Small World

I don’t want to set the story’s tone by detailing the weather. I can’t stand the cliche of it. But winters in New York are so depressing. That angelic, fluffy, pristine snow lasts for about two days before it becomes a slushy, black mess. It’s December. Only six months to go until I’m back in Rhodes. Until I’m away from this wholesome life I’m supposed to call home.

I’m craving something that will keep me up at night—someone who can look at me like I’m still worth undressing, remind my body it’s still alive. My husband is great in New York. But in Greece—I want nothing to do with my current life. I’ve asked myself what I’m missing here that I have to fly eight hours away to find it. It’s not about sex. It’s not about feeling free either, or pretending I’m twenty-something again. It’s more about being seen. Being understood. About someone knowing who I was before I became whatever this is that I am now. A stay-at-home wife—mother—bitch. My husband gets to keep his social life. So two weeks every July, I earned the privilege to fly to the island and leave everyone. It's a shame, though—how adventure can equate to such sadness.

Autumn creeps in, then November, and like a snake, I’ve been shedding July’s skin—a slow tear from my flesh. But on December first, I’m different. A new glossy, thick layer seals over, burying the deceit, the sweat, the fingerprints on my thighs, and my back that came from hands that weren’t my husband’s. I slither around my home, picking up my kid’s toys, preparing a roasted chicken for dinner; catching glimpses of myself in the window glare, against the ghostly piles of lush snow. I see this tired woman I only recognize in December.

It’s the fifteenth now. The holidays are just beginning. This year, it seems it’s my husband’s favorite time of the year. Such a festive man he’s become these last couple of weeks. All jolly and wide-eyed. It’s a bit of a turn-off for me, but the kids love every second of it.

Theo’s voice carries up the staircase, warm and a little rough, the way it always gets after his second scotch. Somewhere among the coats piling up in our guest room, and the smell of pine, and other men’s cologne, a party is happening in my house. I finish painting my lips, put on the version of myself that room expects, and go back down to be her.

My house is filled with people I pretend to like. This is a holiday party for Theo’s office. He normally has it at some over-priced restaurant, but this year he catered food and hosted at our house because we renovated our kitchen. Our home in Locust Valley is anything but mediocre.

We live at the top of the hill. The road up is very windy, covered in thick branches of icicles on both sides, and when it snows, you can barely make it up the hill. I’m surprised our guests even showed. I was sure the drive would detour them. Now I’m praying no one’s car gets snowed in, or I’m stuck with them through all hours of the night.

My kids are staying at my mother’s tonight. Theo thought it’d be nice to have the house to ourselves later. Things haven’t been romantic lately. Not since I got back from Greece. I told him I went there to write. But when he asked me to show him my work, I came up short—a couple of sentences, random words, more blank space than anything. He was curious as to what I was doing the whole time—if I wasn’t writing. God, he can be so cynical.

“Elena, wow you look amazing.” I turned to find John with a drink in his hand—one big ice cube, of course. I smiled—didn’t really have much to say back to him. He looks fatter than ever. I’ve never seen him at any function where he doesn’t wear the same grey, wrinkled suit—and each time it gets tighter.

“Elena, I haven’t seen you since Cipriani. How are things, hon?” Pulled in my other direction, it’s Kim. Been with the company for two years. She’s single and almost forty. To Greek people, we’d call her a spinster—a leftover. Theo thinks she’s a great hire because the odds of her getting pregnant and leaving are practically zero. I met her when she first started, downtown at the fundraiser we had for one of Theo’s new development projects. I didn’t like her then and I still don’t. She drinks too much, smells like peppermint, and because she’s the only woman in the office, she thinks she's important. She’s their mule at best.

“I’m good, Kim. Really good.” I lay my hand on her shoulder, a soft pressure to let her know this conversation is over before it even started.

Back in the kitchen, I pour myself a glass of Pinot Noir, losing myself out the window again into blankets of snow. It’s heavy this year. The white blurs, too bright, too much, and for a moment it’s not snow at all. It’s sun. White light bouncing off the water in Rhodes so sharp you have to squint just to see him standing there.

A warm breath hits my neck. Not December air. July—thick with salt.

His hand slides up my back, into my hair, the ocean still on his skin. I let the memory hold me the way it always does—like no time has passed, like I never left.

“Elena?”

I drop my glass into the sink. Red wine staining the porcelain.

“You’re red. Are you okay?”

It’s Theo.

“No—yes, I’m fine. I was in my thoughts.”

“Come back to the party. Kimmy has no women to chat with.”  Kimmy. He calls her Kimmy.

In the living room stood Kim, like a baby dear, with her brown soft hair, boobs too big for her blouse—one button away from being exposed. I bet John can’t wait for that.

