Fearless (The Story of Samantha Smith #1) (43 page)

This was my chance. I had a decision to make. Now or never.
What’s it gonna be, Sam I am?
“Mom, since the roads are so bad, do you think Christos could stay with us for a couple days? Until they get better?”

Surprise lit up Christos’ face.

My mom looked him up and down, taking in his bad boy motorcycle look. “I don’t know, Sam. It’s so last minute.”

“We’ve got room. Is anybody visiting?” I knew the answer would be no.

“Well, no, but…”

“Then he can sleep in the guest bedroom. It’ll only be a couple days till the weather clears, right?”

“I don’t know, Sam, your father might—”
 

Without thinking, I grabbed my mom by the elbow, something I had never done before. I grabbed Christos too, and walked us all outside. “Dad won’t mind, he’ll totally understand.” I wasn’t entirely sure about it, but fuck it. I was going to try anyway.

My dad waited at the curb, standing beside the family Honda. I saw his face pinball uncertainly when he saw Christos.

“Hey, Dad!” I smiled brightly. “This is my friend Christos. He needs a place to stay for a couple days until the roads improve, then he’s driving to New York to see his mom,” I lied.

My dad was completely thrown off. “Uh?”

“I tried to tell her, Bill. We don’t have room, do we, Bill?” Mom gave Dad a pointed look.

“Ahhh,” my Dad stammered.

“Come on, you guys. It’s no big deal.”

My mom and dad exchanged a look like I had grown a second head.

Christos walked to my father and shook his hand. “I’m Christos Manos. A friend of your daughter’s from SDU.”

“Bill. Bill Smith.”

“Pleased to meet you, Bill. I promise, as soon as the roads clear, I’ll be outta your hair.”

“Where’s your car?”

“I’m going to rent one.”

“Uh, okay?”

I gave my dad my best “begging daddy” pout. It never worked before, but I was desperate.

“If it’s okay with your mother, it’s okay with me.”

My mom gave my dad a scolding look.
 

I looked at my mom. “Please, mom,” I begged. “Christos will totally stay out of the way, won’t you, Christos?”

“Your parents won’t even know I’m there. I’ll leave you guys alone to have family time together.”
 

Family time? With
my
parents? I’m sure he meant that as some kind of joke, but hey, it sounded good, right?

Christos smiled at my mom flirtatiously. It didn’t work on her.

“Well,” my dad said, “our daughter’s growing up. Learning to make her own choices. If her friend needs a place to stay for a couple days, we can’t very well say no, can we, Linda?”

What sort of mind control parasite had taken over my dad’s brain?

My mom spiraled her head in this angry corkscrew, like she was fighting off the urge to explode, but she didn’t let her reluctance transform into words. Thankfully.

“Okay!” I cheered. “I guess that solves that! Let’s go, everybody!”

My dad put my bags in the trunk. “Where are your bags, Christos?”

“I didn’t bring any.”

“What?” My dad looked like someone had just sunk his battleship.

“I travel light.”

“I’ll say,” my mom miffed.

Christos and I rode in the back. My mom kept glancing at Christos, like she was waiting for him to pull a gun or something and carjack the family Honda.

After we dropped off my bags at home, Christos insisted on taking us all out for dinner. He left the choice of restaurant up to my parents.

Dad suggested Chinese, meaning The Imperial Palace, the same place they always went to. We’d been going there since I was a kid. Most things with my parents never changed.

We all piled into my dad’s car and drove to the restaurant.

It was so weird to have Christos sitting next to me in the booth opposite my parents. In the past, the seat next to me had always been empty. Not even Damian had the rare honor of going to the Imperial Palace with my parents. Christos’ presence fulfilled my girlish fantasy to have the hottest guy in the world with me at a childhood haunt, like he was proof to both my parents and me that a world existed outside of the “same-old, same-old” that my parents continuously inhabited.

My dad ordered family style, picking out several dishes for everyone to share.

“I’m sure Sam has told you she’s a business major?” my dad said to Christos, pausing with his chopsticks halfway to his mouth, a nugget of sweet and sour pork tweezed between them.

Christos sipped his green tea. “Yeah. I think it’s great. You can get a job anywhere with a business degree.”

