Oh. My. Gods. - Weebly

Then, with no consideration for my sensitive stomach, he takes
her face in his hands and plants a big, open-mouthed kiss on her
lips. And Mom opens her mouth right back.
I am looking around for a trash can to lose my airplane pretzels
in when he speaks to me.
“Phoebe,” he says in the disgustingly charming accent, “I am so
happy to welcome you to my country. To my home.”
And then, with no warning whatsoever—and it’s not like I’m
sending out approach-me vibes—he steps forward and puts his
arms around me. In a hug.
Ewww!
I stand there like I’m waiting at the starting line, frozen and not
sure what to do as he’s squeezing me and patting me on the back.
Mom catches my eye over his shoulder and gives me a pleading
look, which I ignore. Then she scowls her I’m-your-mother-and-atherapist
scowl.
The one I have long since learned never to ignore.
So, with all the courage I can find deep down in my toes, I lift
one hand and pat Damian on the shoulder in a show of returning
the hug. Mom looks not quite happy, but he doesn’t seem to notice
my hug is half-assed.
He releases me, then—to my continued horror—grabs my head
and presses two kisses alternately to my cheeks. Cesca told me all
Europeans do this, though different cultures do different numbers
of kisses. I guess Greeks do two. I can’t stop the impulse to wipe his
kisses off my flesh. Thankfully he has already turned away, taking
Mom by the hand and leading her over to baggage claim. Leaving
me with the ninety-kilo briefcase.
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