Chapter 4 #2
His calling me captain stings a little. I was the team captain for the Liberators for a minute. It was like I’d finally gotten somewhere in life and achieved something, rather than leaving a wake of destruction in my path.
Junie wears a frosty expression as if trying to hide the hurt that this topic brings up.
“Consider us your pre-marital counselors. There are a million things I’d rather be doing right now, but it’s time to hash this out,” Shane says.
Avoiding Junie’s gaze, I toss my hand over my shoulder. “We go back. Way back. Practically to the old country.”
“Your mom is from Italy and your dad is from, where again?” Shane asks.
Junie answers, “Mexico.”
“I thought your father was from Russia?” Erica asks.
I nod. “He is, er, was. My Pop is from Mexico. Came here when he was sixteen.”
Shane asks. “So which old country?”
“Our mothers knew each other back in Naples,” Junie starts.
“Italy,” I interject in case that isn’t clear.
“Coincidentally—or not—both our moms moved to the US after they finished high school. Not knowing anyone else, they tried to leave their family feud baggage behind—”
“Whatever that was, they refuse to talk about it. If Papa knew, he took it to the grave.”
I add, “You might describe our mothers, in modern terms, as frenemies.”
Erica tilts her head as if she didn’t know that part of the story. Interesting.
Some other café guests shuffle behind us, trying to fit laptop bags, a farmer’s market tote, and an assortment of treats onto another small bistro table, forcing Junie and me closer together.
Somehow, her almond orange blossom scent reaches me above the aroma of baked goods.
She removes her leopard print jacket, bumping my arm, sending a shiver through me that I fight by telling myself I just did a dozen laps on the rink.
“Sorry,” she mutters.
Unlike before, this time she sounds like she means it. But I’m not sorry. She lights something in me that’s undeniable. Something I haven’t felt in a long time. Something I shouldn’t feel. But it’s hard to resist.
Clearing my throat, I continue the story, “Later, our fathers went into business together. Pop did the framing. Junie’s father did the drywall. Her mom hung the wallpaper. Ma handled the books.”
Shane says, “Sounds like a real family affair.”
“A-2 Carpentry Crew with Anton and Armando,” I say, thinking fondly of her father.
“They tried, despite their differences.” Junie lets out a sigh.
I don’t miss the subtext.
“Their old country differences?” Shane asks as if trying to figure out whether it was as simple as whose marinara recipe was better or something bigger.
It’s my turn to sigh. “My hunch is it was over a boy.”
“One of your fathers?” Erica asks, also, apparently not aware of the extent of our shared history.
Junie shrugs. “No, well before that. I guess it was never fully resolved. But they both moved to New York and hardly spoke English. They sort of relied on each other. Like parasites.” She glares at me.
I give my head a shake. “Oh, come on. Our mothers weren’t like parasites.”
Junie murmurs, “Scarafaggio.”
I bark a laugh. “You know that I also speak and understand Italian, innamorata.”
She huffs. “I’m not your sweetheart.”
My lips quirk and, as ever, I cannot help myself. “You were.”
The look I get is glacial and practically freezes the blood in my veins.
“Did you call him a parmigiano like the cheese?” Erica asks.
“No, she called me a cockroach.” I chuckle. “Technically not a parasite.”
Erica points between us. “And you called her sweetheart.”
The engaged couple exchange a look that I can only take to mean one thing: they’re banking on having a happy marriage compared to the two of us.
Yeah, we tried that. Didn’t work out. Biggest regret of my life, not that I’d tell Junie that.
Erica wears a dreamy expression and then rests her head on Shane’s shoulder. “There are all kinds of love. Some of it burns hotter than others.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Junie asks.
Erica and Shane exchange another look like they can already read each other’s minds.
He says, “The two of you practically finish each other’s sentences.”
“Yeah, right,” I retort.
“We do not,” Junie says.
Shane adds, “I was afraid this was a terrible idea. But maybe throwing logs on the fire isn’t so bad.”
“Please make it work,” Erica adds.
Her fiancé claps the table as if that’s settled. “We’ll be in touch with all the wedding planning info.” He kisses Erica on the temple. “See you for dinner?”
Her cheeks turn pink and she smiles.
I find myself staring at how adorable they are, how in love without the vitriol, the conflict, and the need for a fire extinguisher, lest they put the surrounding customers at risk for loss of life or third-degree burns.
Shane tips his head in my direction, meaning I’m to go with him, and we exit the way we came.
“I guess I’ll be going too,” I say.
Junie says, “This isn’t the subway station. You don’t have to announce your departure.”
“Classic Junie snark. I missed it,” I say dryly.
She harrumphs.
When I reach the door, I glance over my shoulder and wink, erasing the faint smile on her lips.
The thing is, Junie and I hardly scratched the surface of our story. But being around her again, with the promise of more, isn’t the worst plan. In fact, I’m looking forward to it the same way I do a game against a rival team.
At least it’ll be interesting.