Chapter 23
ANNIE
“Okay, but look at me,” I say, walking into the kitchen and fumbling a tiny gold hoop into my ear. “Serious face. Do I look like I’m trying too hard? Be honest.”
Leo leans against the counter, holding two travel mugs of coffee.
A slow smirk spreads across his face. “I’ve already told you that you look perfect approximately one thousand times.
What else are you fishing for, Collier? Do you want me to say you look so good it’s scientifically improbable?
Because I can. I have the degree to back it up. ”
“I want you to say I look appropriately respectful and lovely, but not like I’ve been personally styled by your yiayia for a church blessing,” I say, finally getting the earring to catch. I hold out my wrist, the delicate gold watch dangling. “Can you?”
He takes my wrist, his touch is familiar and grounding. “You look like you,” he says simply, fastening the clasp with a quiet click. “Which is all I could ever want.” He brings my wrist to his mouth and presses a kiss to the inside, right over my pulse point.
Then he pulls me flush against him, his hand sliding to the back of my neck to tilt my head up.
He kisses me—hard and deep, tasting like dark roast coffee and I want to melt.
I want to stay in this kitchen and skip the family interrogation altogether.
But I find the strength to pull back, laughing as I smack his arm.
“Stop. If you ruin my makeup, I’m telling your mother you’re the reason we’re late. ”
Leo sighs, a dramatic, suffering sound. “You’re right. Duty calls. The Spanakopita waits for no man.”
On the counter sits a foil-covered dish of Koulourakia—braided butter cookies.
I’d spent three hours hunched over a Greek cookbook I checked out from the library called Yiayia’s Kitchen while attempting to make them.
I’d even done a trial run for Ernie, the homeless man who camps out at the bodega across the street.
He’d taken a bite, crunched thoughtfully, and told me they were “better than the trash-can bagels, missy,” which I’m choosing to take as a Michelin-star review.
“They look great,” Leo says, following my gaze. He wraps an arm around my shoulders and squeezes. “They’re going to love you.”
He’s nervous too. I can tell, even if he won’t admit it.
This is his family turf—Thanksgiving at his parents’.
And while I’ve met them a couple times, the extended crew is a whole new ballgame.
Aunts with probing questions, cousins sizing me up, that Greek chorus of relatives who’ll probably grill me on everything from my job to why I’m with their golden boy.
Hence the outfit. I’ve gone for a look that I hope screams responsible-yet-approachable.
It’s a plaid pinafore dress over a black turtleneck—very autumn-in-the-city, very ‘I definitely know how to do my taxes.’ I’ve traded the lavender silk and designer label for a pair of sheer black tights and sturdy leather boots, the kind that clomp satisfyingly on sidewalks.
Slung over my shoulder is a suede warm brown hobo bag, big enough to hide nerves in, and a couple silver charms dangling from a keychain clipped to the strap, tinkling faintly as I move.
“Ta-da!”
We pull apart as Emma slides into the doorway, arms flung wide.
She has orchestrated her masterpiece. A sparkly purple sweater tucked into a denim skirt dotted with embroidered flowers, striped tights in clashing reds and blues peeking out, and her favorite rain boots, the yellow ones with duck faces, even though the forecast’s clear.
Her curly hair is in lopsided pigtails, and somehow, she’s balancing a plastic firefighter helmet over them both.
“Wow,” Leo breathes, his voice full of awe. “It’s…a vision, Em. Truly a festive masterpiece.”
“I’m a fancy firefighter princess,” she explains, adjusting her helmet.
“The fanciest. “You ready to go, koukla?” Leo asks.
“Yep! Oh wait—” She runs back down the hall. “I forgot Bunny!”
Leo looks at me. “Last chance to back out.”
“And miss meeting the Greek army? Never.”
“They’re going to interrogate you.”
“I can handle it.”
“They’re going to ask when we’re getting married.”
“Leo.”
“I’m just warning you.”
“Are they actually going to ask that?”
He grins. “Probably within the first ten minutes.”
“Great. Love that for me.”
Emma comes barreling back, clutching her gray rabbit. “Okay! Now I’m ready!”
Leo grabs the overnight bag, I grab my purse and the Koulourakia, and we head for the door.
“Wait,” I say, stopping. “Are you sure I look okay?”
Leo turns around, walks back, and kisses me one more time. “You look perfect. Stop asking.”
“Okay.”
“I mean it.”
“I said okay!”
Emma tugs on my hand. “Annie, you look really pretty. Can we go now? I’m hungry.”
And just like that, my nervousness dissolves a little. If Emma thinks I look pretty, maybe I’ll survive this after all.
