Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
I wonder if I’m the first maid of honor in history to be tasked with helping plan the wedding alongside my ex, who happens to be the groom’s best man.
Mom is at her afternoon canasta game and Erica helps me finish packing. The moving truck will arrive first thing in the morning and our flight to Eppley in Omaha leaves at eleven.
Last month, Margo helped me find a place to live, make some connections, and, of course, scope out a location for my dream salon.
Erica’s phone rings with a video call from Margo—wedding planner extraordinaire and the mastermind behind my move to Cobbiton.
They chat about the proposal last night as Erica sends her photos, and Margo comments about missing New York—but not too much. My attention fades when they discuss the wedding.
Margo encouraged me to make a change. Then, when she found love in the most unlikely place, the gentle pressure turned into prodding. Most recently, she threatened to come here with the hockey team and drag me west kicking and screaming if she had to.
You might say I’ve been a bit discontent and my friends have had enough of my wallowing, complaining, and general cloudy-day attitude.
Growing up, I was one of the boys—always hanging out with the Cruzes, was the kicker for the Wildcats football team, which was where the rivalry with Miguel truly began.
He could’ve been the kicker, but he has a good arm, so the coach wanted him on the field.
But it was more than that. It’s safe to assume that he made a pact with my brother that if another male high school student so much as breathed the same air as me, he was authorized to attack.
On multiple occasions, the guy went feral when one of them hit me up. Talk about a wildcat.
When Miguel started playing hockey, I spent plenty of time ice-adjacent.
I wasn’t a rink rat and certainly not a puck bunny, but two could play the game.
If he was going to scare away homecoming dates and tell stupid stories about me burping the alphabet from when I was a kid, no cute little cotton tails were going to get to wear his jersey.
Nope. I wore it loud and proud and obnoxiously. Funny though, it never so much as wiped the smirk off his face. If anything, it made him smile bigger, play harder.
As I mentioned: J-E-R-K.
To say we had a rivalry of epic proportions is an understatement. We were the living epitome of the show tune, “Anything You Can Do (I Can Do Better).”
Then, after Asher and I watched one of Miguel’s college games, my brother took off—by then, he’d already become a veritable Houdini—Miguel and I somehow ended up walking back toward his dorm in the snow. But we didn’t make it there before something I never saw coming happened.
The snow was gently falling. The campus was quiet. The conversation turned from heated to easy and was filled with laughter. Then we stopped, just outside the ring of light from a street lamp.
Time stilled as the snow continued to fall. Our breath puffed little clouds, our mouths met ... and something major shifted.
We couldn’t get enough of each other. First, we tried to keep it secret, but you can’t contain chemistry like that—fire and ice, him and me. Most of the time, I’m not sure which is which.
We fell hard and fast and he proposed. I’d never been happier.
Then the families got involved and stole our thunder ... and we let them.
Back in high school, I didn’t have many close girlfriends because I was always hanging out with the boys—the ones related to me or Miguel, since the rest were afraid of getting a black eye or waking up with the head of a black stallion in their bed.
Being a hairstylist slowly changed that, and I let myself get closer until I bordered on besties with the bubbliest human on the planet (Margo) and the most brilliant (Erica). They’re both sweet and are my surrogates in that department, but claim that they’re chipping away at my frosty exterior.
Miguel wasn’t wrong when he said that I’m prickly. Especially around him.
From across the nearly empty living room, my ears perk up when I hear his name attached to the words best man on the video call. Erica signals with a slicing motion across her neck that Margo not say anything else about that.
“It looks like you’re packing,” Margo says excitedly as if that weren’t obvious, then she adds, “Please tell me that’s Erica’s place. I’ve been hoping you’ll both surprise me on my doorstep.”
Erica answers, “I wish that were so, but I’m stuck here until December.”
“But the wedding.”
“Obviously, I won’t miss my own wedding,” she says. “Unless a certain maid of honor and best man mess things up.”
I pretend to drive a wooden stake into my heart. “Ouch.”
“Are you okay?” Margo asks from the phone.
“It’s just her pride. We’ve heard stories about the infamous Miguel Cruz, but I saw the two of them in action today.” Erica fans her face.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Margo asks.
“I mean, the Knights better watch out because if she shows up at a game while he’s on the ice, it’ll melt.”
I shove a stack of my mother’s romance books into a box—she used them to learn English. Right now, I’d like to find a book of matches and light love on fire.
“Suffice it to say, he really annoys me.”
