Reckless

books or whatever for me to practice still lifes. He’d always be checking in to see what I was doing. Looking back, I think he was getting bored with his abstract work and loved having me as a distraction. It was only another couple years before my mom took off.

“Anyway, the day me and my dad did this painting,” he motioned at the big painting on the wall, “he came over to watch me work for awhile. I remember I was working on a still life of a vase of flowers and a little tin box and a tea kettle. It’s still hanging in my grandpa’s bedroom, by the way. My dad told me to give it to Grandpa for a birthday present.

“Anyway, my dad’s watching me work, and he says, ‘Agoraki mou, help me fix my painting. It’s no good. Yours is so much better.’ I told him I couldn’t fix it, I didn’t know how.”

Christos paused from his memory to look at me directly. “You gotta remember, I’d seen all of my dad’s paintings at this point. Not just the abstract stuff he sold for crazy money, but also his realistic work. He was and is so amazingly talented, it would blow you away if you saw his realistic work in person. So, when he tells me to fix his painting? I’m ready to crap my pants. In my eyes, my dad was the greatest painter on the planet, and all I would do was fuck it up. I mean, I’m working on my own little still life, sweating bullets, trying to get it right —”

I interrupted him. “I’m sure your painting turned out awesome, Christos.”

He grinned dimples and nodded. “Yeah, it was pretty damn good for an eight-year-old.”

“Cocky bastard,” I swatted his arm.

“You love me for it.”

I did. I kissed him on his cheek. “But I want to hear the rest of your story.”

“Okay, so I walk over to my dad’s canvas and look at it. At that age, I was never sure what to make of abstract art. I was so focused on trying to do realistic stuff, like my dad.”

“So what did you do?” I was totally curious.

“Well, my dad said, ‘Look at it for awhile. Take your time to soak it in. When you’re ready, grab a brush and some paint and add something. You’ll know what to do.’ So I stared at it, like he’d said. After awhile, I grabbed a big brush, loaded it with cadmium orange, and carefully made those shapes right there.”

Christos pointed at the complex orange pattern of slashes curving across the right side of the painting.

I was in awe of the connection he’d shared with his dad. “Wow, that was like fifteen years ago, and you remember all of that?”

“Hey, getting to paint on my dad’s painting was a big deal. It was like getting the keys to the kingdom.”

“So, how come your dad didn’t sell it, like his other paintings?”

“Funny you ask. The next time my dad had a show, this was the featured piece. Everyone was talking about it. When my dad told them that I had helped, they creamed all over themselves. Started calling me a prodigy right there on the spot. People offered exorbitant amounts of cash for the painting. They wanted me to sign my name to it too. But at the end of the night, my dad refused to sell it. He wanted to keep it for himself. It’s been hanging in my grandfather’s house ever since, right here in this room.”

I was in awe of Christos’ story. Nothing remotely this grand or romantic or exciting, or this loving ever happened in my family. All I could picture was my mom or dad shouting at me that I was going to ruin something whenever I’d tried to help them out on some project or other around the house.

But at least I had Christos in my life, I reminded myself. He was as grand, romantic and loving as his story about his father’s painting. Maybe more so.

Christos was the sensational celebrity in my life.

I sighed deeply, trying to clear my welling emotions. I looked around the room again, taking in the rest of the decor. “Well, this is an awesome bedroom you’ve got here,” I said, trying to shift the subject into territory that wouldn’t make me want to break down in tears. “And in your grandfather’s house, no less.”

“Yup. I hate the idea of him living alone, plus the studio is downstairs. It’s convenient. And hey, it’s free, so I can’t complain.”

I felt yet another pinch of jealousy. Make that a Vise-Grip of jealousy. I wished that my parents were equally understanding, that their house was an awesome artist’s mansion within walking distance of the beach, and that I had my own breathtaking studio. Oh well. Maybe with the money I earned as a cashier at the campus art museum I could afford something, ahhh, similar.

Yeah, right.

“What’s wrong, agapi mou?” Christos asked, cupping my cheek in his hand. “Something’s bothering you.”

“It’s nothing,” I demurred.

“You’re thinking about your parents, aren’t you?”

“Yeah. Sort of.” I leaned into his chest. I felt like I was spoiling our mood.

“Don’t worry about it, agapi mou. You’re part of my family now. My domain is yours. My family is yours. Let me show you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Downstairs.” He opened the bedroom door and nodded toward the hallway, “Your surprise.”

We went downstairs together.

Chapter 17

SAMANTHA

Spiridon stood at the stove in the kitchen, tending to food.

“Hey, Pappous,” Christos said to him.

“Your lamb is almost ready, Christos,” Spiridon said.

“Thanks, Pappous,” he said.

“I kept an eye on it while you were upstairs. Hello, Samantha. Good to see you again,” he smiled at me.

I blushed instantly. How long had Spiridon been inside the house? How loud had Christos and I been? How much had Spiridon heard? I tried to hide behind Christos, almost like a little kid hiding behind their parent’s legs.

“Give me a hug, koritsaki mou,” Spiridon said, grabbing me from behind Christos. “I haven’t seen you since December!” His arms swallowed me up.

I hugged him back, surprised by the warmth of his affection. He barely knew me, and yet his hug felt more loving than any I’d ever received from my parents. When he released me, he was smiling, and I almost thought his eyes were tearing up.

“How have you been treating my grandson, huh? Have you been good to him?” He wrapped an arm around Christos and rubbed his other hand against Christos’ stomach.

Yeah, my parents would never act like that around me. I could imagine myself flinching in a combination of surprise and discomfort if they ever tried.

“She’s been treating me like a king,” Christos said.

“Show her your present, paidi mou,” Spiridon grinned at Christos.

“He helped me with it,” Christos said to me. “That’s why he’s all excited.”

“With what?” I asked.

“Come on, I’ll show you,” Christos said, leading me to the studio.

When we were out of the kitchen, I asked, “What was that your grandfather called me?”

“Koritsaki mou? It means ‘my little girl.’ I told you, you’re family now.” Christos rubbed my back as he said it.

I was going to cry. I sniffled back my tears as we walked into the studio, all the way to the end.

There was a little work space set up in the back that hadn’t been there before. An angled drafting table with a lamp clamped to the desktop was surrounded by trays full of pencils, pens, erasers, markers, rulers, everything you might need to draw. Next to it was a small easel. By small, I meant small in comparison to the other ones in