Chapter 2 #2
Shane emerges from the hospital looking haggard. As we’ve always done, he launches into conversation without a preamble, as if we’ve already been hanging out all day.
“I’m not cut out for night shifts. Don’t tell Erica, but I’ll hire a nanny when we have kids if it means I can get a full night’s sleep.”
“You’re already thinking about kids?”
“Of course. The pre-marital counselor wanted to make sure we’re on the same page.”
“Are you?”
He nods. “Aren’t you and Juniper?” He coughs and clears his throat. “Dude, I’m sorry. I blame sleep deprivation. I meant, weren’t you and Juniper? Scratch that. I didn’t mean to bring it up.”
“No worries.” I start walking in the direction of the bakery where he said we’d meet his fiancée.
Shane pivots on his heel. “Change of plans. Er, detour.”
We cross the street to another bakery. The scent of dough, cinnamon, and sugar fills the air.
“This place is new,” I say, getting my bearings.
He gets in line. “Best cinnamon buns in the city.”
The place is decorated for fall with garlands of colorful leaves, potted mums, and a little scarecrow on a stick poking out of the tip jar on the counter.
Shane places his order and asks if I want anything.
The gooey cinnamon dough is tempting, but I just ask for a coffee.
He says, “Actually, you’d better hold off until we get to the bakery.”
“We’re at a bakery.”
“Where we’re meeting Erica.” He pays and takes his paper plate with the cinnamon bun that’s nearly the size of his head.
I scratch mine, trying to understand.
His eyes get swirly as he stares at the massive roll and says, “Come to Daddy.”
I watch like I’m in the Sahara on safari or the urban jungle as a wild animal takes a big bite of the confection.
Playing at my level involves sacrifice and one of them is watching what I eat. Then again, I’m not big on sweets. Give me pasta carbonara or carne asada and I’m a happy camper.
Shane says, “I’d better eat this on the way; otherwise, we’ll be late.
” When I don’t move, Shane must notice my consternation because he adds, “This is literally the only thing that gets me through those shifts. Please don’t mention it to Erica because she has me on a diet for our wedding day. Wants to make sure I fit into my tux.”
Shane is a husky guy, but I don’t think he should be keeping anything from his wife, not even a cinnamon roll.
While we wait for the traffic light to change so we can cross to the next block, I say, “Dude, you have to tell her.”
He winces. “It’s not that big a deal. I only get these babies once, twice, maybe four times a week.”
“Dude,” I chide. “She’s going to be your wife. You can’t keep your overnight shift coping mechanism a secret.”
He sighs. “Any other wedded bliss pieces of wisdom you’d like to share?”
I snort. “We both know I didn’t make it to the finish line. Missed that goal.”
“What happened anyway?” he asks.
I let out a long sigh, rarely having told anyone the full story, but I will as a cautionary tale of what not to do, as his own nuptials are only a couple of months away. “I made a bad choice.”
“Like a cinnamon bun bad choice or—?”
“Worse.”
Gauging the distance between where we are, how long it’ll take Shane to finish the monster cinnamon bun, and the bakery where we’re meeting Erica, I tell a slightly condensed version of the wedding that wasn’t.
“Juniper and I were on track. Everything was cinnamon and sugar plums. But as usual, Junie’s mom and mine were fighting over something.
The pair are frenemies, real rivals. Always trying to one-up each other with recipes and everything that exists between Italy and this side of the Atlantic.
Of course, they involved themselves in planning the wedding.
Every day, there was a new disagreement.
Seating arrangements. The mix and mingle.
Whether to have a flower girl, ring bearer, or both.
It was a real Momzilla and Queen Kong situation. ”
Shane nearly chokes on his cinnamon bun with laughter.
“Trust me, it wasn’t funny. It turned into a big family thing and became a battle royale. In the end, Junie and I sided with our respective families.”
“Not each other?” Shane asks as if that was the obvious thing to do.
Waiting for another walk signal, I look at the ground. “They were being ridiculous and instead of coming together, we ...”
My heart aches when I remember our final exchange.
It went along the lines of me saying that when we got married, I wasn’t going to blindly side with her on everything.
She told me that if I can’t be in her corner, I don’t belong on the altar.
It turned into a fight about how I never agreed with her on anything.
I fired back, pointing out how she’s always telling me I’m wrong.
I continue, “I tried to salvage things by saying that we’ll figure things out as we go. She asked a question about banking. I had my way. The obvious way. She had another. Then the argument devolved. We took low blows.”
“Never fight when angry ... or hungry.”
My brow furrows. “Is there another way to fight?”
“After you’ve taken time to calm down.”
I shrug. “Never thought of that.”
“You can thank the pre-marital counselor.”
“Anyway, Junie is fiery. I’m me. It wasn’t the first time we’d argued. But I didn’t realize it would be the last.”
I tell Shane that when the wedding venue canceled the next week, we took it as a sign.
Junie made a grand exit. I let her go while wearing a scowl on my face that dared her to look back.
She didn’t. I moved on. Mostly. Sort of.
Not really. No one has ever compared to her.
Not even close. The press and social media fans and haters alike know that I’ve tried to find a replacement, which might have something to do with my being traded among the teams. I’ve been told that I bring too much drama with me. Pshaw.
Shane says, “That’s some sound advice.”
“Huh?” I ask, pulled from my thoughts and not entirely sure I offered anything of use.
“The gist is to form a united front. Agree with each other in group situations. Converse and correct in private. Don’t take low blows or walk away from each other unless you need to take a lap to cool off.”
I clap him on the shoulder. “Sounds to me like you’ll do just fine, my friend.” If only I had this kind of sound guidance fourteen months ago.
Shane pauses on the sidewalk. “So, will you be my best man?”
I tuck my chin, taken off guard. “What? Yeah, bro. Of course. Wow. Thanks for asking.”
“I was going to have Jonas do it, but—”
My eyebrow lifts sharply. “I’m your backup plan?”
“No, I was deciding between the two of you. But he’s still a boy when it comes to women. You’re a man.”
I bark a laugh, startling someone walking their dog. “Just last week, you texted me when you saw a photo online of me out with Rebecca Rios.”
“Erica is a big fan of her music,” he says.
“You told me to be careful. There are rumors that she’s a drama queen.”
“It’s true.”
“It’s true,” I repeat, having learned that the hard way, which resulted in me blocking her number and insisting my publicist, agent, and manager keep her far away from me.
He claps me on the back. “I think you’re going to be okay, though.”
Not quite following, I squint as if that’ll help me better understand the comment.
“I mean, with women. What you had with Juniper was special. The two of you were going to get married. You’ll always measure women against her, so with that litmus test, you’ll—”
I lose track of whatever else Shane says because I know where it’s going. But there won’t ever be another Junie.
I screwed up.
I’m missing out on the match for me. We were meant to be and threw it away.
Not only do I compare every other woman to her, not only did I want her at the altar, I put her on a pedestal and not in a worshiping kind of way.
Junie was smart, kind, caring, gorgeous .
.. and stubborn, but so am I. Maybe that was our downfall.
Having polished off the cinnamon bun, Shane tosses his paper plate in the trash and turns around in the other direction.
“Now, where are we going?” I ask.
“I have to walk off the cinnamon bun, so Erica doesn’t get mad. And probably the other dozen I’ve eaten.”
“At this rate, we’re better off lacing up and skating a few laps.”
“Game on in Cobbiton,” Shane replies.
He’s a Nebraska boy, and it’s soon to be my new home state.