. “It should be interesting? Maybe you won’t like him.”
Angelos laughed. “I like everyone. I’m sure it’ll be wonderful.”
When Max wrote at four, saying that he’d reached his Antiparos hotel and wanted to meet around six for pre-dinner drinks, Wren wrote him back.
WREN: Wonderful! Can’t wait to meet you in person. By the way, is it all right if my boyfriend comes along?
Max didn’t write back for more than an hour. During that time, Wren could hardly breathe. Angelos sensed something was wrong, but she told him she was just tired and that all the traveling was finally catching up to her.
Finally, at five fifteen, Max wrote back.
MAX: That’s fine, Wren. I was hoping we could discuss photography in a more concrete way, but maybe we can find another time.
Wren squeezed her eyes shut and told herself it was all right. Max was clearly upset, but once he met Angelos, he would probably adore him, just like everyone else. She put on a pretty dress and did her makeup, then led Angelos into another gorgeous night.
They met Max at a cocktail bar not far from the beach.
Immediately, when she saw Max, who was dressed immaculately in a way the Greek islands usually didn’t demand, Wren sensed an arrogance to him that hadn’t been fully apparent via text and email.
He narrowed his eyes at Angelos, shaking his hand as he said, “So you’re the photographer’s fling. ”
Even if Angelos noticed the malice behind Max’s words, he didn’t show it. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Wren showed me some of your photographs, and I think they’re very good.”
Max hadn’t worked as a photographer in ages, but it was true that Wren respected the photographs he’d taken prior to becoming a full-time editor.
“And you, Angelos?” Max asked as they settled in. “What is your art form?”
Angelos laughed. “My art form is living the Greek island life, I suppose.”
Max gave Wren a look of bemusement, and Wren blushed.
The truth was, Angelos wrote poetry and painted; he’d written films and plays.
No, he wasn’t successful, but he was an artist in his own right.
He just didn’t brag about it the way you were meant to if you wanted to make it.
To Wren, that made him even more of an artist.
“Wren, Wren, Wren,” Max said finally, shaking his head as he raised his cocktail toward her. “We finally meet! Here in Antiparos.”
A shiver went down Wren’s spine. “It’s a pleasure,” she said.
“Didn’t I give you your first shot at a career?” Max asked.
“You did,” Wren said. “I’ve already told Angelos the story. I’m so grateful to you.”
“Yes. As you should be. You know, there were hundreds of girls like you who wanted that role,” Max said. “And I chose you.”
Again, Wren confirmed that it had been the greatest pleasure of her life. “I can’t thank you enough.” She felt dizzy.
Max leaned back in his chair and regarded her as though Angelos wasn’t there. “Tell me,” he said. “Do you have affairs like this in all the locations I send you to photograph?”
Wren couldn’t believe it. But beside her, Angelos laughed good-naturedly.
Max’s eyes snapped over to Angelos. “Did I say something funny? I’m only trying to get to know my most faithful freelancer.”
“I assumed you were joking,” Angelos said. “Asking about the romantic life of one of your employees.”
Max flared his nostrils. “Of course. What Wren does when she’s on location is her business.”
For a little while, the conversation returned to a sense of near normality.
They spoke about Max’s work as an editor, about Angelos’s parents’ inn, about Wren’s recent trip to Thailand, and about her excitement at spending so much time in Greece.
Max had calmed a little bit, and he even laughed at a few of Angelos’s jokes.
Wren began to breathe easier. Maybe they would make it through dinner.
Perhaps she could meet Max for coffee by herself tomorrow and smooth things over even more. She could not lose this client.
After a second cocktail, Max got up to use the bathroom, leaving Angelos and Wren alone. Angelos laced his fingers through hers and smiled. “What do you think of your boss in person?”
“Let’s talk about it later,” Wren said.
Angelos laughed and leaned over the table to kiss her. Wren closed her eyes, so grateful for his warmth and his generosity and his love—if this was really love. It felt like love.
And then, Max stood beside them, clearing his throat. Wren broke the kiss and smiled nervously up at Max. His eyes were cold.
“I’m afraid I have to cancel dinner, my friends,” Max said. “I’m very tired from my travels, and I don’t think Greek food agrees with me. Till we meet again.” He extended his hand to shake first Angelos’s, then Wren’s.
“We could meet tomorrow,” Wren said brightly, standing.
“I’ll be in contact,” Max said, buttoning and unbuttoning his suit jacket. He turned and walked out of the cocktail bar and disappeared around the corner.
Wren couldn’t shake the darkness that Max had left behind, not even when Angelos swept her away to a local taverna, where they drank ouzo and danced to traditional Greek music.
“Don’t worry about him,” Angelos told her again and again, kissing her cheeks and her lips and her hand. “He’s miserable in life, and you are not. Don’t pay for his misery.”
Wren knew Angelos was right. So she fell through the rest of the night, eating and drinking and laughing, until she and Angelos collapsed back in their hotel bed.
Eight hours later, Wren rolled over and checked her phone for the time. Angelos was still asleep, and light gleamed from behind the thick drapes at the window. Angelos had remembered to turn on the air-conditioning, so it felt blissfully cool in here.
Wren had two messages—one from Juliet, her sister, and the other from Max.
JULIET: Hey! We miss you. Call us when you get the chance.
MAX: Wren, it has come to my attention that your work ethic is not strong enough for such a competitive field as travel journalism.
It’s good that we know that now so that we don’t waste each other’s time going forward.
Please note that your ferry ticket to Amorgos has been canceled, as has your freelance contract. Best, Max.