Greta tells her brother Valdin that people assume she’s bi. It’s “hard to convince anyone that wanting to look pretty doesn’t mean you want attention from men.” People don’t think Valdin is bi. “Oh no, Greta”, he says, “It’s because of sexism isn’t it.” The pair are two of three siblings in an eccentric and hilarious Māori–Russian–Catalonian family, and the protagonists of Rebecca K Reilly’s (Ngāti Hine, Ngāti Wai) captivating debut novel, Greta & Valdin. The story is told in alternating first-person perspectives from G and V, as their names are often cut to. Despite them “being the first Māori family to have no cousins”, the family is as hectic as if they had cousins scattered from Rakiura to Russia and back to Tāmaki Makaurau, where the book is set.

The Vladisavljevics share a precious quality: radical acceptance of who they are – but perhaps only as a whole, perhaps only for one another. This acceptance is rarely indulged on an individual level. We see – sometimes just glimpse – the internal struggle of almost all 18 characters. Several are struggling with a secret or two, and frustrations triggered by wanting the best for each other. These struggles and frustrations do not fester to cruelty or violence, though one character does get on the receiving end of a black eye.

The story manages Greta and Valdin’s struggle: a longing for requited romantic love. And it does so while critiquing monogamy. There is a point in the story where Greta is prompted to remind Valdin of his stance on marriage. That it is an “inherently queerphobic” institution. The only gay people exchanging vows were buying into the monotony of the straight agenda and its dull ideals: committing to one person, buying a house, and working 40 hours a week for one employer.

And, yet, a desire to be entirely seen, adored and cherished by one person, and to see, adore and cherish that one person back, drives much of G and V’s behaviour. Simultaneously, the fear of the vulnerability required to achieve this desired scenario stands in the background. It stands ready to provide a small bottle of self-sabotaging and tragedy-inducing poison whenever either wants to admit they’d rather destroy any chance at love than let love destroy them.

They are remarkably capable of love. It thrives between siblings, aunts, uncles, nephews, nieces, parents. Love for exes. Love for ancestors. And their love, like their life, is multilingual. Acts, touch, time, affirming each other, gifts. Valdin buys Greta flowers, and things she thinks are too extravagant: feta, orange juice, spinach, limes. It doesn’t get sickly. Reilly cleanses the reader’s palate with regular and astringent, Underberg-grade shots of self-deprecating humour, relatable insights, and antics that make you lol. Actual lol.

Greta’s friend busts in on Greta’s girlfriend-to-be on the wharepaku and decides she is Greta’s type, so instead of quickly closing the door, she winks at her. Winks. At. Her.

Tears are wiped from faces with humour. Greta finds her 17-year-old nephew, Tang, crying on her doorstep. He wanted to tell Valdin he had to break up with his girlfriend because he’s in love with a man. Valdin is not there. Tang confesses to Aunty Greta he might be a monogamist. Greta muses that this is the thing to come out as, now. Tang says his new love needs their relationship to be secret, or he will lose them. Tang understands he is lucky to be part of the Vladisavljevic whānau.

Greta agrees. Her parents would never stop talking to her. When she was 13, she called her dad a ‘stupid bitch’ during an argument and he didn’t even pack a sulk. Greta and Valdin do this often when emotions run high. They recall small, fragmented and usually funny moments with no obvious significance to the situation. Reilly cleverly exploits this coping mechanism throughout the book to extinguish any spark of melodrama.

Greta and Valdin are lying on Valdin’s bed in their apartment before he makes a life-changing trip to Buenos Aires (the Argentinian city just happens to be where his ex, Xabi, lives, with whom he is still in love). Valdin called her into his room because he couldn’t sleep. There is some commotion outside. Or, more likely, a commotion in his mind. Valdin’s in a constant state of consideration. His choices, the possible outcome, consequences, the potential damage to his wellbeing caused by any residual shame. What should he do about being in the same city as his ex?

Meanwhile, Greta’s new girlfriend, Ell, feels guilty Greta invited her to meet her parents – she can’t reciprocate. Greta says she doesn’t want anything anymore. She’s reduced to a “beautiful husk filled with opinions about globalism and a strong desire to go out for dinner”.

Valdin recalls, as a young child, being the one most excited for his sister’s arrival into the world. He’d been going to school a month and hadn’t spoken a word to anyone. He wanted to name her Eevee after his favourite Pokémon. He stood in the doorway of her room and wished she would grow up to like him, want to be his friend.

Reilly uses expository dialogue – and not to the story’s detriment. I believe it is a theme of the book: to kōrero. To wānanga, lay a hāngi or share an auflauf, smoke a fish – kahawai, their mum Betty’s favourite – and party while talking, while revealing yourself and others through talking. What moves you, fucks you off, cracks you up. Figure out what’s got your brother, sister, mum, nephew hōhā. To talk about people not in the room with a genuine wish for them to be all good. For their brilliance to be seen and adored. This, I believe, is the tenderness Reilly achieves through her love for these characters, which translates page by page, word by word, to a love of people.

I thought about the comfort of Greta & Valdin while Reilly simultaneously pulls back the curtains so we can look at life outside their family for contrast. Beyond that curtain we see queerphobia: characters afraid to share with their family who they’re in relationships with. We see ignorance: Valdin being asked by colleagues, last minute, to whip out a karakia before a flight. Valdin, discombobulated, ‘rescued’ by a Pākehā who recites a karakia mō te kai. We see racism: their pregnant mum, afraid of being deemed a ‘statistic’, afraid of someone taking her baby away because she is Māori. I read greedily, satiating my hunger for narrative and conflict. Fascinated with how Reilly examines desire and its complications without tragedy, just the one black eye.

Greta & Valdin is published by Victoria University Press