Croe smirked at him in the mirror. “Yes, Lunch. One cannot live on sex and cigarettes alone.” She retrieved her clothes from the stack he’d made, pulled her shirt over her head. “Or at least, I can’t. ” She turned when she was fully dressed, unsurprised that he was ready before her, but puzzled by his choice of attire. Her smile was counterbalanced by the crease between her brows. She could not think of a time she’d seen him wear anything but black.
He looked handsome, as always…but like a handsome she didn’t know. They were in stark contrast. It felt like a metaphor that Croe didn’t want to address. She followed him into the lift wordlessly, standing close enough to brush his fingers with her own, but not taking his hand.
Grenada was charming, in the way that disrepair can be; sunwashed and faded in places, cracked and peeling in others. Draperies in colors that evoked an exotic spice market broke up the palette of cream and gold. Croe had always liked that aesthetic, when the history of the place was enough to make it beautiful, and the residents left things as they were until they broke completely, at which point some old expert was called in to make repairs. Her birthplace in Greece had been similar – her own ancestral home built on and around an ancient ruin, like a strangler fig.
But aesthetics were where the similarities stopped. The sounds and smells were completely different, and both drew her in the direction of the street food. She purchased two empanadas from a vendor that seemed built into a doorway, sheltered by a vibrant pink awning that cast everything beneath it in rosy light. The hand pie steamed as she bit into it, but only briefly. Croe handed the second one to Mallos, moved in the direction of what seemed to be an impromptu flamenco performance, to watch. They did it for the tourists and tips, she was sure, but wasn’t she a tourist? She smiled over her shoulder at the god, a little flirtatiously. Then her expression froze over, as her eyes slid beyond him and settled on a distant face. Not distant enough.
“Nepenthe?”
Shit, she thought, emphatically. She wouldn’t have been surprised if Mallos heard it.
“…Alessandro.” Croe forced a half-smile to her lips as the man strode toward her, and swept her up in a rather forward – and startling – embrace. Then he leaned back just enough to kiss both her cheeks effusively, maintaining a firm grip on her biceps, and grinned.
“Kroneon, che piacere vederti! It’s been years! Too long! Come va, bella?”
How the actual hell had he recognized her?
Croe’s eyes slipped beyond Alessandro’s head, settling on Mallos’ face with a look that fell somewhere between apologetic and beseeching. She supposed it wasn’t actually that surprising that Sandro recognized her – she’d recognized him, after all. And all the changes she’d gone through, the parallel lives she’d lived, did not necessarily translate into a full physical transformation. Still, it felt bizarre to have a person from her past assume such familiarity with her, as if he were totally unaware of everything that had changed.
Which, of course, he was.
“Bene, grazie…” it would have been appropriate to ask how he was, but Croe found herself unable to muster her manners. “Sandro, this is my…this is Mallos,” she said, slipping out of his grip to entwine her arm through the god’s. My what, was an ongoing question. My lover? My co-parent? The father of my daughter? They all sounded like too much information to provide a man from her distant past. Alessandro’s green eyes shifted to Mallos, subtly sizing him up, even with the disarming smile still dimpling his cheeks. He was a very attractive man in his late-thirties, just as attractive as he’d been in University, where they’d met. Croe could not help but notice, with some surprise, that he looked older than Mallos. Sandro has noticed it, as well.
“Buenas tardes, Mallos. ¿Cómo está usted?” Even his Spanish sounded Italian. But he extended his hand, which was a relief – Croe remembered that he’d been hazardously informal, when they were younger. “Nepenthe and I were in school together, at AUTH. Back in the Pleistocene.” His gaze travelled over their interlocked arms; his curiosity was obvious. “Do you live here, in Granada?”
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