Page 29 of Holding Out for a Gyro
“Have you ever truly been hurt before?”
I didn’t know how to answer that, so I deflected. “Have you?”
He blew out his breath. “All the time. The difference is Iwantsomething real.”
“And you think I don’t?”
“I think you believe you’re impervious, but one of these days, you’re going to throw yourself into one of your easygoing romances, thinking you can skate by unscathed, and you’re going to fall. Then you’ll understand.”
I double checked that I’d packed everything, including some utensils, plates, and napkins. Then right when we were about to leave, my phone rang, and I answered, even though the call would cost me valuable minutes. You don’t hit ignore on Mama.
“Hi, Ma.”
“Thereyou are. I thought maybe I should call the Charlottesville hospitals. Nobody’s heard from you in days.”
I paced my kitchen, shooting an apologetic grimace at Evan. “I called you on Tuesday, Ma.”
“And today, it’s Saturday.”
“I’ve been busy.” Maybe I could talk and walk. I grabbed the cooler and gestured to Evan to head out the door.
Dad hollered in the background. Ma translated. “Zoe says there’s a woman?”
“No. Well, sort of.”
She called to Dad, “He’s got a woman!”
“No, Ma.” I popped the trunk and dropped the cooler in.
“You’ll bring her to meet me. Your dad will want to meet her. You’ll bring her for Thanksgiving.”
Oh God. “I’m not going to bring her home for Thanksgiving. I’m sure she’s got her own plans.”
“Your yia yia and Theo Kostas will be here.” My uncle Kostaswas my mom’s brother. Yia Yia was her mom. “You should talk to Kostas. He still wants you to go work for him.”
“In Greece.” I froze with one hand on the door handle.
“Yes, in Greece. Why not?”
This was what I had to contend with on a near-daily basis. “I have to go. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”
I exhaled. I loved my family, but there was a reason I’d moved to Charlottesville against their strong protestations. You’d think I’d moved to the most dangerous neighborhood in Beirut by the way my mom fretted and nagged. Granted, it wouldn’t have been much different if I lived in Richmond, even if I lived next door to them. I saw how my sisters’ and brother’s lives were forever intertwined with my parents’. While I wanted to be involved with them, I needed distance.
I’d always been the apple that fell too far from the tree. They’d sometimes blamed themselves for raising me too American. Sometimes they questioned if I was sufficiently Greek. I had no idea.
When I was younger, everything my family did was a reminder of where my parents had come from—Greek festivals, holidays, food, language. Then I went to public school and pledged allegiance to the American flag and taped a hand-traced turkey to a Popsicle stick. Straddling two cultures, but truly a part of neither, I’d had an experience my parents could never understand. Being immersed in both worlds, I’d taken my heritage for granted, sometimes even tried to hide my differences. I just wanted to fit in somewhere. The first time I took a French class and had to learn a language and culture as an outsider, I felt like a clueless American teenager. Normal.
Ma expected me to integrate into Greek society as if I’d been born there, like her. But it seemed so far away, and as they said, I had a woman here.
Or I might, if the stars aligned.
I’d lost ten precious minutes talking my mom out of planning my wedding and future career. As I drove to the Corner, the small shopping area across from the university, I threw irate gestures the whole time at other motorists who were slowing me down with their indecisive driving. “It’s a road! Move out of the way!”
Maybe that proved I was Greek after all. I came by impatient driving honestly. My father seemed to believe that words could actually influence the functionality of other vehicles. One day, both of us were going to end up in a road rage incident.
Today, I was extra impatient. I had a girl to see.
“What are the odds?” Elizabeth said with an artificial laugh as she entered the coffee shop, spying Evan and me at a front table.
