Seven Days of Friday (Women of Greece Book 1) by Alex A. King Page B

inside of his spoon.
    What would Kostas say?
    Not much. He gave his blessing as long as the choice was Max’s – Didn’t he?
    He could – should – cut Anastasia loose, let her find some other head to fuck with, but he doesn’t want to deal with the shit storm. He doesn’t have time to fight a battle on two fronts. The constant text messages from Anastasia and Mama, the non-stop phone calls – threats one minute, contrition the next.
    Breakups get bad enough when you’re dealing with one person who won’t disappear.
    He thinks about how their children might look – her golden eyes, his dark hair. Maybe after they marry the fights will slow to an occasional downpour.
    Maybe the sex will crumble, too.
    Doesn’t matter. He’s going to buy a ring, and when the right moment comes he’ll propose.
    Even tired and beat up from the day, Max looks like money. The saleswoman is tripping on her own feet to get to him, euro signs dancing in her eyes.
    Max doesn’t like to let a woman down, so he lays his plastic on the counter, points to the window
    “The one in the middle.”
    “A beautiful choice, sir.”
    Choice.
    Max chooses peace.

23

Vivi
    V ivi is on a desert island , knocking back pina coladas, when Melissa pokes her.
    She opens her eyes. Reality is made of pink walls and blue shutters.
    Bold choices.
    The sun is glaring through the thin gap where the shutters don’t quite meet. Every house has them here – practical, not ornamental. Shutters stay closed during the heat of day, and then they’re thrown wide at night so cool air can offer respite. Between shutters and marble floors, houses stay a bearable shade of sauna during daylight hours.
    Melissa is balanced on the bed’s edge, ear buds curled around one hand, watermelon wedge in the other. For once she’s not plugged in and there’s no book in sight. She looks worried.
    “Are you okay?” Vivi asks.
    “I’m okay. Are you okay?”
    “Sure, why?
    “Well, you've only been asleep for nearly two days.”
    Vivi hasn’t slept more than seven consecutive hours since high school. “Wow. What day is it?”
    Melissa shrugs – her new signature move. “Saturday. Thea took me to the store. And I met some of the neighbors. There's this really weird old lady across the street. She has these funny chickens and she let me pat them. Plus she kept babbling at me and I couldn't understand anything she said. Well, hardly anything. Just the bit about Grams.”
    “What about Grams?”
    Melissa shrugs (again). “Don’t know. Just something about her and Grampy.”
    Very mysterious. First the accidental mention of a scandal, and now this. Everyone seems to be in the loop but her and Melissa. Might have been nice if her mother had declared her baggage before Vivi rolled it across the world.
    Then there’s Dad’s box, the one that never existed . . .
    Outside a horn honks. Right on its heels, a megaphone crackles to life.
    “Watermelon.” The voice is chipped, broken. “Watermelon with the knife!”
    “Gypsies,” Melissa says. “You should see them. They wear all these really colorful clothes that totally clash, and their kids don't go to school. How cool is that? Thea says if you're not careful they'll put a gypsy curse on you. They're selling watermelon. You should try it, it's really good.”
    Gypsies. Watermelon. Curses. Oh my.
    “Romani,” Vivi says. “They’re Romani.” Sleep. She needs more sleep.
    “And,” Melissa continues, “you know how we buy those tiny bottles of olive oil back home and you’re always complaining about how expensive it is? Thea has a huge metal container of it on the counter. Do you suppose she drinks it? Because that's just weird.”
    “I don't think so,” Vivi mumbles. “Maybe it's cheaper to buy bulk.”
    “Mom?” Melissa hasn’t used this many words in months. “Can we go to the beach?”
    Best idea ever – and when she says so, Melissa beams.
    “And can we go to McDonalds?”
    Thousands of miles from the