Looked like a good omen to me.

Bye-bye, Sam Smith, CPA. Hello, Samantha Smith, world-renowned crayon craftswoman.

Nothing was going to stop me from following through to becoming an artist.

Now I just had to figure out how to break the news to my parents.

SAMANTHA

Christos met me at my apartment that evening for dinner. His ’68 Camaro rumbled downstairs as he pulled into a visitor’s parking space. When I glanced out the curtains, it was already dark due to the winter hours. I think the evening hour made me feel like we were any other married couple, like I should have a drink waiting for him, or dinner cooking, or whatever.

When he rang my doorbell, I had a fantasy of a little boy and a little girl running up behind me, so the whole family could greet Christos together, the kids shouting “Daddy!” in unison. My heart accelerated at the thought. I took a deep breath and reminded myself it was only a fantasy.

I opened the door and was greeted by a face full of flowers. Not the real kind, but a big oil painting of a bouquet of them. It was gorgeous.

I tried to peek around the picture frame. “Christos? You back there somewhere?”

Christos leaned over the top of the giant painting, his even white teeth gleaming back at me as he grinned.

“What’s this?”

His dimples flashed. “Most English speakers refer to this as a painting.”

“Duh, I know what it’s called. But what’s it for?”

“It’s for you, agápi mou,” he smiled. “I painted it.”

I was flabbergasted. “What? When? Today?”

“No,” he chuckled. “Between Thanksgiving and Winter Break, when you were avoiding me. I wanted to do something special for you. Show you how important you were to me. Anyone can buy flowers, but I figured a painting of them would be twice as nice, and it lasts forever.”

“Oh my God, Christos, you shouldn’t have done this,” I was tearing up already.

“Why not?”

“I don’t know, shouldn’t you save this for a special occasion? Like an anniversary or whatever?”

“Every day is a special occasion with you, agápi mou. That seems reason enough to me.”

My heart hammered again. It seemed like this evening was going to be rich with fantasy fulfillment.

Christos walked through the doorway, careful not to bump the painting into the doorframe. “Where should I hang it?”

I had a chance to better appreciate the painting as he held it up for me to inspect. It was intricate and breathtakingly beautiful.

“How long did this take you to paint?” I gaped.

“Does it matter?” he smiled.

“Yes, it matters! It looks like it must have taken forever!”

“For you, agápi mou, forever is the right amount of time,” he grinned.

“Oh, Christos,” I smiled. Yes, tears were imminent.

“How about I hang it on this wall?”

“That would be perfect,” I sniffed.

He pulled a hammer out of his back pocket, and some small nails. After eye-balling the wall, he tapped several nails into the plaster, then hung the painting. “How’s that?”

“It’s perfect.”

“Remember, don’t over-water them. That’s a common mistake,” he winked.

“I won’t,” I laughed. “It’s beautiful, Christos.” I wrapped my arms around him and hugged him fiercely. “This is the best bouquet ever.”

“Anything for you, agápi mou.” He kissed the top of my head softly. “You ready for some dinner?”

“I’m getting sort of hungry.”

“I don’t know about you, but I’m getting a bit tired of takeout. We’re going to have to either start spending more time over at my place so I can cook for you myself, or I’m going to have to stock up your fridge so I can cook for you here.”

“Wait, both of those options are you cooking for me. Isn’t that only one option?”

“That I cook for you is a given,” he smiled, “it’s only a question of where.”

I frowned. “Are you saying I can’t cook?”

He grinned. “Samantha, I have no doubt you make a mean ice cream sundae. But a man requires sustenance. So what’ll it be?”

“An ice cream sundae sounds pretty good right about now,” I winked.

“I’ve got a better idea. Grab your purse.”

Five minutes later, Christos parked his Camaro on the Pacific Coast Highway and we walked toward a restaurant with big blue awning. He held the door for me as we entered Pizza Port.

“I’ve never been here before,” I said.

“What? How can you not have discovered Pizza Port? You practically live right on top of it!”

The interior was covered in crisscrossed bare wood, surfboards hanging from the ceiling, and photos of surfers all over the walls. Picnic tables with the attached benches were laid out on the floor. A bunch of kids in soccer uniforms and their parents occupied most of the seats in the room.

“Wow, it’s packed,” I said. “My parents would never go to a rowdy place like this.”

“Do you want to go someplace else?”

“No, I kind of like it,” I smiled. “It’s perfect.”

While we waited in line to order, I noticed they had these huge metal tanks behind the counter. “What are those tanks?”

“They brew their own beer,” Christos said. “It’s good stuff. I can buy some for you, if you want.”

“Oh, I’m good.”

At Christos’ suggestion, we ordered a Pizza Carlsbad, which had pesto, grilled chicken, sun-dried tomatoes, artichoke hearts, and feta. Then we found a place on the benches to sit, squeezed between what looked like two opposing soccer teams, green uniforms on one side of the divide, orange on the other.

“You sure you want to sit here?” Christos asked.

“It should be okay, right?” I said cautiously, not sure what he meant.

“These kids seem sort of surly. Like a drunken brawl could erupt any second.”

The kids were all about eight years old. I giggled. “If you need me to protect you, Christos, just say the word.”

He smiled and extended his hand toward the bench. “I’d pull the bench out for you, but it’s bolted down.”

“Always the gentlemen,” I smiled.

He held my hand as I lifted one leg, then the other, over the bench. “Thank you, sir.”

As he was about to slide in next to me, two boys in green soccer jerseys who had just finished playing a video game at the back of the restaurant came barreling toward Christos, shouting, “We need more quarters!”

The second boy wasn’t watching where he was going. He was distracted by Christos’ lifting his leg over the bench.

“Be careful, Jordan!” a woman hollered at the boy.

Jordan pivoted to avoid running into Christos’ knee but stumbled headlong in the direction of a floor-to-ceiling post. I grit my teeth as I imagined the certain concussion the boy was about to suffer.

Christos reacted instantly. His knee still in the air, he spun on his planted foot and swept Jordan up in his arms, pulling him off his trajectory. Christos planted his elevated foot and swung the boy high into the air.

“Airplane ride!” Christos sang as he held Jordan aloft.

The boy was surprised for a second, but all smiles.

Christos continued to hold him up. “Jordan, can you touch the ceiling while you’re up there?”

The boy giggled and slapped the beam overhead.

“Got it!” Christos said before lowering him to the floor.

The woman who had hollered at Jordan was already walking over to claim him. She was smiling nervously. “Thank you so much. I think you saved my son a trip to the Emergency Room.”

“No problem,” Christos smiled.

“Say thank you to the nice man, Jordan,” the woman said.

“Thanks,” the boy said bashfully.

“Any time, little man,” Christos winked. “Let me know if you need another airplane ride.”

“I think he’s had enough action for the evening,” the woman said.

“But, mom!” he begged. “Me and James weren’t done playing Galaga! We need more quarters!”

“You need to finish your pizza, young man. Then we’ll see about more Galaga.”