Page 82 of Holding Out for a Gyro
We needed to talk about what had just happened. My undeniable attraction to him had never subsided, and he barely hid his desire for me. The promise that we both still craved each other so much was pushing us to a point where we’d need to redefine our relationship sooner or later, or we were going to wreck our friendship. Maybe it was time to take a risk on something more.
Once we were alone again, we’d have an honest conversation about where things went from here.
Tonight.
We got up and left his room. Zoe had come searching for us and was halfway up the stairs when we turned the corner, looking every bit like a couple of people who needed to get a room. Zoe took us in and shook her head. “Ma wants to know if you want to help with the dolmades? She likes yours best.”
Bas descended the steps two at a time, and I pitied whoever had to take the brunt of his emotions. Probably whatever dolmades were.
Zoe lagged behind and laid a finger on my arm to delay me. “It’s obvious Bas cares a lot about you.”
She was the sister closest to him, so I wanted her on my side. “Bas is a gem. I care about him, too.”
“I’m glad you’ve stayed friends. I can see why he likes you.” Her hand squeezed tighter. “He’ll always be my baby brother, so I worry about him, you know?”
She didn’t elaborate further, but her meaning was clear: please, don’t hurt him again. It gave me pause. If I changed our status quo before we were ready, we could ruin a really good thing. How would I know we were ready?
I couldn’t answer her unspoken request, so I told her what I knew to be true. “He regards your opinion so highly. He’s lucky to have you in his corner.”
At that she smiled, and we made our way downstairs.
Thank God, dinner at the Stavroses was tantamount to a sexual experience. The table had all kinds of stereotypically Greek foods like feta cheese and kalamata olives distributed everywhere. After Basil’s dad cut the Christ’s bread with a benediction, we were served something called avgolemono—an eggy lemon chicken and rice soup. And my God. Amazing.
I recalled Bas showing up at the coffee shop, enticing me with food, and explaining how lemons symbolize love, fidelity, and good luck.
Gaia pointed a fork my way. “Chelsea, has Bas ever told you about the time he got in trouble for egging the neighbor’s house?”
“What? No!” I didn’t even want to stop eating long enough to speak, but I had to hear stories about Bas.
Everyone at the table burst out into various exclamations remembering whatever trouble Bas had gotten into. Gaia continued, “Bas was what, fifteen?”
Bas peeked out from behind a palm. “I was eleven. Do you have to tell this story?”
Gaia kept going. “It was Halloween, I think. I have no idea why he decided to egg their garage, but he got caught red-handed.”
Bas grumbled. “It was a dare.” He glared at Nicky.
Nicky raised both hands in protest. “Don’t drag me into this.”
“What happened?” I tore off some of the bread and popped it in my mouth, savoring it.
Basil’s dad broke in. “He spent the next several weeks scrubbing, then painting their garage and doing their yardwork—”
Bas finished, “—and cleaning their gutters and hauling their garbage cans.”
They all laughed at his expense, and I joined in the mockery, making sure to bat my eyes and flash him flirty smiles so he’d know I didn’t mean it. The entire time they teased him, I watched his face for signs he’d had enough humiliation. Part of me wanted to put an end to his suffering. But he never grew angry, despite obvious embarrassment.
Instead, he dished back. “Of course, we won’t talk about the time Dad poisoned the neighbors’ crabapple tree.”
His dad roared, “That thing was a menace.” But he wiped his eyes, obviously delighted by the ribbing.
The laughter at the table was so joyful, I felt a stab of envy that Bas got to be a part of such a huge and loving group of people.
I couldn’t believe this was his normal life. He’d told me about his family, but he’d always made it sound like the comedic version of mine: something he’d survived in his youth. It surprised me to see him surrounded by such gregarious people who clearly loved him and trusted him enough to abuse him in the most honestly hilarious ways I’d ever seen, like a celebrity roast.
Meanwhile, Basil’s mom served more food from the kitchen. It never stopped. She and Ana had made roasted pork and fried potatoes. Then there were the dolmades Bas had created—an herby rice mix stuffed inside a grape leaf. I’d never had that before for some reason, and it made me wonder what I’d been doing with my life.
I ate and observed. I’d listened to Bas gripe affectionately about his family, so I took a chance when his dad had a mouth full of food to get a word in edgewise and ask him about a topic near and dear to his heart: Greece.
