Fly Me to the Moon (31 page)

“I know.” I looked at her and sighed. “I tried to drop my trips, but nobody wanted them. And it seemed stupid to fly all the way to New York for only five days when I could just call in sick.” I shook my head and sat next to her. “I just really love it here.”

“And Adonis? Do you love him too?” she asked.

I gazed down at my hands, which I’d been unconsciously clenching. “Well, I really, really like him. I know that much. But love? I guess I’ve never really been in love. I mean, certainly not with Michael, and he holds the distance record in my sorry relationship history.” I shrugged.

Kat looked at me, her face full of concern. “Listen Hailey, you’re welcome to stay, for as long as you like,” she said, getting up
from the bed. “But just remember, it’s a lot better to be furloughed than fired.” I watched her walk out the door, knowing she was right.

Just a few more days,
I thought.
Then I’ll say good-bye.

And then, hearing Adonis’ Jeep in the driveway, I looked in the mirror, combed my hands through my hair, and ran out the door to join him.

“I have something to ask you,” Adonis said as we strolled through town, holding hands and peeking in shop windows.

I smiled at him, but my mind was elsewhere, still echoing Kat’s words and the glaring fact that soon, I’d have to leave. But just because you know something in your head, doesn’t mean your heart is in on it.

“Well, you know that I’m staying for the winter, to supervise the construction of our new hotel?”

I nodded, waiting for him to continue.

“Well, I was wondering if you’d like to stay with me?” He stopped, and pulled me against a whitewashed wall, holding both my hands in his and gazing into my eyes. “Well?” he asked, looking scared and nervous while he waited for my response.

“Oh, I—” I glanced at the crowds of tourists, trying to imagine what it would be like when the weather turned cold, the shop doors closed, all the people went home, and we were left with only each other. Would I still think it was magical? Or would I be bored to tears?

“You don’t have to answer right now,” he said. “Just promise you’ll think about it. Okay?”

I searched his face, wishing I could say yes, but knowing it was impossible. “Adonis, that’s a really nice offer, but I have a job back home and—” I stopped. I had a job and what? I didn’t have an apartment. I didn’t have a book deal. All that was waiting for me in Manhattan was the possibility of a pink slip and a rather large
outstanding balance on my Atlas Visa card. Oh yeah, and Jonathan Franzen. Though I was willing to bet he hadn’t noticed my absence.

“I will take care of you.” He smiled, pulling me into his arms and kissing me.

Was he asking me to marry him? Or just shack up for a while? And why was I so tempted? Why was this so damn appealing? I mean, what kind of independent, modern woman was I?

I moved away from his lips and nuzzled his neck, closing my eyes and breathing in his scent, a mixture of sun, sea salt, and Davidofl Cool Water—which I was learning to tolerate.

And as I felt his lips brush softly against my ear, he whispered, “I love you.”

I just stood there, pressed against his body, staring at the wall before me.
Did he really just say that? And am I sup-posed to say it too? I mean, do I love him?

He pulled away and gazed into my eyes.
“S’agapo,”
he said, leaning in to kiss me.

“Um,
s’agapo,”
I whispered, thinking how much easier it was to say “I love you” in Greek, since it really didn’t feel like it was all that serious.

“Kalispera,”
I said, taking a seat next to Chloe, an American girl who’d lived with Adonis’ friend Stavros for the last four years.

“I heard you met the mother,” she whispered, looking at me while sipping her drink.

“Yup,” I said, glancing at Adonis at the far end of the table, and taking the glass of wine that Panos poured.

“And?” She looked at me expectantly.

But I just shrugged and sipped.

“Come on. She’s a bitch, right? Made you feel second-class? Like her son was slumming just by talking to you?”

“It wasn’t that bad,” I lied, wondering how she could possibly know all that.

“Please.” She rolled her eyes, not buying it for a second. “It’s all the same. Did you know that Stavros’ mother refuses to call me by my name? She just makes this
tsk
sound whenever she wants my attention,” she said, her short blond hair swaying as she shook her head. “Listen, there’s a lot of us expats living here, and we all put up with it in one form or another. Most of these moms have had nice Greek girls picked out for their sons practically since birth, so when their boys don’t play along they take it out on us. Adonis was supposed to marry Stavroula. Have you met her?”

What? Is she serious?
I just stared at her, my mind racing back to that dinner at Kat’s, and the woman named Stavroula who’d given me the creeps. “What do you mean by ‘supposed to marry’? Like, an
arranged
marriage?” I asked. Surely she was joking.

“Kind of.” She shrugged. “But not exactly. Some of the more traditional parents like to play an active role in hooking up their kids. You know, like, ‘Your son has the hotel, my daughter will inherit the bakery’ That kind of thing.”

“Sounds more like a business merger,” I said, my head spinning with all this.
I mean, how could it possibly he worth it?
“So why do you stay?” I asked, watching as she slid her blue-and-white evil-eye pendant back and forth across its thin gold chain.

“Well, just look at this place.” She shrugged. “It’s paradise.”

I gazed across the table then, watching as Adonis laughed at something Dimitri said, and when I caught his eye he smiled at me. And as I smiled back, it felt as though nobody else was there, like we were all alone on our beautiful little island. But then Christos spoke, and Adonis looked away, and I was back inside the crowded bar, feeling foreign and confused, with no idea what to do.

. . .

“Oh my God, I thought you’d disappeared, got lost in the maze, never to be seen again,” Clay said from thousands of miles away as I sat on the patio, gazing at the ocean, with the phone clutched tight to my ear.

“So how are the cats, and Jonathan?” I asked.