“There you are!” I’m so phony. “I didn’t mean to leave you alone before.”

“I’m used to having all the men around.” She teases, relaxing her hand on Theo’s arm.

“I hear you’re writing more. Theo talks about how close you are to finishing your book. Must be tough with the kids, though.”

Book? I look over to Theo. He’s quiet. Waiting.

I haven’t written anything I’d ever consider publishing since before Greece.

“Yes, it’s tough.” I lie. “But I get the work in.”

Theo kisses my cheek and excuses himself.

“How are you? How’s the office?” I ask her.

“If you’re asking how Theo’s doing—” she laughs and takes a sip of her wine.

“I’m not. I’m asking about the office.”

“Well, Theo’s been meeting with this architect—”
I nod.

“He’s so handsome. I’m the one who introduced them.” Her eyes glisten over the rim of her wine glass. Inside I’m rolling my eyes, because I was really asking about the office.

“We met in Chelsea. He designs summer homes.” Anything would impress this girl at this point. “In Rhodes.”

“Rhodes—he’s Greek?” I ask her.

“Yes. Very Greek. Like you.”

“What does that mean?” I smirked.

“You disappear to Greece every summer. He’s in Greece every summer. And you both come back to reality for the winters. Greece has some type of hold on you people.” She laughed, swinging her glass, almost spilling it on my herringbone floors.

A pair of headlights blind me through the window, cutting off her nonsense. A dark car pulls into the driveway. Theo heads to the door. I glance around the room to see who hasn’t showed up yet, but everyone seems to be here.

“Do I look alright?” Kim puts her drink down, fluffing her hair behind her, straightening out her tight brown skirt. “It’s him. The architect I was telling you about.”

Now I’m curious as to how good-looking this man really is. My husband is very handsome, and he doesn’t even get this reaction out of her. Theo opens the door and I walk over behind him.

“Andros, you made it.” Theo moves in to shake the man’s hand, pulling him in for a hug—clap on the back—whatever men do. Dark hair, dark eyes, olive skin. I lost my breath. My mouth immediately went dry, eyes filled up in their sockets, my heart tightening into a knot.

“This is my wife, Elena.”

Andros extended his hand, I shook it—and for a split second, I was back in Rhodes.

I take his coat, beeline to the hall closet, while Theo leads him to the other guests. I don’t turn around. I can’t. My face is on fire. My neck is sweaty. Before hanging his coat up, I bring the soft wool to my nose. He smells like July. Stop it. I hang it up. Close the door.

I barricade myself in the guest bathroom. Stop it. You’re not in Rhodes. I stare into the mirror, suck in my cheekbones. You’re home. It’s December. I let out a long, clean breath. Stop it now.

A knock on the door. Fuck. Then again. Go away.

“Lena?” a soft whisper.

I swing the door open. I knew who it was. “Stop it right now. I’m Elena.”

“You’re always Lena to me.”

“What the fu—Andros—what are you doing—”

“I’m here for Theo.”

“Since when? For how long? What the fu—”

“Ah, Andros, you found the bathroom. You can have him later, Elena. Give the man some privacy.” I almost faint on the floor. I brush past Andros and walk toward my husband.

“I see you two have met again. That’s our new architect. Not new exactly.”

“What do you mean?” I try to tread lightly. I don’t want to pry.

“Me and Andros go back—almost eleven years.” And I’ve been married to Theo for nine. I’ve been traveling to Greece every July for the last nine years as well. My mind is fuckin’ scrambling—for the last nine years, Andros has not mentioned once that he’s known my husband.

“We grew up in the same village in Rhodes. When he finally moved out to Huntington last October, we met for a coffee. He was still in the process of getting his architectural license at the time. But I told him to come work with me once he got it. You know, Kimmy connected us again. They’ve been seeing each other. You sure I never mentioned him?”

I shook my head. I tried so hard to hide my irritation, but I knew any words would come out foul from in between my teeth. I knew Theo sensed my agitation. I had to get away from him.

“This week the permits finally passed for us to break ground on the new project. This holiday party is partly for the man of the hour—” he spins around and grabs Andros’s shoulders as he makes his way back into the living room.

“Andros—I want you to meet everybody.”

Kim eyed him like a vulture on prey—except he wasn’t dead—yet. Once Theo puts two and two together, Andros would be the one to go first, solely for me to witness. Then I’d face a slow death. Theo is the type to drag things out for his own sick enjoyment.

