The man lunges at him, his hands landing directly on either side of his face, and kisses him on both cheeks, before pulling away with a rough nod.
“Bianca is a good girl, a smart girl, and you will treat her well, yes? Not like the malákas from New York.”
He doesn’t know who that is, but he’s quick to say, “Oh, yes, of course.”
“Okay, then, welcome to the family,” Peter says, his approval so fast Xavier’s sure he’s perfectly capable of revoking it with one misstep. “Go in the back, everyone is already there!”
“Malákas from New York?”
“My last ex. Five years ago. You would not have liked him.”
Xavier doesn’t doubt that for a fucking second.
“Uncle?” he asks. “I thought you said he was your dad’s cousin.”
“He . . . well, he’s not really even that. Peter and my dad came over together and then they lived in neighboring apartments and so, I call him uncle out of respect.”
“Your family is so confusing.”
“It’s just you and your dad, right?”
“Only child of two only children.”
“That’s . . . lonely, isn’t it?”
“It’s . . . it is what it is.”
“Lone wolf.”
He snorts. “Oh God, no, worst label ever. I just don’t need people much.”
“No?”
“No, not even as a kid. And now, well, I’m never in one place long enough to make friends, at least like the ones you have.”
“Is that the appeal of it then? The life you’ve chosen, that you get to go from place to place and be on your own and do what you love without worrying about anything or anyone else?”
“Huh, I . . . I never really thought about it like that, but . . . maybe? I don’t know. It’s just how I’ve always been.”
“Everyone needs people though, even the most introverted of introverts. Just . . . small doses,” she insists.
“Very small doses,” he agrees and grins at her.
“C’mon, I’m starving and they have the best taramasalata here.”
“Taramasalata?” Xavier says, trying to mimic the inflection she gave it as he follows her across the restaurant through an archway held aloft by large faux Ionic columns like the ones that border the opisthodomos of the Parthenon.
Bianca nods her approval and then translates. “Red caviar dip.”
“Fish eggs?”
“Don’t knock it.”
“I’ll try anything.”
“Ugh, I’m of half a mind to take you up on that and make Theíos bring out a lamb’s head, but all I want is some tarama, a gyro and then some rizogalo.”
“Rizogalo? Rice pudding?”