“Business is the sensible choice,” my mom said.

“I agree,” my dad said, still chewing on sweet and sour pork. “Did Sam tell you she took that silly art class instead of Micro Economics?”

Christos played dumb. “She hadn’t mentioned that, no.”

Oh, gawd. My parents never quit with defining My Boring Life for me. I’m sure if they could surgically implant the Micro Economics class into my head, they would.

“Well,” Christos said cheerily, “I look forward to hearing all about micro econ when Sam takes it. As it is, I’m always bugging Samantha to tell me what she’s learning in her accounting class.”

“Do tell,” Dad said, chewing on more sweet and sour pork.

“As I’m sure you know, Mr. Smith, accounting is the language of business.”

“It is.”

“I figure, the best way for me to stay on top of my career is to understand the business side of things as well as everything else.”

“Oh?” my mom said, her interest piqued. “Career? I thought Sam said you were in the graduate program.”

“I am. But it’s sort of a formality.”

“How so?” my dad asked.

“Well, I’m already building my own business. In fact, I have significant cash flow already, and my profitability is through the roof.” He winked at me on the sly.

I stifled a laugh by shoving a wad of moo shu pork in my mouth. Christos made it sound like his gallery show was some kind of factory making brake pads or computer chips.

“Really,” my dad said, impressed. “What line of work is your business?”

“Painting.”

“You mean like a painting contractor? How many employees do you have?”

“It’s just me.”

My dad frowned. “How much painting can one person do? Or do you sub-contract and manage a team of painters?”

“Nope. It’s just me.”

My dad chuckled. “Well, I hope you’re painting mansions or executive board rooms, or whatever.”

“Nope. I’m painting paintings.”

“What?” my mom asked, confused.

“I’m a gallery painter. I paint pictures.”

My dad reacted as if Christos had stood up and pulled his pants down and waggled his ding-dong over the table.

I rolled my eyes. “He’s an artist, Dad.” My parents were sometimes so one-track minded, I thought they might be no-track minded.

“Art?” My mom said like she wanted to hold the word “art” with a poop-scooper and rubber gloves.

“He’s really good, Mom. He already had a sell-out gallery show. He sold every single painting in one night,” I defended. My parents had no idea about the art world. Neither did I, but compared to them, I knew volumes.

My dad processed that thoughtfully. “Sell-out, huh? How much did you make?”

I knew enough to know that was rude as hell to ask. I can imagine how my dad would react if Christos asked him point blank how much he made. It wouldn’t go over well, and that was an understatement.

“Mid six,” Christos said casually, draping an arm over the bench seat behind me. It was like some kind of gentlemen’s duel, and Christos had not only pulled out a Gatling gun, he had laid claim to the chieftain’s daughter in the process. I was giddy with girlishness.
Go get ‘em, Christos!

“Six what?” Dad asked, still frowning, water glass to his mouth.

“Figures.”

My dad coughed out his water into the glass. Mom reached over and patted his back. “Are you okay, Bill?”

“I’m fine,” Dad choked. “Fine.” He coughed some more. When he recovered, he said, “You made six figures? In one night?”

“Yup.” A grin eased across Christos’ face. “Not that I did all the work in one night. The paintings took months to finish. But that’s not work. I love the painting part. It’s the selling that’s the job.”

“In other words,” I grinned, “Christos works one day a year.”

My parents goggled, as if Christos had burst into flames.

“It’s not quite that simple,” Christos said thoughtfully. “I also have to schmooze a lot. Build rapport with my customer base over time. But that’s about social visits, dinner parties, that kind of thing. Plus, my dad and grandfather have been doing the painting thing for decades. You could call it a family business.”

If my parents weren’t so uptight, their jaws would’ve dropped on the table. It was as if Christos had ridden in on a bejeweled elephant from distant lands and spun legendary stories about cities of gold and rivers of platinum that were real and true. My parents had never heard of such things. They couldn’t wrap their heads around it.

My dad slowly recovered his composure. “Well, that’s terrific, Christos. But our Samantha doesn’t have access to that sort of thing. I mean, Linda and I aren’t successful artists. We’re business people. Always have been. And that’s where Sam’s talents lie, wouldn’t you agree, Linda?”