I stood in that living room, burning from the inside. Such immense heat, a sweltering pit of my insides turning—July igniting the coal, melting the blankets of snow—of my husband’s arms around me, then Andros’s fingers around my neck. My husband laying me down in our bed in December, then Andros lifting me up onto the counter in July. I couldn’t bear it. My guilt was fuming. Betrayal simmering out of my pores—the living room shifting with each new handshake Andros was greeting. Theo laughing—naive to the fact that this man—his old friend—has been fucking his wife for years. And then, there are my beautiful kids. Flashing before me—glimpses of getting them ready for their first day of school a month after my betrayal in July. Opening Christmas gifts for the last nine years, while Theo snaps photos like we’re some happy family in December.

I’m disgusting. July should’ve stayed in July. Now it’s here. Standing in my house—in the middle of a season it should know nothing about. It should never know this side of me—this Elena.

To July, I’m a stranger. I am only Lena—the writer from New York.

To December, I’m a cheater. A liar. A whore of a wife. A bad mother.

I rush back to the kitchen. Fuckin’ think. Get a grip. You’re going to get caught. I pour a fresh glass of Pinot Noir. Outside, again, it’s snow on snow on snow. His Mercedes in the driveway. When did he come to New York? For the last nine years, I was under the impression he lived in Athens. When the hell did he come to New York? Three years ago we were in Rhodes. He said nothing about pursuing architecture—in my city. Two years ago—Rhodes. He didn’t say he grew up there with Theo. Six months ago—Rhodes again. He never told me he was seeing anyone—seeing Kimmy. Nine years of Julys and he’s said nothing.

Had Theo said his name before tonight? Maybe. Maybe I missed it. I haven’t truly been paying attention to much in this house. I had to have missed it. Or maybe Andros never knew I was Theo’s wife. Maybe he walked into this party tonight the same way I did—blind. Unprepared.
“Lena.”

I don’t spin around. “Get out—”

“Lena, stop it.” The voice gets closer.

“Leave, Andros. I’m serious.” I still don’t turn.

“I know you missed me.” His breath warm against my neck. “I’ve missed this.” He glides his hands around my waist, and just like that, I’m not standing at my sink anymore.

Rhodes. My first July. I told him about my publisher, about the years I spent writing my life away, so I wouldn’t disappear without a purpose. He didn’t try to fix me. He just listened, the way no one had in years. “You speak like someone who forgot she’s worth something.” No man had ever said anything like that to me. Not before him. Not since.

“Stop.” I pull his hands off and turn to face him. He doesn’t blink. It’s only us again.

“I said stop.”

Two summers ago, I cried in front of him for the first time in years—not from sadness, just from the relief of being somewhere no one needed anything from me. He didn’t ask me to explain it. “This is the only version of you I’ve ever really met,” and let me cry until I was done.

“Kiss me.” His hand finds the back of my neck, gentle this time, not the way I remember from July—it’s slower, sweeter. He’s not just taking. I let myself have it—the version of me that exists in his hands, in that season.

Rhodes was the only place he felt alive. I never told him that was the problem—that I’d built an entire year around two weeks where he was something real and breathing. Then spent the other fifty like he was dead. 

I pull back first. “Andros—not here.” He keeps kissing me. “Theo’s right outside.”

“I know.” He doesn’t let go of my hand right away. Neither of us moves, and it feels less like a betrayal and more like an ending we both know is inevitable.

I straighten my blouse, smooth my skirt. “Go back to Kim.”

He studies me a second too long, deciding whether to say something else, but leaves without another word. With one hand braced on the counter, I wait for my pulse to slow. July colliding with December. How careless. How stupid. How weak.

The kitchen door swings open. “Come hang out, Lena.”

Lena. He doesn’t call me Lena.

But I don’t jump this time. “Be right out. Just cleaning up.”

Theo’s eyes move from me to the doorway Andros just walked through, then back to me. A half-second longer than a glance should last. “You two catch up okay?”

“Just talking about Rhodes. Small world.” I keep my voice light, reach for the dish towel like my hands need to be washed of the guilt.

“Small world,” he repeats, but something in his tone was flat, almost testing, like he means it the way I do.

“That’s a good title for your new book.”

He sets something on the counter between us. Indigo cover. Corner bent from being shoved in a beach bag too many times. My journal.

I don’t touch it. I can’t make my hand move. “Where did you—”

“Found it packing up the guest room for tonight. You haven’t written much.” He says it easy, like he’s handing me an old lipstick I misplaced.

He holds my eyes, darts back to the journal before he walks over to refill my wine glass.

“The food is out. Don’t be long.” He reaches behind me for a steak knife.

“Careful with these tonight. I just sharpened them.”

He kisses my cheek, then leaves.

I stare at the cover, my own handwriting bleeding through from the last page—I know what I wrote. No sentences, just Andros, written over and over, the only thing I could bring myself to write that whole trip.

My stomach caves. I open the trash bin and vomit.