Page 56 of Iridescent
“She’s hopeless,” Yiayia mutters at the same time, and the two of them glare at each other for a beat. Then Althea sighs. “Fine. I’m going. But if I burn anything, it’s on you.”
“Watch your mouth,” Yiayia retorts. She shoos Althea off with a series ofclucks. “And pay attention. Don’t set the kitchen on fire. I’m too young to be homeless.”
The joke sours the air, snuffing out the last of my laughter.
Silence settles between us.
Althea’s smile flickers and vanishes so fast I almost think I imagined it. Then she rolls her eyes and turns away. “Very funny, Yiayia.”
Grumbling under her breath, she disappears out of view. A second later, I hear the clang of pans and the soft whoosh of a gas burner lighting. Yiayia turns back to me with the faintest hint of satisfaction. “There. Obedient.”
“More like terrified.”
Yiayia winks. “As she should be.” She leans her elbows on the counter, bringing the phone closer. Her voice drops, the humor draining from it. “Anyway, moró mou, I didn’t call just to scold you. I have news.”
I arch a brow, bracing myself. With Yiayia, news could mean anything from adopting a stray cat to deciding to run for mayor. “I’m listening.”
A slow, mischievous grin spreads over her face. “Your yiayia is getting married.”
I think I misheard. “Married?” I echo just as Althea appears behind her again, looking as stunned as I feel. “Yiayia, please tell me you’re joking.”
“Naí, married,” she chirps, delighted with herself. “White dress, big party, koufeta, the whole circus. The man got down on one knee and nearly gave me a heart attack.”
Althea straightens, brandishing the spatula like a scepter. “To who? Wait—please don’t tell me it’s the man from the shooting range...”
Yiayia tilts her head, giving a dramatic little sniff. “He has a name, koukla. And yes, Stavros from the shooting range. You think I’d waste my time on a man who can’t tell a Glock from a Kalashnikov?”
I stare at her. Stavros from the shooting range. I remember the name now—a retired army colonel who runs one of the most exclusive shooting clubs in the region. “Yiayia,” I gasp, half-laughing, “you sly old fox.”
“I never miss my target,” she says, looking downright smug. She reaches off-screen for something, and when her hand returns, it is holding a ring with a stone the size of a quail egg. She waggles it at us. “Look at that. He mayspend his time with guns, but he certainly knows how to choose a diamond.”
Althea groans and pretends to gag, earning a sharp swat from Yiayia. I’m torn between amazement and genuine happiness. Only my grandmother could announce an engagement at nearly seventy with the gleeful triumph of a woman who had just bent the world to her will.
“He cooks, he cleans, he follows instructions,” Yiayia goes on breezily, ticking each point off on her fingers. “And let’s be honest, the man has an excellent physique. At my age, a little eye candy is practically medicinal.”
“Yiayia, please,” Althea groans, covering her ears with an exaggerated grimace. “Spare us the details.”
“Little prude,” Yiayia chides, utterly unabashed. “You should be taking notes. Maybe then you wouldn’t scare off every man with that sharp tongue of yours.”
Althea sticks her tongue out at Yiayia’s back before turning to the stove again. I hear the sizzle of eggs, the scrape of a spatula against the pan. My stomach flutters at the sound alone, reminding me I haven’t eaten in... God, I don’t even know how long.
I drag my attention back to Yiayia. “So when’s the big day?”
“Next month,” she replies, her eyes twinkling. “We could wait longer, but at my age, why waste time?” She points a stern finger at the camera. “Which means I expect you and that troublemaker behind me home. There’s far too much to do. I need help choosing a dress. Something alluring. I’m thinking red.”
I let out an incredulous laugh. “You cannot wear red as the bride, Yiayia. That’s practically sacrilege.”
She gives me a look of pure challenge. “I can wear whatever I damn well please. I’ve outlived four husbands, survived two wars, and raised your father on my own. If I want to sweep into church in red and scandalize half the guests, I will.”
“Fair enough,” I say. “You’ve earned the right to make a statement.”
Her fierceness softens. “It’s been too long since we all sat around the same table, korítsi. Come home for a while. Let me have my girls together again.”
The longing in her voice unravels something deep inside me. I haven’tlived in Crete since I was eighteen, since I left for university, and somehow nine years have passed anyway. I kept telling myself I’d go back soon. Next summer. Next holiday. When it hurts less. I never did. Not because I stopped loving it, but because I couldn’t bear to walk through our town and see all the pieces of my old life still standing without the people who made it feel like home.
The last time I stood in the same room as Yiayiá was my wedding, and even that memory comes with her crying through half the ceremony after she realized how close I had come to dying in the ring. I never told her the full truth while I was recovering. I could not bear the fallout. When she finally understood, she looked ready to march me straight back to Crete by the ear.
After that, life moved on. We talked. We checked in. We pretended that was enough. It wasn’t. I haven’t been home in nine years. I haven’t breathed the Cretan sea air or seen my grandmother’s face in person since.
