Page 28 of Bluebell Promises

That first night after taking the pregnancy test, Wren was so jittery that she couldn’t sit in her hotel room for long. Donning a long white dress, a vacation dress that made her feel like every other tourist, she left her room and walked the streets, eyeing the laughing and eating and wine-drinking tourists with an air of secrecy about her. She was pregnant, and she was the only person in the world who knew it. She wondered what it would be like to share the news with a stranger, then decided their simple congratulations wouldn’t cut it. They wouldn’t really feel what they were saying. It wouldn’t mean a thing.

Eventually, she sat down, ordered herself a glass of water and a large salad with fish and olives, then picked through it delicately, telling herself to focus on the present rather than everything she couldn’t change in the future.

In a little journal she’d brought with her, she wrote in pen: These are the facts: I am healthy. I am still a photographer with some money in the bank. I know how to get a new job. I know how to start again.

She reminded herself that Angelos was a very good guy, a brilliant and family-driven guy. Probably, when he’d reached Santorini, his parents had put him through the wringer, demanding to know why he’d been so secretive, running away from them like that. Probably they weren’t pleased about “that American girl,” about Wren taking Angelos away from his duties. Still, it had been several days at this point, and Angelos hadn’t texted or called.

After dinner, Wren walked down the harbor and entered a little bar. The bartender was playing a song by The Doors and bouncing around behind the bar. Wren sat at the counter and ordered a nonalcoholic cocktail, which he stirred up for her with a happy and charming grin. He watched her taste it, and she gushed with thanks. “It’s delicious,” she said.

He beamed. “You’re traveling through Greece on your own?” He was a native English speaker, probably from London, if she had correctly identified his accent.

“I am,” she said. “I was here for work, and now I can’t find a way to leave.”

“I could never get myself to leave either,” the bartender said. “I came here on vacation about five years ago. I came with my girlfriend, if you can believe that. We got into some kind of argument here in Crete, and I told her I didn’t want to go back to Manchester with her. She thought I was joking. But the following morning, after she packed for the airport, I went for a jog and didn’t even say goodbye.” He told the story as though he were very proud of himself.

“Wow,” Wren whispered. “Was she heartbroken?”

“I’m pretty sure she was cheating on me with my best mate from back home,” the bartender said, a glint of sorrow in his eyes.

“Oh. Oh, that’s hard.” Wren had never been cheated on before. That she knew of.

“It’s not really. It’s just my origin story.” The bartender put his elbow on the counter. Wren had the sense that he’d flirted with about a thousand girls at this very bar, just as he flirted with her. But she didn’t mind, not now. It took her out of her changing body.

“And what’s your origin story?” he asked her.

Wren laughed and sipped her nonalcoholic cocktail. “I just lost my long-running gig,” she confessed. “I’m a photographer. A travel photographer. I think my boss had some kind of crush on me, and when I didn’t reciprocate…” She slashed under her chin.

The bartender winced. “You’re kidding me.”

She shrugged. “Happens all the time, I guess.”

The bartender raised his beer, his eyes to the pink sunset just beyond. “To better feminism,” he said. “We have a long way to go.”

Wren clinked her glass to his.

“Do you have a boyfriend waiting for you at home?” the bartender asked.

Wren lent a crooked grin. “I have someone, I think. Well, I don’t know. But he’s here in Greece.”

“You don’t know?” The bartender clapped the bar. “He isn’t Greek, is he?”

“He is.”

“Oh, dear.” The bartender sucked his teeth. “Greek men, they aren’t always the most trustworthy, are they?”

This was the first Wren had heard of it. “What do you mean?”

The bartender turned away slightly, his face shadowed, as though he regretted mentioning it. “It’s just the way they’re wired. Tourists come in from all over, have little flings, and send them on their way. The Greeks, they know how to enjoy life. They don’t take everything as seriously as we do, maybe. But it means I’ve seen plenty of women brokenhearted.”

Wren wanted to roll her eyes, although a kernel of fear hardened in her stomach. “Don’t tell me you don’t do the same to tourist women,” she said.

The bartender laughed. “All right. I’ll admit, I’ve had my share of flings. But I’m lonely here on this island by myself. The price of having the life of your dreams is that you might lose people. But I guess you know that. You’re traveling on your own, with only your camera and a dream.”

And a baby, Wren did not add.

A tourist couple came into the bar and drew the bartender’s attention, so Wren paid up and went on her way. Anxiety flooded her veins. She hated that what the bartender had said aligned with her initial fears that Angelos was ghosting her. She hated how true it felt.

But things were different now. Even if Angelos had another family, even if it had all been pretend between them, he still deserved to know about his baby. She had his phone number. She couldn’t be too afraid to use it.