Page 83 of Holding Out for a Gyro
“Where is your family originally from?”
Zander puffed up. “I grew up in the beautiful seaside town of Voula. Demi lived farther inland. Her family came into town to go to my church, and that’s where we met.”
Basil’s mom proclaimed, “And Bas has still never seen our home.” She shook her head. “Promise me you’ll make the time to visit your yia yia when you’re there.”
Bas shot me a panicked look. It was fleeting, but I didn’t miss it. I sat stunned, confused, convinced I’d misheard, even as his mom continued to rattle off family members and landmarks he had to see, like she was building him an itinerary. Food stuck in my throat, and I reached for my glass of water while I processed. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to put the puzzle pieces together.
“You’re going to Greece?”
His lips pinched together, and I could see him formulating a response, but before he could speak, his mom carried on,unfazed. “He’s leaving next week. We’re all so excited.”
The air expelled from my lungs with anoof.
Was he planning on telling me?
I turned away from him, toward his beaming mother, to change the topic or else I was going to cause a scene. Asking about foods and traditions worked like magic. I held up the dolmade I’d just bitten into. “What are in these?”
Bas cleverly kept his mouth shut so his mom could tell me all about how they were normally made and what other fillings one might use. When I praised them as “unbelievable,” she lifted her chin with a proud grin and said, “Basil made these.”
Bas ducked his head and blushed as if he wasn’t supposed to hear his parents’ praise. He wasn’t off the hook, but I decided that conversation could wait. In the back of my head, a voice was reminding me that Elizabeth and I would be going to France in January. Maybe he didn’t want to be left alone in Charlottesville. It would be a good time to go. I couldn’t blame him.
His dad boasted, “Our people have been eating dolmades since the time of Alexander the Great.”
The kids at the table groaned at the introduction of a history lesson, but I saw another chance to pander and asked, “Why did they start to eat them?”
Zander laid both hands on the table and proceeded to recount the siege of Thebes in 335 BC. Bas rolled his eyes, and his siblings began squabbling over something else, but I planted my elbows on the table and listened intently.
The more I asked him about Greek history, foods, traditions, the more he warmed up to me. Before the last course, Zander said, “She might be more Greek than you, Bas.” Bas gave me the side-eye, and I knew the compliment had been meant more as a teasing dig at him than a true acceptance of me.
Then one of the adorable nieces ran to the kitchen and brought out a shortbread cookie thing called koulourakia for dessert. Itmelted in my mouth.
It brought a tear to my eye to be included in such an amazing experience. Nobody treated me like an outsider. Well, Basil’s dad didn’t welcome me with open arms right away, but he wasn’t mean. Just suspicious, I gathered. It was especially meaningful to me, since my mom hadn’t bothered to call all day. I considered calling her, but I couldn’t swallow that much of my bitterness. Instead, I pretended Basil’s family was mine, that I’d grown up with too many sisters and parents who chided me as a form of love. And loved me unconditionally.
When we finished eating, Bas fought off scoldings from both parents for wanting to head back home before it got too late. He ducked out to his car and returned like Santa, distributing gifts for the kids.
His mom brought out a box filled with wrapped presents and set it down in front of Bas. I saw my name on a label and felt embarrassed I hadn’t brought them anything myself. I hadn’t anticipated being a recipient on such short notice. Bas saved me an awkward moment by telling her, “I placed our presents under the tree.”
I expected him to bring them over so we could all open our gifts, but he took the box out to the car and returned. At my obvious confusion, he said, “We exchange gifts on New Year’s traditionally. But…”
My throat constricted. “But you won’t be here.”
“I won’t.” His eyebrows rose. Apologetic or abashed? “My flight is the next day.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” My words came out soft, almost a whisper, and I realized I wasn’t mad at him anymore. He hadn’t betrayed me in any way, but he’d kept something secret, like after everything, he didn’t fully trust me.
His dark eyes studied me, but before he could answer, Ana said, “It’s Saint Basil’s feast day.”
“What is?” I asked, glancing at the table arrayed with the remains of our huge dinner. “Today?”
“January first,” she clarified. “Saint Basil is like Greek Santa Claus, leaving gifts on the doorstep.”
I couldn’t help nudging him. “Saint Basil, huh?”
Bas blushed. “Friends call me Basil the Great.”
“Basil the Deceiver,” I needled.
He sagged. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”