“Fine, everything’s fine. You have a huge stack of mail, though. And a message crammed under the door from some Dane guy. Isn’t he the hottie from Starbucks?”

“What kind of mail?” I asked, not wanting to talk about Dane. I mean, I barely ever thought of him. “Anything other than bills? Or Current Single Occupant? Any pink slips or book deals in that stack?” I asked.

“Nothing from Atlas. But there are three plain envelopes with no return address.”

“Open them.” I said, closing my eyes and hoping to hear the right words—the life-changing kind.

“You sure? You don’t want to wait till you get back?”

I may not be coming back,
I thought. “No, just rip into them. But you don’t have to read the whole thing. Just skim it and give me the gist,” I said, trying for patience, though it felt like forever.

“Well, the first one just basically says—”

“Rejection?” I asked, pressing my forehead against my knees.

“Sorry.”

“There’s still two to go, right?” I laughed, feeling so desperate I’d actually crossed my fingers.

“Um, yeah, but they pretty much say the same thing.”

“Well, there’s still two more out there that haven’t refused me,” I said, talking around the huge lump in my throat.

“Actually, there’s one. I just found a postcard that says, well, basically they’re not interested.”

“Oh, okay,” I said, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand, determined not to dwell on the fact that my life’s dream had just been canceled, leaving me stranded, without a backup. “Any news about the layoffs?”

“Not a word,” he said. “But everyone’s on edge, and morale is in the hole, so Atlas has instituted yet another one-day mandatory seminar. This time it’s called “Aware,” and they promise to pay us fifty American dollars in exchange for one of our days off, when we’ll fly to one of five bases to partake in six fun-filled hours of skits, inspirational videos, motivational lectures, heartfelt speeches, and a candid and informative Q and A, in yet another misguided, ill-informed, desperate attempt to boost our spirits and put the bounce back in our step before they file Chapter Eleven and pass out the pink slips. Business attire is required, and those not adhering will be immediately dismissed so that they can conference with their supervisor, and attend at a later date.” He laughed.

I laughed too, because that’s what we always did when we ragged on Atlas and their stupid evangelical corporate seminars. But sitting here, on the long wood bench, with the sea all wide and glistening before me, all that nonsense felt like it was worlds away. Like it had nothing to do with me. And I had to admit, I really liked that.

“So when are you coming back?” he asked. “Everyone misses you, but no one as much as me.”

“I miss you too. And I’ll be home soon,” I said, hanging up and wondering if that was true.

Intoxicated

Under the influence of drugs

Traveling in an incubator

Displaying unruly, obnoxious,

    or disorderly behavior

In a malodorous condition

Naked above the waist

On Saturday night I cooked dinner for Adonis. And having never cooked anything other than limp Ramen noodles, burnt rice and beans from a box, and the occasional soggy omelet, I borrowed Chloe’s English-language Greek cookbook, figuring as long as I followed the recipes, it couldn’t be all that difficult.

I’d been in Mykonos just over three weeks now, writing in my journal, e-mailing Clay, and saying
“s’agapo”
so often I’d almost come to believe it. And it was starting to feel so comfortable and so natural that I’d decided to take Adonis up on his offer.

I had it all worked out. I figured I could keep my job at Atlas by either dropping all my trips, taking thirty-day leaves (I was eligible for six a year), or if that didn’t work, then I’d just commute to New York, fly my trip, and return to Mykonos the second it was over. And even though I knew that probably seemed crazy to a regular person, in the world of flight attendants it was just another lifestyle option.

Besides, after six years of city living I’d failed to make a life for
myself, so why not try to build one here? And even though the only writing I’d done was just a list of silly observations in my travel journal, I was sure that once I got settled I’d get back to it. Though I was through with trying to get published. Apparently I just didn’t have what it takes. Or in the case of Martina at Chance Publishing, I refused to do what it takes, since there was no way I would rewrite my story just to fit her narrow, censored vision. And now that I was no longer writing with the hope of a book deal, I was free to write whatever I chose.

But I hadn’t told Adonis yet, as I wanted it to be special. So I figured I could do it over a nice home-cooked meal.

With Irene safely ensconced on the mainland and Adonis off to work, I hopped on his V’espa and headed for Mykonos Market, filling my basket with the necessary ingredients while imagining myself in a crisp white apron, with hair neatly pulled back and skin glowing from the warmth of the oven, as I lovingly prepared some of Adonis’ favorite loods. I mean how hard could it be to throw together a dinner of
tzatziki
and pita bread, a finely shredded mixed green salad, cheese-and-onion pic, roasted leg of lamb with potatoes, and baklava for dessert?

But later, as I stood gazing at my self-induced Martha Stewart nightmare, my apron resembling a drunken Jackson Pollock canvas, my hair a barely contained mess, and my face glowing beet red and glistening with sweat, I realized I might have been just the teensiest bit overambitious.

I mean, when I’d first pored over that cookbook, creating a menu and making a list, it had all seemed so easy. But now, confronted with a petrified roast, runny
tzatziki,
a cheese-and-onion pie reduced to a thin layer of crud on the bottom of the baking dish, and a salad dressed in blood as I had accidentally “finely shredded” my index finger instead of the lettuce, the only thing remotely edible was the pita bread and baklava. And that was because they came from a bakery.

And hearing the sound of Adonis’ Jeep in the driveway, I started
dumping it all in the trash, knowing there was nothing I could do to save it.

“Ya sou agape moul”
he called, strolling into the kitchen with a steaming hot pizza box.

“I’m afraid dinner didn’t quite work out,” I told him, tossing the crusty roasting pan into the sink and shrugging pathetically.

“No problem, I brought provisions,” he said, placing the box on the counter and handing me a piece.