Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
Over the rumble of the cat’s purring comes the rise and fall of voices. I brace myself for Mom and Mrs. Cruz flying through the door, their hair on fire, bickering.
Instead, when I follow Miguel to the adjacent apartment, we find them laughing. Probably at each other.
They exchange a few words in Italian. Friendly words.
Miguel and I swap a wary glance.
To me, he says, “I was as concerned as you when I got the text that your mother was here.”
“How’d you know I was concerned—?”
The corner of his lip lifts as if to say he knows me, probably better than most people, so of course, he knew I’d have my finger ready to dial the fire department.
Put two fiery Italian women in a room together and there’s only one possible outcome. Or so I thought.
In the lilting language of their homeland, Mom thanks Carlotta for dinner.
I blink a few times as she exclaims about the Polpette al Sugo Napoletane—Neapolitan meatballs.
The look Miguel and I exchange now is one of cartoonish bafflement. They raged for years over whose recipe was better. Mom’s secret ingredient was ground pork. Carlotta insisted mortadella was key—a kind of salami, also pork.
The point is, their arguments were silly.
“Where are my meatballs?” Miguel asks, helping himself to a couple of glasses from the cupboard and pouring us both carbonated water from a green bottle. He passes it to me and his hand lingers against mine long enough for my heart to flutter like it did when he held my hand in the car.
I didn’t slap it away because I worried he’d startle and drive off the road. I couldn’t let go because his hand fit around mine so perfectly, I couldn’t help but pretend that we were still in love.
Carlotta says, “I saved you a plate. But let me reheat it so it doesn’t get dried out.”
“We just ate,” I say.
“You did?” Mom asks as if the notion of Miguel and me sharing a meal means something.
“Together?” Carlotta follows up.
“We were with the caterer,” Miguel clarifies.
They both brighten, hope surging in their expressions. “Together?” they chorus.
Apparently, Miguel didn’t clarify enough and my mother must not recall that we’re planning a wedding that’s not our own.
“For the wedding,” I say, then quickly add so there’s no misunderstanding, “For Erica and Shane.”
Carlotta lets out a quick sigh. “There, I thought we were going to have a second chance.”
My mother winks at her.
What is this sorcery?
Miguel, eyebrows pinched together, nods subtly in my direction, apparently reading my mind again.
“Is there something in the Cobbiton water?” I whisper.
“Their behavior is highly suspect.”
“Peppino is my only baby not in a serious relationship,” Carlotta laments, cupping his cheeks with what turns into a strong grip.
“Joey did not meet a girl when we were last in Canada,” Miguel says.
“I did so. We’ve been messaging,” Joey calls from the living area where he and his father sneakily watch soccer with the sound off.
Carlotta’s hand still cups her son’s face and I brace myself in case she squeezes or slaps his cheek. Again, as mentioned, she’s fiery.
He gently removes his mother’s palm before edging closer to me as if I’m going to protect him.
Charlie, the second youngest, says, “Mikey is in a serious relationship.”
I’ve never seen a porcupine in real life, but suddenly feel like my skin is covered in quills by the way that comment makes me bristle.
“With hockey.” Charlie laughs in the obnoxious way that only a little brother can. Joey lunges over the reclining chair and gives him a high five.
Miguel ruffles his hair with a little more force than he’d patted Purr-t Reynolds. Yeah, I took the liberty of renaming the cat. It’s far more clever.
As if coming out of a trance, I shake off the last minute of conversation.
Why would it bother me if Miguel is in a relationship?
I don’t necessarily care whether he’s happy, but it’s impossible not to notice that he’s dated a lot of women, at least according to social media.
It’s none of my business. But the notion of a second chance? No way.
Better rip off the bandage now if, for some reason, they are getting their hopes up.
I say, “Mama, we should get going.”
“No, sit down. Eat. Carlotta made you a plate, too.”
“I ate at the caterers already.”
She gives me a stern mom look that says I won’t be getting out of here without eating at least one meatball, so I take a seat.
Miguel sticks his tongue out at me as if gloating that I’m the one who got in trouble. I consider tossing a piece of garlic bread at him.
Mr. Cruz jumps from his easy chair when someone must’ve scored a goal. Realizing he drew attention to himself, he quickly changes the channel to hockey highlights.
“Pop, I know you’re watching soccer. It’s okay to like it better than hockey.” The slight dip in Miguel’s voice tells me that it’s not entirely okay. Maybe he wants his family to be all in with his career the same way that he’s all in with them.
