Page 4 of Love at Teamsgiving
Pointing his fork at me, he says, “You’re not getting out of this that easily. We had an agreement.”
“It’s not bound by law.”
“Honor.”
I huff. “Fine.”
The man is wonderful, but also a self-proclaimed gossip. It’s not that he’ll spill the tea and share anyone’s secrets. More like he likes to keep a tea stash, knowing about everyone’s personal lives for reasons I don’t understand.
See, I never told anyone why Miguel and I called off the wedding. However, I vowed, in lieu of my wedding vows, to tell Kian what happened if I ever spoke his name out loud again.
“Technically, this doesn’t count. I said,Miguel.” This is but one reason I forced myself to start mentally referring to him by his given name rather than Mikey, so I didn’t slip up. The other is because the man is dead to me.
Kian glances at the neon clock on the wall. “I was going to threaten to stay here all night, holding you hostage, but the boss can’t be late to meet the new employees.”
“Thanks for the pie,” I say.
“Thanks for your years of loyalty.”
We exchange a hug, and I think about how that’s just it. I’m loyal to a fault. So was Miguel. Just not to each other—we were completely faithful, but we were more devoted to our respective families.
Kian starts toward the door and, over his shoulder, calls, “I came up with the perfect name for your new salon. ‘Hockey Hair.’” Before I can throw the remains of the pie at him, he’s gone.
In addition to being famous for its corn, Cobbiton is known for hockey, as the Nebraska Knights built a state-of-the-art arena there—the Ice Palace.
I’m a big fan and cannot wait to see the Knights crush the St. Louis Liberators.
Because yeah. Miguel is an NHL player and Kian’s parting comment tells me he knows I’m not over the guy.
I may never be.
One of the reasons we’re moving is because I want a fresh start for my mom. Another is to open my dream salon. Margo, my bestie, raved about Cobbiton, so I decided to take a chance. The third is because Papa always wanted to buy us a house—for Mama to have a front porch swing and a big kitchen. We’re renting to start, but it’s better than the apartment with all the memories.
The final reason is that for the last year or so, I’ve felt stretched thin like a worn-out hair elastic. I’ve kept a busy, non-stop pace sincebeforegraduating high school. Becoming a business owner might not change that, but it’ll be on my terms.
It’s also possible that I’m having a quarter-life crisis.
But my life isn’t a three-act play. It only has acts one and two. I’ve been stuck, trying to get to the third act where I’ll have a resolution, particularly in my love life ... and that won’t be with Miguel, so it’s better to get as far away as possible from any notion of him.
CHAPTER TWO
My father supervisesthe moving truck, as if the professionals I hired don’t know what they’re doing. Mom frets about her “Fine ceramics.” They’re thrift store finds and not antique collectibles, so I don’t get the big deal.
I get a notification. My ride to the airport is two minutes out. “Guys, I have to jet. Meet you on the other side and take care of my baby.” I glance at my car, which I insisted my father drive, adamant that my younger brothers don’t get behind the wheel.
Pop claps his hand on my shoulder. “Son, we got this. It’s not our first rodeo.” He’s speaking English, only he pronounces it Roh-day-oh, as in Rodeo Drive—the famous street in Beverly Hills, California.
Ma replies in Italian, “If only we were moving to Southern California. There’s a team there, right? The Lions? Why not switch to them?” She makes prayer hands under her chin.
“That’s not how it works, Ma.” She knows this. I think. I kiss her on the cheek, and then she kisses both of mine in the traditional Italian way.
Our family switches easily between English, Spanish, and Italian—sometimes a blend of all three. Pop is from Mexico andMa is from Italy—though they’ve both lived here for about thirty years and are fluent in English.
I only ever kept my Italian separate from Spanish because my mother and her best frenemy routinely argued in Italian.
Pop and I shake hands and then hug. Ma asks if I have enough snacks packed. It’s not as if I’m marching off to war. I’m merely traveling to New York for a day before the season starts to see my buddy Shane Finch. He’s getting married and I have a hunch he needs my help, which is baffling since we both know my almost-wedding was an abysmal failure.
My brothers wave.