* * *
The subway ride was somehow too long and not long enough. I wipe my sweaty palms on my dress as we climb the steps of a stately, well-kept brownstone on a tree-lined street just west of Tompkins Square Park.
Leo’s grip on my hand is firm. Before he can even get his key out, the heavy wooden door swings inward.
“We’re here, yiayia!” Emma announces to the empty foyer, and barrels past the threshold, her backpack thumping against the door frame.
Then, it’s like a dam breaks.
We are flooded by people. A wave of warmth, perfume, and voices crashes over us.
A woman with Leo’s eyes grabs my face and kisses one cheek, then the other with a soft mwah, mwah.
A man with a magnificent salt-and-pepper mustache does the same.
“Welcome! Welcome! Come in, you’ll freeze out there!
” It’s a chorus. My cheeks are kissed by people I’ve never seen before, each one smiling brightly, their hands squeezing my arms or patting my back.
The men are grabbing Leo, pulling him into back-slapping hugs.
“Leoni! There he is!” “Look at this guy, huh?” One uncle, his shirt stretched over a proud belly, holds him by the arms. “What, you’re too busy to call your Theo? Eh, malaka?” But he’s grinning.
Leo laughs, a little breathless, and pulls me into the circle. “Everyone, lisso. This is Annie. My girlfriend.”
The word makes a visible ripple. Heads turn. A few aunts near the staircase stop their conversation mid-sentence. The approving sound is a collective, melodic “Aaaaaah!” It’s followed by a new, more intentional round of kissing. “Finally he brings a girl!” someone shouts. “A good one!”
Three women materialize from the crowd, forming a formidable, smiling tribunal. They are all variations of the same beautiful, expressive template.
“Annie, these are my aunts,” Leo says, nudging me forward. “Thea Despina, Thea Anastasia—everyone calls her Tasia—and Thea Violetta.”
Despina has a glass of wine in one hand and a cigarette in the other, held away expertly.
She’s all sharp cheekbones and elegant angles.
“Leoni, mou,” she says, her voice like gravel and honey.
“You found a supermodel? You couldn’t give us a little warning?
” She kisses my cheeks. “Panagia mou, she is too beautiful for you. You must have lied to her, tell her you are rich, eh?”
A laugh punches out of me, nervous. “I’m not a supermodel, not even close.”
Tasia is softer, her smile immediate. She grabs my chin, squinting at me with terrifying affection.
“So pretty, so pretty. You have a little Greek in you, koukla? You must.” She doesn’t wait for an answer.
Violetta, the most animated, reaches out and feels a piece of my hair between her fingers.
“Look at this hair! This is good hair! Thick. That’s Greek hair. ”
Tasia’s gaze drifts over to where Emma, who’s now hugging an older woman’s legs. “And that one, not a dark hair on her head! Po, po, po. Amazing. She doesn’t look Greek at all! Like a little angel from the North.”
“But she has the Greek spirit, I can see it,” Violetta insists, gesturing at Emma’s outfit. “Look how she puts herself together! She looks like she is ready for the panighiri. You see it, Despina?”
Despina takes a drag of her cigarette. “I see it.”
The house is a beautifully organized riot.
As the aunts lead us through the living room, they gesture vaguely toward the sea of men and children.
“There is Stefanos, my husband,” Despina says, pointing to the man who nearly crushed Leo’s shoulder.
“And over there, Yiannis and Dimitris—husbands of these two,” she adds, waving a hand at Tasia and Violetta.
The two men are currently hunched over a backgammon board, the dice clicking against the wood like gunfire.
It’s not just them, though. The house is vibrating with people.
There are teenagers sprawled on the stairs talking and laughing, toddlers chasing each other around the coffee table, and cousins I haven’t even been introduced to yet sharing a bowl of olives.
It’s a far cry from the quiet, clinical dinners I grew up with.
We finally migrate toward the massive kitchen, the undisputed heart of the ship. Irene is there, looking like the calm center of a storm, moving between a massive turkey and several simmering pots. She beams the moment she sees Leo, pulling him into a hug before turning to me.
“Annie, welcome, mou,” she says, her eyes crinkling. She hugs me too, and it feels genuine. Warm.
“I brought these,” I say, handing over the Koulourakia like they’re a peace offering. “I’m not sure if they’re any good, though.”
Irene takes the dish, peeling back the foil. She catches the scent and smiles. “They look fantastic, Annie. You are very brave to try the braids! Most girls, they are lazy and make the balls.” She nudges me. “Are your roommates still coming? The ones you told me?”
I nod. “They are. Thank you so much for inviting them.”