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He sat down next to her. She was too deeply into crying to stop, so she just cried like that for a while. Awkwardly he patted her hair once. If she had been her regular self she might have been ecstatic that he was touching her, though mortified that he was touching her filthy hair. As it was, she only gave it a glancing thought.
When the tears finally subsided, she looked up.
“Why don't we get a cup of joe and you tell me what's up,” he offered.
She looked at him carefully, not through her eyes but through Bailey's eyes. His hair was overgelled, and his eyebrows were plucked in the middle. His clothes and his reputation seemed fake. She couldn't for the life of her remember why she had liked him.
“No thanks,” she answered.
“Come on, Tibby. I'm seri
ous.” He thought she was turning him down out of insecurity. As though someone so much cooler than her couldn't possibly take an interest.
“I just don't want to,” she clarified.
His face registered the insult.
I used to have a huge crush on you, she thought as she watched him walk away. But now I can't remember why.
Not long after he left, Angela, the lady with the long fingernails, came out carrying two clear bags of garbage to the Dumpster. When she saw Tibby she stopped.
“Your little friend is real sick, isn't she?” Angela asked.
Tibby looked up in surprise. “How did you know that?” she asked.
“I had a little niece die of cancer,” Angela explained. “I remember how it looks.”
Angela's eyes were teary too. She sat down next to Tibby. “Poor thing,” she said, patting Tibby's back. Tibby felt the scratchy tips of her fingernails on the polyester.
“She's a sweet, sweet kid, your friend,” Angela went on. “One afternoon she was waiting for you. I got off first, and she saw I was upset about something. She took me out for ice tea and listened to me cry for half an hour about my rotten ex-husband. We made it a little Wednesday afternoon ritual, Bailey and I did.”
Tibby nodded, feeling equal parts awe for Bailey and disappointment in herself. All she'd ever noticed about Angela were her fingernails.
In a miracle fitting the magic of the Traveling Pants, they arrived in Greece on Lena's last day. The package was so crumpled, it looked as though it had gone around the world and back, but the Pants were there, unharmed—though they were wrinkled and softer and a little more worn than when she'd seen them last. They looked almost as exhausted as Lena felt, but they also looked like they'd hold up for about a million more years. These Pants were Lena's final mandate: Go tell Kostos, you big loser.
As she put them on, they gave her more than guilt. They gave her courage. The Pants mysteriously held the attributes of her three best friends, and luckily bravery was one of them. She would give the Pants what meager gifts she had, but courage was the thing she would take.
She also felt sexy in the Pants, which couldn't hurt.
Lena had once participated in a charity walkathon that took her eighteen miles through Washington, D.C., and its suburbs. Amazingly, the walk to the forge was longer.
She meant to go after lunch, but then she realized she couldn't eat any lunch anyway, so why wait?
Which turned out to be a good thing. When she saw the low building around the bend, she would have thrown up, but she didn't have any food in her stomach, so she managed not to.
Lena's hands were sweating so profusely she was afraid they might smear her painting. She tried drying them on the Pants and switching hands, but wet handprints on your pants weren't exactly the hallmark of a cool customer.
At the entrance to the yard she stopped. Keep walking, she silently ordered the Pants. She trusted them more than her actual legs.
What if Kostos was busy working? She couldn't very well bother him, could she? Whose terrible idea was it to pounce on him at work? the cowardly part of her brain (representing a very large majority) wanted to know.
She kept walking. The very small, brave part of her brain knew that this would be her one chance. If she turned around, she would lose it.
The forge was dark but for the roaring flames contained in the massive brick firebox at the back. There was one figure working a piece of metal in the fire, and it was too tall to be Bapi Dounas.
Kostos either heard or felt her footsteps. He saw her over his shoulder, then carefully, slowly put down his work, took off his big gloves and mask, and came over to her. His eyes still seemed to carry the slightest reflection of the fire. There was nothing self-conscious or worried in his face. That appeared to be her department.
Lena usually counted on boys being nervous around her so she could claim the natural upper hand, but Kostos wasn't like that.
“Hi,” she said shakily.
“Hi,” he said sturdily.
She fidgeted, trying to remember her opening line.
“Would you like to sit down?” he offered. Sitting meant perching on a low brick wall that partitioned one part of the room from the other. She perched. She still couldn't remember how to start. She recalled her hand and then the painting in her hand. She thrust it at him. She'd planned a more elaborate presentation, but whatever.
He turned the painting over and studied it. He didn't respond right away like most people; he just looked. After a while that made her nervous. But she was already so nervous it was hard to tell exactly where the extra nervous started.
“It's your place,” she explained abruptly.
