Reckless

When it came to being needy, what was the official demarcation between “too” and “the right amount” of needy?

Groan. I didn’t want to be the pathetic desperate girl who clung to her boyfriend’s knees everywhere they went.

Maybe I needed to conduct a poll and figure out a hard number regarding appropriate levels of neediness. Whatever that number turned out to be, I was pretty sure with all of my time apart from Christos, I fell on “the right amount” side of the needy line.

My phone bleeped.

Christos: Sorry, agapi mou. In the middle of things. Ran out of painting medium, had to run to art store. Miss you love you need you.  :^*

I sighed contently. Not because I was “too” needy and needed to hear from my boyfriend right at that moment to set me at ease, because I had already established that in all likelihood I fell into “the right amount” category when it came to neediness at all times; no, my contented sigh was appropriate for any woman with the “right amount” of neediness. Because I knew it was “right” that I should be pleased to receive such a text from my boyfriend.

Telling me he needed me.

I wasn’t needy at all.

Nope.

I was normal.

I texted Christos back, I miss you too, my love. Can’t wait to see you tonight! <3 <3 <3

Was three text-hearts too needy? No. Four text-hears would definitely have been too needy, but I’d only used three, so I was good.

Too bad I ended up alone in my apartment that night and fell asleep cuddling my history textbook because Christos had too much work to do and told me it was best I not come over.

Was I disappointed? Of course.

Was I being “too” needy?

NO!!

It was “the right amount.”

No more, no less.

Sigh.

SAMANTHA

On Saturday morning, a knock at my front door woke me up from my lonely bed. I dragged myself out from under my snuggly covers and trudged to the living room. Wow, my week must have been harder than I’d thought! I needed coffee badly.

I opened the door.

Christos held up a big cup of coffee for me. “Morning, sunshine!”

“Christos!” I was so glad to see him. It seemed like forever since we’d been together.

“I thought you could use some TLC this weekend, agapi mou.” He leaned in and kissed me before walking inside my apartment. “Venti Americano, half coffee, half half-and-half, right?”

“Perfect,” I smiled, taking the cup in both hands and inhaling the wonderful aroma before sipping some.

“I brought appetizers,” he said, holding up a bag of apple fritters. It turned out, Christos had known all about Thai Doughnut and their awesome apple fritters long before I did. “I also brought breakfast,” he said, holding up a bag from the grocery store.

I grabbed a plate from the kitchen and set one of the apple fritters on it. Christos and I pulled pieces off and nibbled on them while we sat at my little round dining room table and sipped our coffees.

“You ready for an omelet?” he asked.

“Sure!”

“Okay, you sit, and I’ll cook.” Christos went about dicing onions, tomatoes, and mushrooms, chopping up a bell pepper, and heating up some butter in one of my skillets on the stove. He cracked eggs into the pan and put some bread in the toaster. When the eggs were solidified into a spongy yellow disc, he sprinkled cheese and vegetables on top, then folded it over before serving it up with buttered toast and strawberry jam.

“Wow, Christos. You cook better than I do. You got everything ready all at the same time. That’s an art form.”

“Practice,” he smiled as he set the plate in front of me. “Dig in, before it gets cold.” He poured me a glass of orange juice, then he cooked an omelet for himself.

“Are you going to make yours with a dozen eggs? Like at The Broken Yolk?”

He smirked. “No, I’m good with six today.”

“What’s the plan for our mentor date?” I asked.

“You want to hit up the library? Show the kids your newfound crayon skills?”

“Oh yeah, Crayons with Christos!” I smiled.

He smiled back. “Why didn’t I think of calling it that? It was ‘Drawing with Christos,’ but I like your name better.” He held his hands up and spread them apart, like he was picturing a huge sign, the kind with the changeable movie-theater marquee letters. “We should call it ‘Crayons with Christos and World-Renowned Master Crayon Artist Samantha Smith’.”

“Would it be up in lights?” I pondered. “Our sign, I mean?”

“Totally. Like forty feet tall and two hundred feet wide. Right over the library. You’d be able to see your name from space.”

I giggled at the thought.

“Don’t laugh, you’re going to be famous one day.”

“You’re going to be famous,” I parried.

“Don’t doubt yourself, Samantha. In twenty years, people will be calling me Mr. Samantha Smith.”

My brows knit together while I smiled. “Wait, what? That was like a hundred things all rolled into one.”

“I was suggesting that as your skills develop and you make a name for yourself, people will forgot about my work, and I’ll just be along for the ride while your career goes into outer-space.”

“That’s crazy,” I said dismissively.

Christos poured himself a large glass of OJ and took several swallows. “Not at all,” he said, grinning wide. “You have the raw talent, which you’re going to develop in the coming years. Then you’re going to take over the art world like wildfire. Everyone will want to buy your work. By then, I’ll have retired because we’ll be able to live off your earnings alone. I’ll be kicking back at home playing Mr. Mom while you’re busy schmoozing with clients and creating masterworks in oil on canvas. Or, who knows, maybe you’ll revolutionize the art world by resurrecting the medium of crayon. Anyway, my job will be to make sure our house is clean, diapers are changed, and dinner is waiting for you every night when you get home from being famous. You’ll walk in the door and our kids will dog pile all over you while I kiss you on the cheek and ask you how your day was.”

I smiled, picturing it. “That sounds pretty good. Will you be wearing an apron?” I sipped on my orange juice.

“Well, before the kids are born, I will only be wearing an apron when you come home. You know where that kind of behavior will get us…at least three kids. After they come along, I’ll be wearing daddy clothes with spit-up on them, and the apron.”

I was really getting into this fantasy of his!

“After we spend each evening playing with the kids and put them down for the night, we’ll sit on the couch together and I’ll give you neck, back, and foot rubs until you fall asleep. Will that work for you?”

“What if I miss you and the kids?” I asked. “I mean, maybe I don’t want to be gone all the time.”

“No problem. You can work in your home studio, sort of like I do now at my grandpa’s house. While you’re painting away, I’ll be home-schooling the kids, either in the next room, or in the studio. Me and the kids’ll be around as much as you desire,” he grinned. “However you want it, agapi mou, we’ll make it happen. We can build the perfect life together.”

I smiled. I was about to open my mouth when sudden panic lanced through my belly. He was practically