Page 12 of Entwined

“Thank you, Andre. I know they seem like meaningless words, but I truly mean them. You’ve always been there when I’ve called, needing a rescue.”

“Ah, California. Rescuing cute American girls is what I do.”

I smile into the phone. He’s the same mischievous flirt. I’ve missed him.

“I can’t wait to see you and Yaya.”

“I know. Just one thing—don’t tell anyone your name. Don’t talk. Don’t make friends. These men are in my pocket but still, we can’t be careful enough.”

“I understand.”

“Good. I told them you are my cousin’s friend who is escaping a bad relationship.”

“How long will it take me to get to Greece?”

“About a week.”

“Okay. I’ll see you then.”

“I’m looking forward to it California.”

“So am I.”

It’s just after dawn. We pulled into the small town sometime during the night. I woke up moored on a dock on the tiny island where I spent so many weeks lost in my own thoughts while Yaya took care of me.

It felt good being back on a boat. Although, the small cargo ship carrying rugs and antiques is a far cry from the sleek yachts on the Med, the smell of the damp salt air and the feel of the rolling waves was the same. I sigh, digging my toes into the warm sand. It feels like years since I last stepped foot on this beach, but it’s only been six months. I’m back on the beach by Yaya’s café. I needed to come here first, to clear my head before I sit for the grilling Andre is sure to give me about both my journey here and my time with Christos.

Most of the time while I was on the boat coming to Greece, I kept to myself, drank the hot coffee and wrote in my new journal. I sat on the stern, with my legs kicked up on the rail, penning my thoughts and dreams for the future. At night, I brought my astronomy book out on deck. When seas were calm, the telescope too. I’m charting my own course, alone. But he still lives in my heart. I hope wherever he is, he looks up at the night sky wishing on the same stars I am that we’ll find our way back to each other one day. But in the meantime, I need a solid story. One that will protect him. It needs to be believable. I need to look my parents, particularly my dad, in the eye—and lie to his face about where I’ve been. Concealing the things I’ve done. Things…I enjoyed every dark minute of.

I am looking forward to having control of my life back. I’ve spent many nights on deck, looking at the stars, wondering if maybe Christos was right. How had the independent, fierce woman I was so determined to be, melt away? Was I really content being his kept pet, turned girlfriend? I can’t believe I deluded myself into fantasizing he would propose. That our fucked-up love could morph into a fairytale ending.

It couldn’t.

Not from the start we had. I see that now.

He left me, so we could have a new start someday, one that has a chance to never end. Sighing, I turn back from the Aegean, sparkling in the sun. It’s time to come back to life.

“Jessie?” Yaya blinks, clasping her hands to her mouth as I enter the café. The bell jangled above the door. My eyes find the spot where I stood, when I had turned in disbelief that the devil had come back to claim me.

The familiar smells of fresh baklava and strong coffee fill my nose. She senses my hesitancy at how surreal the situation is.

“Sit. Eat.” She motions, pulling back a chair. I drop my bags to the floor. With a small cry, I fling my arms around the old woman’s sturdy neck.

“Hush, now. There, there.” She pats my back, clucking with her tongue as I start sobbing softly.

Déjà vu hits me. I’m here again. Just as I was before. Broken in a different way but still broken nonetheless.

“Oh Yaya. I’ve missed you.”

She strokes my back. “Come. Do you remember how to make frappé?”

“Yes,” I swipe my tears.

“Good. We will read the bottom of the cup when you’re done. It’s an old Greek tradition; some say the coffee grounds left behind tell the future.”

“I don’t know if I believe in all that, Yaya. But I guess it couldn’t hurt.”

She pats my hand as I take out the coffee and pour some with a few drops of milk into a large glass. I turn on the electric blender, watching it foam. The bells jangle, my heart skips a beat but the low voice dripping with a heavy Greek accent isn’t Christos’.

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