“Of course,” Mom said, taking my father’s hand in hers, a show of solidarity.

I clenched my fists beneath the table, twisting my napkin into knots. I half-expected Christos to suddenly object and sing the praises of my art talents, thereby starting a fight with my parents that would lead to his ejection from their house. That was the last thing I wanted, now that he was here in D.C. with me.

“You have to do what’s right for your daughter,” Christos said ambiguously. “Whatever keeps her healthy and happy,” he said pointedly.

“Exactly,” my dad said, missing the point entirely. As always.

Christos picked up the check afterward, as promised. It was nearly freezing outside the restaurant, and all Christos wore was his leather jacket.

“Aren’t you cold,” I asked, hugging myself against the chill air. I wanted to lean into Christos, but not with my parents watching.

“I’ll be fine,” he smiled.
 

“Perhaps he can borrow one of Bill’s coats while he’s here?” my mom suggested.

“I don’t know that they’ll fit him, Linda. Christos is a bit taller than I am, and wider across the shoulders.” My dad was a wee bit off the mark on that one. Christos towered over him.

“Thanks, Mr. and Mrs. Smith. I’ll be fine.”

We drove back to my parents house, Christos and I again in the back seat of my parents’ Honda. The thought of holding Christos’ hand crossed my mind. It was dark, but I somehow suspected my parents would intuitively know I was having a good time and put a stop to it immediately.
 

I kept my hands to myself. Besides, I didn’t want to send mixed signals to Christos.

At the house, Mom automatically set about preparing the guest room for Christos. I’m sure my parents assumed I’d sleep in my bedroom, which appeared exactly how I’d left it in August.

I didn’t argue the point of who slept where. I was just glad my parents let Christos stay without making a huge deal out of it.

Christos said good night and I laid in my bed alone. Knowing he was across the hall gave me a sense of peace I’d never felt in my parents’ house. I had a protector, a guardian angel. He shielded me not only from the rest of the world, but from my parents’ disconnected concern for my best interests.

I twisted in my bed, my thoughts rumbling chaotically.

How could I possibly get through life without Christos? I knew I wouldn’t
die
without him, but I felt like my life would be significantly worse. It would be tolerable, but probably miserable. I mean, seriously, did I really want to be an accountant as badly as my parents wanted me to?

Not even close.

They didn’t know the first thing about the art world. Art was an actual business. I had seen that from firsthand experience. What had I been thinking after Thanksgiving, pushing Christos away like I had?

Taylor.

Yeah. Taylor was always on my mind. Every single minute of every single day.

I rolled and tossed under my blankets. I wished Christos would come into my room and cuddle with me. But I suspected he wouldn’t, out of respect for my parents. I could go into the guest room and crawl into his bed. But I had this nagging sense my parents would freak if they found me in there with him come morning.

Besides, I hadn’t made my peace with Christos. He still didn’t know about Taylor. He didn’t know who I really was underneath the lies.
 

I faded in and out of sleep all night long. Every time I drifted off, the old nightmare assaulted me.

Taylor.

I saw the flash of color. I heard the horrible thump. I saw the blood.

I remembered the countless lies I had told every single day for almost three years. To everybody. To myself. To my parents. To my friends.

To the entire world.

To Christos.

I was a huge fucking lie.

I couldn’t take it anymore. It was eating me alive. If I didn’t put a stop to it once and for all, I would be slowly devoured by my own dishonesty.

I couldn’t live that way any longer.

I wasn’t going to give up on life or myself.

I was going to tell the truth tomorrow. For the first time.

Starting with Christos.

I was finally going to break my silence and talk about Taylor.

My mom cooked breakfast for everybody in the morning. French toast, bacon, OJ.

My dad and mom were already dressed for work when I walked into the kitchen. I was in sweats. Christos wore his clothes from yesterday, but left his leather jacket in the guest room.

“Aren’t you cold in that t-shirt, Christos?” Mom asked.

“I’m fine,” he smiled. He really did look fine.

“Maybe we can go to the mall today and get you some new clothes,” I suggested.

“Sure,” he smiled. “I could probably use a tooth brush, too.”

I almost blurted he could borrow mine, but thought my parents would be weirded out by that.