Page 45 of Problematic Summer Romance

Cheek against the glass, I stare at the glimmering coast. Avery doesn’t like oranges, and was thus spared from The Staphening. Had, in fact, no idea it even occurred: she went to bed early, jet-lagged, and woke up to a decimated wedding party. I’m glad she’shealthy, but when she makes Conor laugh with a joke on cash flow management, I decide to sing a sea chantey in my head and block them out. By the time we reach the Greek theater, however, my excitement is bubbling up again. I’ve seen some Roman ruins in the UK, but this might be the oldest piece of architecture I’ll ever step into, and I’m fully ready to be spirited away in a time travel–type situation.

It’s Conor who buys our entrance tickets. Avery stands next to him as he hands a few bills to a bored-looking boy in a booth that looks on the verge of catching fire. When they come back with a few paper slips, she’s chuckling.

“Everything okay?” I ask. My eyes find Conor, who’s not laughing. He is, in fact, inscrutable.

“The guy over there was trying to figure out the total, and…did you hear the word he used?”

“Nope.”

“Figlia.”

“And it means…?”

“ ‘Daughter.’ He pointed at you and asked if ourdaughterwas older than eighteen?” She shakes her head, still laughing, but I turn to meet Conor’s gaze.

There is a challenge in his eyes, a hint ofI told you so. After all, he’s always had the burning need to remind me that our age difference was an insurmountable obstacle to my presence in his life. “He sure did,” Conor drawls slowly, and I know that he wants to make a big deal out of this. A teachable moment.

So I flash him my cheekiest smile. “I hope you lied to him and saved those five euros,Daddy.” I step into him, pretending not to notice the thick swallow in his throat, the way his entire bodyseems to cease to function. Still holding his eyes, I pluck one of the three tickets from his fingers and slowly walk toward the entrance gate.

“I bet thishappens all the time,” Avery tells me while we make our way down the steep tribunes. The staircase is treacherous, and the steps narrow. “With you and Eli, I mean. People assuming he’s your dad?”

“Sometimes,” I say, to get the conversation over with. Truth is, whenever it does happen Elilovesto play into it, pretend that I am his daughter, embarrass me with dad jokes.

But my brother and Conor are fundamentally different. Elifeelsyoung, with his boyish, openhearted, carefree energy. Conor, less so, and it has little to do with graying hair, and everything to do with the half a dozen walls twining around him at any given time.

“How old are you, Maya?” she asks.

“Twenty-three.”

“Nobody likes you when you’re twenty-three,” she says, and Conor snorts out a laugh.

I stop. Turn back to look at him, wide-eyed, which has him mumbling something about how young I am. “That’s a reference, Maya. From a song by—”

“Blink-182, I am aware. I was just surprised. I didn’t know you Irish boys partook in the oeuvre of the SoCal skate punk scene.”

“I live to surprise you.”

“Huge fan, huh?”

“Massive.” I know he’s trying to avoid laughing, because I’m doing the same. Conor’s musical taste leans toward industrialtechno music, or, as I like to call it:construction site noises. He usually retaliates by referring to mine asgirls with lisps crying in their bathrooms. “Watch out for that stone over there, Avery.”

“Oh, shoot. Thanks, Hark.”

I’m starting to suspect that the Greek did not go for comfort quite like we do. Avery is not wearing heels, or anything as impractical as that, but on a couple of tricky jumps, her strappy sandals have me fearing for the integrity of her femurs. Conor helps her through all of them, hands wrapped around her waist to lift her off a particularly high ledge.

Then again, even as he helps her, his eyes are often on me. I jump, easy, surefooted in my sneakers, mostly to make a point. Conor looks away, but not before I see the amused shake of his head.

Coming here at high noon was a mistake. There’s not a hint of shade in sight, and heat radiates from every direction—the sun, the stones, the sweaty bodies of the tourists. In the middle of the orchestra, I can barely keep my eyes open, but Conor silently slides his sunglasses over the bridge of my nose. They probably cost more than my master’s degree. I debate accidentally stepping on them, just to see his reaction. Truth is, I’m more likely to sleep with them under my pillow, because my spine has the consistency of soggy cereal.

“Can you take a picture and make it look like Maya and I are holding up that column?” Avery asks.

“Probably no.”

“Hmm, you always were a bad Instagram boyfriend.”

My gut tightens, even as Conor sighs and says, “I think I have the perspective figured out. I’m going to the other side of the orchestra. You two stay right there.”

The second he’s out of earshot, Avery turns to me. “I hope you’re not feeling uncomfortable.”

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