Chapter 5 #2
I nod. “I’m not going back on my word or letting Miguel come between our friendships.”
Erica hugs me—not my favorite, given the whole touchy thing, but I welcome it now.
Margo says, “The second you get off the plane, I’m giving you one of those, too.”
Not if Mama pushes me into traffic when we get to Cobbiton—it’s a small town and I hear they do horse and buggy rides for certain holidays, but there are cars too and I don’t want to get hit.
Miguel accused me of being prickly, but my mother is the original thorn in everyone’s side.
I figured losing Papa would’ve softened that streak, but it’s only made her more coarse in everything she says and does.
Which reminds me, she should be home any minute.
From the phone, Margo says, “Just forget about Miguel Cruz. Imagine this: you’ll meet the man you’re meant to fall in love with at Erica’s wedding. You’ll have a fall fling—”
Erica squeals with excitement. “And have their happily ever after. That’s what I was saying.”
They chat about their brilliant plan for me to find my match in a few months. It’s highly unlikely, mostly because I’ve removed myself from the dating pool.
“I haven’t seen a single guy out here in Crocs,” Margo says, referring to a dude I dated earlier this year.
She goes through the “Male Scale,” and a few potential candidates in Cobbiton, never mind that she’s happily married.
“As far as I can tell, there aren’t any Sewer Dwellers.
They’re the lowest of the lowlifes and are easily identified by the overwhelming stench of cologne trying to mask their zombie stink.
Stay out of their basement lairs. Real-life case study: Tate. ”
Thankfully, we didn’t run into him at Honey & Lavender earlier. In fact, I haven’t seen him in a while. Perhaps he moved on or settled down. One can only hope a good woman straightened out his pickup lines.
The mention of cologne reminds me of aftershave and how good, how familiar, Miguel smelled earlier.
Margo adds, “No Surface Sketchies either.”
Erica says, “What’s the criteria for that one?”
I say, “These types of guys seem normal, but upon closer inspection, something is slightly off.”
Margo adds, “It may be readily obvious on the surface, but often they’re carefully camouflaged character defects.”
“Cough, Miguel, cough.” I mock having a hacking fit right as my mother walks in.
In a flurry of concerned Italian, she launches into a description of drafty buildings, our move, and tells me I need to use a comfrey compress to clear my lungs.
After assuring her that I’m fine, she gives me a long look and glances at the phone where Margo waves at her, and says, “Ciao,” in greeting.
Mama’s attention turns to all the boxes lined up like soldiers preparing for battle in a distant land.
A few choice words are muttered, and she casts a glare at the phone, as if modern technology were the work of the devil.
She disappears into her room, likely to pray a rosary for her friends and enemies.
Erica’s brow rumples, never quite understanding my mother on the few occasions they’ve met—then again, no one other than Miguel really has. Truth is, she and Carlotta are more alike than they’d ever admit.
Getting back on track, she says, “You were talking about the ‘Male Scale.’”
“Oh, right. The third is called the High Rise Haughty & Naughty: They hide serious wounds and likely experienced neglect from their mother or are trying to prove something to their father. They’ll use you and then move on.”
Erica says, “If this is what we’re working with, we have to get you married STAT.”
“But I haven’t dated in months. Four months, to be exact, since the NHL playoffs, since the last time I saw Miguel ...”
“What about Todd the Bod?” Erica asks.
I snort a laugh. “He was a fleeting crush I had at the gym. Then he decided he’d take it upon himself to demonstrate how to operate the leg press machine. Have you seen my quads? I don’t need a tutorial, thank you very much.”
My friends nod in agreement—strong legs are important since I’m on my feet all day.
“There was Yummy Boy,” Margo says.
We all laugh. That was the guy who invited me over for dinner, promising to cook a meal I wouldn’t forget. I showed up, and he was naked in an apron printed with the words Yummy Boy. More like Ew, Nasty.
Giving a little shudder, I say, “They all want to know about the scar on my face ...”
It’s not something I advertise. The delicate seam of stitched skin across my cheek does that on its own. I’ve mastered makeup, concealer, and contouring to hide it, along with different hairstyles, but in the right light, it’s loud and begs for questions to be asked.
Except Miguel. Of course, he knows all about it, but he never stared or made me feel anything other than beautiful. Once, he trailed kisses along the line of the scar, telling me in English and Italian how much he loved me ...
I stiffen. Not at the memory, but at the sound of his voice.
Erica’s head snaps in the direction of the door.
“What’s going on?” Margo asks as a deep silence and stillness stretches between us.
“Um, I think the enemy is at the gate,” Erica says.
“Do you mean Mikey is there? At the apartment?”
It would seem so.
“I’ll report back later.” Erica turns off her phone and then stares at me.
Never mind announcing his departure, Miguel Cruz is the kind of guy who declares his arrival to all who’ll listen. He doesn’t do anything halfway. Everything has to be extreme. Over the top. Extravagant.
In middle school, he did a live demonstration of the results of Mount Vesuvius erupting and showering Pompei with ash, using flour he’d collected from a nearby bakery. I found it in my ears and elsewhere for weeks.
In high school, he pulled off a big stunt by asking a girl to prom on the football field with fireworks. Thankfully, he was suspended and had to miss the school dance. Senior year, there was a rumor that he and the rest of the hockey team were naked under their graduation gowns.
In college, he fancied himself the big man on campus, boasting about his hockey stats and hookups.
Then, when his attention turned to me, I suppose I didn’t mind as much.
I’m not a “Pick me girl,” but I won’t lie.
It feels good to be chosen by a guy like him.
There was the time he had three dozen cannoli flown in from Italy.
Also, he got us season tickets to see the Kings—before he was on the team, which meant a lot because Papa came too.
Then there was the proposal when we were twenty-one.
With the help of the Zamboni driver, he inscribed Will You Marry Me, Junie? into the ice.
More recently, at least from what I’ve gleaned from Carlotta bragging to Mama, the true ostentatiousness began.
Including his return to our block, it would seem. That’s more like audacity, but I digress.
My heart flutters as I remember all the times I’d listen for him in the stairwell. This was back during the height of the somewhat inexplicable and wholly irrational mom-feud days, when our rivalry was just getting started, and he was still playing football while I was the team kicker.
Yet, we were always in each other’s orbit, riling each other up, unable to avoid entering a room where the other was. Hidden smiles turning into scowls, sneaked kisses turning into locking ourselves in the nearest closet.
“Wow,” Erica whispers.
“What?”
“Your cheeks are pink.”
I touch them. “With rage.”
“No, that would be red. You’re pink.”
A sharp knock comes from the door. We live on the fourth floor—no doorman. Miguel knows the code, so he never had to bother with the buzzer.
But I’m not blushing. No way. Then why is my face hot?
I thought I’d gotten him out of my life and out of my system.
Erica says, “While I’d love to see how this plays out, I should go.”
I turn toward the back of the apartment. “Right. We both should. Come on. The fire escape is this way.”
With surprising force, Erica shoves me toward the front door. “Juniper. Maybe the best man is here to discuss the wedding plans with the maid of honor.”
“Right. I’ll, um, just answer the door next week.”
“You won’t live here next week.”
My mind scrambles.
She presses her lips together, forcing back a smile. One I recognize because my expression and behavior must betray me.
I’m still smitten with my ex-fiancé.