Erica laughs like I’m going to get my big break as a stand-up comedian. “Is that what you call it? I was thinking more like enamored, intrigued, engrossed.”
I snipe back, “Yeah. That one. Gross.”
She corrects, “Engrossed, meaning captivated.”
“Okay, smartie. Keep your brainy words and opinions to yourself.”
“This sounds juicy. Spill,” Margo says.
Erica tells the entirety of the encounter at Honey & Lavender while I stack the last of the boxes by the door.
“Are you sure it’s a good idea to entrust them with the planning? I’d do it—I’d love to do it, but I’m already under contract for three weddings and the team events.” Margo frets.
Erica, who should wear an intense look of concern at the very notion of entrusting Miguel and me with her wedding plans, simply smiles. “I think it’ll all work out.”
“With a cream pie fight,” I mutter, given the Thanksgiving wedding theme. I sneak to the fridge and pull out the rest of the pumpkin pie from Kian. Looks like Mama had a slice, which is a good sign. The woman is all bird bones these days.
“Weren’t the two of you going to get married?” Margo asks.
“That’s ancient history.”
Erica goes still. “Until today, much of that was news to me, including that your parents were friends.”
“Rivals,” I correct.
“What part of the story did you know?” Margo asks.
“That they were a couple.”
“We’re talking about Mikey Cruz, right? New center for the Knights, right?” Margo asks.
“Unfortunately,” I say, not thrilled that he’s practically following me to Nebraska ... or is it the other way around?
Margo says, “I knew about the family stuff, but not that you dated a pro hockey player. That explains a lot.”
“And she left the family history part out for me,” Erica says.
I flop onto the couch and rest the pie tin on my chest. Seeing Miguel drained my tolerance-for-jerks battery. I need to recharge.
“Is there any ice cream left in the freezer?” Erica asks, eyeing the pie.
“It’s empty. This is all I have left.” If I weren’t me—a stone-cold city girl—I’d be crying right now.
“I hear there’s a new ice cream shop opening here in the spring,” Margo says brightly.
“That doesn’t help the immediate situation,” Erica says, sitting down next to me and setting the phone on the chair so it’s like she and Margo are gathered around me, staging an intervention.
Margo clears her throat. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“I want to eat pumpkin pie.” I pout.
“Okay, dear. But sit up so you don’t choke,” Erica says, guiding me into an upright position.
I start at the beginning, reiterating the story that Miguel and I told at the café. Then I add, “Before Miguel Cruz was a hockey star, we were enemies, before that, we were rivals, and before that, we were in love.” My throat tickles and my vision blurs with salty liquid for a moment.
Erica follows my words with her fingers.
“There’s a chance I have it out of order, but does that matter?”
“What about now?” Margo asks softly.
I wipe my hand down my face. “Back to where we started.”
Erica rubs my back. “In love?”
“Anything but that.”
“That was the order of operations you gave.” Erica repeats what I said.
“The outcome is still the same. The guy is back in my life.” I fight a stinging sensation in my eyes.
Margo says, “Thanks for telling us that.”
“That’s not even half of it. Miguel and I already planned a wedding once ... our wedding. When the venue canceled, we called it off. It was over. I went into a complete tailspin.” The memory sends a typhoon of emotions surging inside.
“Juniper, I’ll find someone else to plan the weddings for my business. Erica, I’ll take over,” Margo says, taking charge.
Erica replies, “Thank you.” Then, turning to me, she says, “Juniper, I had no idea that your past with him was so—”
“We were like Romeo and Juliet,” I say dramatically.
“Hopefully without the tragic end.”
“We called things off a month before our wedding date.”
“We’ve known each other—how long now?—and you never mentioned this?” Erica’s forehead pinches with hurt.
I haven’t told either of them the whole story, and while they both routinely confide in me, I’m not as share-y or touch-y or feel-y.
But not wanting to let Erica down, I shake my head. “No, I’ll do it. I want to plan your wedding.”
“With Miguel?”
My shoulder lifts and lowers. “Maybe to prove that we can be civil. Don’t worry, we won’t ruin your big day.”
Erica says, “But we’re best friends. I understand now why it’s more of a deal than I realized. If I’d known the whole story, I wouldn’t have—”
Sniffling, a renewed resolve fills me. “No, Margo is just getting her business off the ground. I’m your maid of honor. I want to help. My father always said, ‘Let your das be das.’”
“That’s Russian for yes, right?”