Page 50 of Love at Teamsgiving
Maybe Junie and I still like each other.
Junie takes a bite of the maple buttercream cake with layers of apple, pumpkin, and pecan. “Oh, my goodness. This is phenomenal.” Her gaze lands on me as if to gauge my response.
I take a bite as I hold the most beautiful pair of brown eyes, streaked with cinnamon, sugar, and spice in my gaze. “I love it.”
Her voice a whisper, Junie says, “Me too.”
Perhaps we still love each other. But before either one of us will admit that, we need to restore our friendship.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
When we get backin the car, I say, “That was good.”
“Delicious.”
“Progress.”
“A success.”
Then I casually add, “What if we start over? Like, get to know each other again.”
Without argument, she simply says, “Sure.”
“Maybe we can be friends.” Maybe she’ll call me Mikey, though I don’t mind her calling me Miguel as much as I did before. It’s like how I’m the only one she lets call her Junie.
As if instantly picking up on how this could go, she asks, “What’s your favorite season?”
“Hockey season.”
“I didn’t ask about your favorite sport. I said season.”
“Hockey,” I clarify.
“Har har. Well, in case you’re wondering, my favorite season is winter.”
“Then why didn’t we plan to get married in winter?”
Her shoulder lifts slightly. “It seemed easier to go along with what everyone else wanted.”
And what do I want? Her. For her to be my wife, and for her to be herself with her family, our families.
“You’re not that kind of person, Junie.”
She’s quiet for a long beat as if digesting this fact. Probably doesn’t go down as easily as Casey’s Kakes.
“What’s your favorite sport?” I ask, knowing her answer.
“Hockey,” she says as if that’s obvious, but it does break the ice. Yeah. Har har.
The rest of the ride to bring Junie back to the salon so she can pick up her car is fueled by sugar before we somehow detour into the topic of weddings, which results in what feels like a roadblock. Jersey barriers and pylons appear out of nowhere. The ice freezes over again. A flashing sign readsCaution.
Between the apology I never gave her for walking away and returning to her life to plan someone else’s wedding, the moms taking over the construction of the salon, and Thanksgiving without her dad, I want to hug her.
But instead of giving me a chance to get out of the car, open the passenger side door for her, and say goodnight, she shoves it open and starts to storm off.
I could give her space and time. But isn’t fourteen months enough?
Instead of waiting to see if she’ll look back, over her shoulder, I exit the car and rush after her.
