Page 38 of Love at Teamsgiving
“Harsh. I like you, Junie.”
Brushing off my comment, she says, “Well, I likePurr-tReynolds. I always wanted a cat, but we couldn’t in our apartment.”
“I know.”
She looks up at me, her bottom lip in a pout as if it’s not fair that I get to have a cat and she doesn’t.
But I want her, don’t I? I suppose life isn’t always fair.
CHAPTER NINE
Over the rumbleof the cat’s purring comes the rise and fall of voices. I brace myself for Mom and Mrs. Cruz flying through the door, their hair on fire, bickering.
Instead, when I follow Miguel to the adjacent apartment, we find them laughing. Probably at each other.
They exchange a few words in Italian. Friendly words.
Miguel and I swap a wary glance.
To me, he says, “I was as concerned as you when I got the text that your mother was here.”
“How’d you know I was concerned?—?”
The corner of his lip lifts as if to say he knows me, probably better than most people, so of course, he knew I’d have my finger ready to dial the fire department.
Put two fiery Italian women in a room together and there’s only one possible outcome. Or so I thought.
In the lilting language of their homeland, Mom thanks Carlotta for dinner.
I blink a few times as she exclaims about thePolpette al Sugo Napoletane—Neapolitan meatballs.
The look Miguel and I exchange now is one of cartoonish bafflement. They raged for years over whose recipe was better.Mom’s secret ingredient was ground pork. Carlotta insisted mortadella was key—a kind of salami, also pork.
The point is, their arguments were silly.
“Where are my meatballs?” Miguel asks, helping himself to a couple of glasses from the cupboard and pouring us both carbonated water from a green bottle. He passes it to me and his hand lingers against mine long enough for my heart to flutter like it did when he held my hand in the car.
I didn’t slap it away because I worried he’d startle and drive off the road. I couldn’t let go because his hand fit around mine so perfectly, I couldn’t help but pretend that we were still in love.
Carlotta says, “I saved you a plate. But let me reheat it so it doesn’t get dried out.”
“We just ate,” I say.
“You did?” Mom asks as if the notion of Miguel and me sharing a meal means something.
“Together?” Carlotta follows up.
“We were with the caterer,” Miguel clarifies.
They both brighten, hope surging in their expressions. “Together?” they chorus.
Apparently, Miguel didn’t clarify enough and my mother must not recall that we’re planning a wedding that’s not our own.
“For the wedding,” I say, then quickly add so there’s no misunderstanding, “For Erica and Shane.”
Carlotta lets out a quick sigh. “There, I thought we were going to have a second chance.”
My mother winks at her.
