Page 17 of Love at Teamsgiving
Junie answers, “Mexico.”
“I thought your father was from Russia?” Erica asks.
I nod. “He is, er, was. My Pop is from Mexico. Came here when he was sixteen.”
Shane asks. “So which old country?”
“Our mothers knew each other back in Naples,” Junie starts.
“Italy,” I interject in case that isn’t clear.
“Coincidentally—or not—both our moms moved to the US after they finished high school. Not knowing anyone else, they tried to leave their family feud baggage behind?—”
“Whatever that was, they refuse to talk about it. If Papa knew, he took it to the grave.”
I add, “You might describe our mothers, in modern terms, as frenemies.”
Erica tilts her head as if she didn’t know that part of the story. Interesting.
Some other café guests shuffle behind us, trying to fit laptop bags, a farmer’s market tote, and an assortment of treats onto another small bistro table, forcing Junie and me closer together. Somehow, her almond orange blossom scent reaches me above the aroma of baked goods. She removes her leopard print jacket, bumping my arm, sending a shiver through me that I fight by telling myself I just did a dozen laps on the rink.
“Sorry,” she mutters.
Unlike before, this time she sounds like she means it. But I’m not sorry. She lights something in me that’s undeniable. Something I haven’t felt in a long time. Something I shouldn’t feel. But it’s hard to resist.
Clearing my throat, I continue the story, “Later, our fathers went into business together. Pop did the framing. Junie’s father did the drywall. Her mom hung the wallpaper. Ma handled the books.”
Shane says, “Sounds like a real family affair.”
“A-2 Carpentry Crew with Anton and Armando,” I say, thinking fondly of her father.
“They tried, despite their differences.” Junie lets out a sigh.
I don’t miss the subtext.
“Their old country differences?” Shane asks as if trying to figure out whether it was as simple as whose marinara recipe was better or something bigger.
It’s my turn to sigh. “My hunch is it was over a boy.”
“One of your fathers?” Erica asks, also, apparently not aware of the extent of our shared history.
Junie shrugs. “No, well before that. I guess it was never fully resolved. But they both moved to New York and hardly spoke English. They sort of relied on each other. Like parasites.” She glares at me.
I give my head a shake. “Oh, come on. Our mothers weren’t like parasites.”
Junie murmurs, “Scarafaggio.”
I bark a laugh. “You know that I also speak and understand Italian,innamorata.”
She huffs. “I’m not your sweetheart.”
My lips quirk and, as ever, I cannot help myself. “You were.”
The look I get is glacial and practically freezes the blood in my veins.
“Did you call him aparmigianolike the cheese?” Erica asks.
“No, she called me a cockroach.” I chuckle. “Technically not a parasite.”
