Finally, my brain caught up to me, and I scrambled to my feet, knocking over my suitcase in the process. Obviously, there was a person connected to this camera. Because cameras don’t randomly interrogate people outside of airports. But it had taken me much too long to figure that out. Was it stress or sleep deprivation? My mom’s rules flashed to mind. She hadn’t said anything about what to do if a friendly voiced cameraman suddenly appeared, but I was pretty sure staying on the offensive was my best move.
“Why are you filming me?” I demanded, regaining my literal and figurative footing. “Who are you?”
“Which one do you want me to answer first?” The camera lowered slowly, and when I saw the person behind it, I nearly toppled over again.
The boy was Greek, close to my age, with skin several shades darker than mine and thick black hair. He was slim, just short of skinny, and wore a black T-shirt tucked sloppily into a pair of black jeans and a worn pair of Adidas, also in black. His hair—half curly, half knotted—was at least twice as thick as the average person’s and shoved back away from his forehead. Usually that much hair would take center stage, but not in this case, because his face.
Huge eyes, barely contained eyebrows, a very straight nose, and lash lines so dark they rivaled the ones I’d spent a solid five minutes drawing on.
He was the kind of good-looking that doesn’t ever have to try to be good-looking. And he clearly was not trying. There was something infuriatingly careless about him, like he’d rolled out of bed and left the house without looking in a mirror. As if he was so good-looking that he didn’t have to bother with mirrors. Were those crumbs on his T-shirt? And would it kill him to tie his shoes properly?
Now he was staring at me, too, like I was as much of a surprise to him as he was to me. “What?” I demanded.
He shook his head slowly, his hair falling into his face like he was auditioning for a shampoo commercial. Was this guy for real? “You… look really different in your pictures.”
I stopped thinking about his hair, likely because I now recognized that I was in imminent danger. My mom’s rules flashed to mind. Had she been right? Was this an attempted kidnapping? He seemed way too laid-back and awkward for that. Also, kidnappers would probably tie their shoes, because of the getaway. I stood as tall as I could, trying to look as threatening as possible. We were close to the same height. With high heels, I’d have him.
“What pictures?” I roared.
It worked. He stumbled back slightly, shaking himself loose from whatever trance we were under. He smiled and stuck his hand out. “Your dad’s pictures.” He took a moment to compose himself, then aimed a smile at me. “The prodigal daughter returns. I’ve heard so many things about you.”
He’d practiced that line, you could tell.
His English was precise with a sliver of an accent, so small you could forget it was there. I obviously needed to ask him who he was, but I was still trying to untangle any part of this situation, and I stared at him. Also, what things had he heard?
Suddenly his gaze landed on my suitcase, and his jaw dropped. “Is that yours? It’s behemoth.”
Who uses the word “behemoth”? It made me think of my English teacher. But when I followed his gaze down to my suitcase, I could see his point. When I was packing, it hadn’t seemed all that large, but here on the tiny stoop, it did in fact look monstrous, and it was heavy, too. I’d tried to do a summer-in-Paris capsule wardrobe, but then the whole mystery project thing kept tripping me up. Did I need running shoes? Dresses? I ended up packing everything and then unpacking half of it, then packing it all over again.
Then there were the art supplies. Oh, the art supplies. At the last minute I’d panicked and packed literally every brush, sketchbook, and pencil I could fit in there. And then… well, I couldn’t even explain it to myself, but I’d brought the box of my dad’s stuff. I had no idea what I was going to do with it (Return it? Throw it into the ocean in a fit of rage?), but it felt weird to leave it in my closet while I traipsed across the world. My suitcase was more piñata at this point, but it was my piñata. This random boy had no say in what I brought with me.
“I’m here for ten days,” I said, grabbing the handle defensively.
“Yes, but how are we going to get it on that?” He pointed to a beat-up-looking black motorcycle that was propped precariously next to what appeared to be a NO PARKING sign on the curb. “I can stash the camera by my feet, but—” He gave my suitcase another judgmental look.
That did it. “Who are you?”
His face split into a smile, revealing slightly overcrowded teeth. And somehow that imperfection took him from merely good-looking to next-level attractive. I quickly averted my eyes to avoid my retinas being burned up by the pure level of attractive beaming from his person.
“Olive, I’m Theo!” He said it like he was a one-name celebrity. Like it should mean something to me. “Your dad had a few things to get in order, so he sent me to pick you up. He asked me at the last minute, so I had to rush here. I almost didn’t make it.”
So that cleared things up… not at all. But before I could tell him that, his face brightened. “I have an idea for our luggage problem. Watch my camera?” And then he and his sloppy shoelaces ran into the crowd, leaving me blinking into the evening sun.
What was going on here? I toed nervously at the camera and wished Henrik would appear, but his boyfriend must have whisked him away immediately, because he was nowhere to be seen. A moment later Theo reappeared, speaking rapidly in Greek to a barrel-shaped man whose mustache made him look vaguely like a walrus. For moment I was transfixed. I’d forgotten how much I loved the slippery, rolling sound of Greek. It always made me feel unsteady. Homesick. “Olive, this is Yiannis,” Theo said.
“Yasou! Welcome to Santorini,” Yiannis boomed. “I take your bag.” To prove his point, he lunged for it.
“What? No. Absolutely not.” I tried to block his access, but Yiannis the Walrus seemed adept at handling reluctant clients because he simply sidestepped me, then scooped up the bag, hoisting it onto his shoulder, and then strode for the curb.
“Stop!” I yelled, but Yiannis was not stopping. “Where is he going?”
“To Oia. He’s a cabdriver, and he already has a fare driving there. He’s going to bring the baggage to us, free of charge.” Theo was clearly very proud of this solution and offered me a smile that charmed and enraged me all at once.
“This is not okay,” I said, my hands balling helplessly.
Theo rested one hand on my shoulder. “He’s happy to. More than happy to. Your dad’s done so much for him.”
I slid out from under his hand. “That’s not what I meant.”
“I do for father. Your father,” Yiannis yelled, beaming at me over his shoulder. “Nico, he is good. Take care, yes?”
“No!” I said. But my earthly belongings disappeared into the back of a dented-up taxicab anyway. What was happening right now?
“That was lucky,” Theo said, scooping up his camera and heading for the curb. “Now come on. We’re in a really big hurry.”
“Who are you and where is my dad?” I yelled after him.