Page 15 of Love at Teamsgiving
Is it a foolish hope? Yes.
Have I given up? No.
But I’d never admit it.
Junie’s dark hair is long, shiny, and wavy. Over the years, she had it dyed every color from red to brown, to blonde, and various shades from the rainbow. But right now, coupled withthe smoky eye makeup, the impression I get is pure thunder. There’s something undeniably beautiful about nature.
Yet she doesn’t need to let loose the winds of war or speak a word for me to know that she hates the idea of us being paired up to help plan Shane and Erica’s wedding.
So do I. But mostly because I anticipate that it’ll be a painful tease. We’ve proved that we’re incompatible at everything from baking a cake to making a life together.
As if reading my mind, she says, “Like the time you were house-sitting.”
“I didn’t know the frog had escaped its terrarium.”
“I still don’t know how you didn’t notice it in the toilet.”
“At least I didn’t flush.”
She says, “You need a haircut.”
I run my fingers through my long, dark hair. “So nice of you to notice.” But that means she’s looking at me. I shouldn’t be pleased by how that makes my pulse kick.
She wrinkles her nose. “You’re shaggy and unkempt.”
She’s right. I rub my hand over my stubble. I’ve been traveling, packing, and getting things set up in Cobbiton for my family.
Lips pursed and eyes heavy with a smolder, I say, “Then give me a haircut.”
Her gaze sharpens.
I instantly regret it because although she’s cut my hair plenty of times, I’m not sure I trust her scissor safety around me nowadays.
She snorts. “You wish.”
Rocking back on my heels, I say, “Oh, I see how it’s going to be.”
Tossing her hands in the air, Junie says, “I can’t do this.”
She starts to turn as if to leave, but Erica, in a motherly tone, says, “Juniper.”
Going still, her chest rises and falls on a long breath, and she turns back around, apparently surrendering to her friendship and whatever agreement they made when Erica asked her to be the maid of honor.
The engaged couple exchange a glance and then look at us long enough for me to zone out—if only to disassociate from what’s about to happen. It’s a parental stare, the one that builds while you squirm inside, anticipating the worst. With four brothers, I endured it often enough.
But I don’t expect what Erica says next, “Would you two just have it out already?”
Exasperated, Junie says, “We have been for twenty-five years.”
“How old are you?” Erica asks me, puzzled.
“We’re five months apart. We’ve known each other since diapers,” I answer.
“Some of us still wear diapers,” Junie mutters.
I pull a face. “Do not.”
“Children,” Erica says with gritted teeth.