He didn't take his eyes off the painting. “I've been swimming there many years,” he said slowly. “But I'm willing to share it.”
She listened for something suggestive in his words—half hoping there was, half hoping there wasn't. There wasn't, she decided.
He handed the painting back to her.
“No, it's for you,” she said. Suddenly she felt mortified. “I mean, if you want it. You don't have to take it. I'll just . . .”
He took it back. “I want it,” he said. “Thank you.”
Lena swept her hair off the back of her neck. God, it was hot in this place. Okay, she coached herself, time to get talking.
“Kostos, I came here to tell you something,” she said. As soon as her mouth opened, she was on her feet, shuffling and pacing.
“Okay,” he said, still sitting.
“I've been meaning to since . . . since . . . that day when . . .” How to put this? she wondered frantically. “. . . We, uh, ran into each other at the pond.”
He nodded. Was there the tiniest suggestion of a smile at the corner of his mouth?
“So. Well. That day. Well.” She started pacing again. Her father's lawyerly quickness on his feet was just another of the things she hadn't inherited from him. “There was some confusion and maybe, you know, mistaken ideas about what happened. And that was probably my fault. But I didn't realize it was happening until it had already happened and then . . .” She trailed off. She glanced at the blaze. The flames of damnation weren't the most comforting sight.
Kostos sat patiently.
When Lena started rambling like this, she counted on people to interrupt her and put her out of her misery, but Kostos didn't do that. He just waited.
She tried to get back on track, but she forgot what the track was. “After it happened, it was too late, and everything was even more confused, and I wanted to talk about it, but I couldn't really find the way to talk about it, because I was too much of a coward to make them talk about the thing they thought had happened, and explain that what they thought had happened hadn't really happened, so I didn't do it even though I meant to and I know I should have.” She suddenly wished she were in a soap opera, and that somebody would slap her across the face the way they did to people who blathered and raved on daytime TV.
She was now fairly sure she saw the hint of a smile on Kostos's face. That wasn't a good sign, was it?
With the back of her hand she wiped the sweat from her upper lip. She looked down at the Pants, and remembering that they were the Pants, she tried to imagine she was Bridget.
“What I'm really trying to say is that I . . . that I made a huge mistake and that whole crazy fight between our grandfathers was all my fault and I should never have accused you of spying on me, because I know now that you weren't.” There, that was better. Oh. But she'd forgotten something. “And I'm sorry,” she burst out. “I'm very, very sorry.”
He gave her another moment to make sure she was finished. “I accept your apology,” he said with a little bow of his head. His manners did the grandmothers in Oia proud.
Lena let out a long breath. Thank the Lord the apology part was done. She could just pack it up and get back home with some small sliver of her pride intact. It was awfully tempting. God, it was tempting.
“There's something else,?
?? she told him. She was both appalled and impressed that the words actually came out of her mouth.
“What is it?” he asked. Was his voice more tender now? Did she just wish it were?
She tried to think of good words to say. She looked to the ceiling for assistance.
“Would you like to sit?” he invited again.
“I don't think I can,” she answered honestly, wringing her hands.
The expression in his eyes told her he accepted that.
“Well, I know I was not very friendly when I first got here.” Lena started in on round two. “You were nice to me, and I was not nice back. And that probably maybe made you think that I didn't . . . that I wasn't . . .” Lena paced in a tight circle and then came back to face him.
Big sweat circles spread from under her arms nearly down to her waist. Sweat covered her upper lip and trickled from her hairline. The combination of extreme heat and extreme nervousness caused red patches to sprout all over her skin.
She'd never trusted a boy to like her for something other than how she looked, but if Kostos did her the unimaginable honor of showing that he cared about her today, she would know it wasn't because she looked good.
“You maybe thought that I didn't like you, but the thing is . . .”
Oh, God. She was going to drown in her own perspiration. Was that possible?
“But the thing is maybe it didn't really mean that at all. Maybe it turned out to mean . . . the completely opposite thing.” Was she still speaking English? Were there any sentences coming together?
“So what I'm saying is, I wish I hadn't acted that way to you. I wish I hadn't acted like I didn't like you or didn't care, because I really do . . . I really do . . . not feel like how I maybe seemed like I might feel.”
She looked at him with pleading eyes. She had tried, she really had. She was afraid it was the best she could do.
His eyes were as full as hers were. “Oh, Lena,” he said. He took both her sweaty hands in his. He seemed to understand that it was the best she could do.
He pulled her close to him. With him perched on the wall and her standing, they were almost the same height. Her legs touched his. She could smell his slightly ashy boy smell. She felt like she might faint.