Carlotta sets out a veritable feast. I don’t want to be rude, but I’m already stuffed. Thankfully, Joey and Charlie chip in with their hearty appetites, even though it would seem they recently ate pizza.
While our surroundings are completely different than the apartment on Henry Street, the company isn’t.
Sure, there are more white hairs, a few more wrinkles, and a strange concordance between Carlotta and Mom, but there was a honeymoon period from when Miguel and I announced our engagement and then broke it off.
How those bookend events went is a story for another time.
However, right now it feels a lot like peacetime.
After eating one meatball, okay, fine, two, I tell them about the three-course meal we had at Rae of Bite catering. I’m about to describe the appetizers we also sampled, but my mother interrupts by whispering to Carlotta.
I go quiet, tuning my ears because this is odd behavior. “Juniper might be watching her figure so she can still fit in the wedding dress. It’s been fourteen months.”
I gasp and am about to defend myself when I bypass her comment about my figure and land on the one about the wedding dress.
My mother shrugs. “I noticed you packed it during the move. Supposed you were hoping you’d have another chance to wear it.”
Nostrils flared, I’m ready to rain fire and then storm out the door, but the rental car isn’t here and we’re way out in the country.
Mom folds her hands on the table. “We have been discussing matters.”
I raise an eyebrow because I suspect the we in her statement are Momzilla and Queen Kong.
“We have everything figured out,” Carlotta adds, sitting beside her as if they’re a pair of monarchs on their wooden thrones.
Miguel’s fork clatters onto the plate.
I grip the edges of the chair because I’ve heard similar words spoken, pertaining to our wedding—they had the flowers, the music, and everything else arranged.
He mutters, “Momzilla and Queen Kong.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
“We’re going to design the build-out of the salon,” Mom declares.
Carlotta lifts her arms in a cheer, then slaps the table with her arthritic fingers. “We as in A-2 Carpentry Crew. We’re back in business.”
“Pop never stopped working,” Miguel says as if not quite following.
Carlotta whips into a frenzy of inspiration and ideas for my salon.
Yes, the dream salon that I’ve been thinking about since I was a little girl.
Much like when we were with Rae, I can’t get a word in edgewise.
A mixture of confusion, frustration, and anger stews inside.
Fear swells as if everything I’ve worked for slips away from me. They’re taking over ... again.
Miguel pumps his hands. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. The salon is Junie’s gig.”
Throat tight, my gaze snaps to his. Apology fills his eyes because he knows how they are—how they were. But this time he spoke up.
Finding my voice, I say, “Thanks. But I’m hiring someone local.”
“We’re local,” Mom says.
“But you stopped working—”
“I took a break for bereavement. Anyway, you said I’m your assistant. I figured I’d move things along. No sense in sitting in that lonely little house all day when I could make myself useful.”
My mother had hardly left our apartment in nine months and now she’s suddenly activated?
I start, “I’ve designed what I want the interior to look like and—”
“Yes, it’s all very modern and sleek, but we’re taking it in a different direction. Think old world.”
Carlotta adds, “Timeless.”
“Classic,” Mom says.
Carlotta waves her hand grandly in the air. “Polished wood, rich colors, regal designs.”
“Sounds lovely.” Mom smiles like it’s settled.
“I agree,” Carlotta says.
“You agree? You’ve never agreed on anything.” I’m ready to cite examples, but Miguel interrupts.
“This is Junie’s dream. Don’t you think she should be the one to design the interior and orchestrate the remodel?”
“Why do it alone when you have family to help?” my mother asks.
I pluck a meatball off Miguel’s plate and stuff it in my mouth because there is no reasoning, out-gunning, or escaping the moms when they’ve aligned forces. It happened once. I never expected it to happen again.
Miguel shakes his head, his long shaggy hair shiny in the soft light, and shrugs into his jacket. He passes me mine, and says, “Let’s go.”
Silence, unheard of in the Cruz household, settles over us as if he just had the last word. Then his father jumps to his feet and pumps the air.
“Sorry,” Mr. Cruz says, looking bashful.
Miguel pulls on a Knights beanie, hiding his gorgeous hair. “Don’t worry about it, Pop. Ma, thanks for the meatballs. I’ll be back.”
I thank her too, then Carlotta and my mother say a long goodbye, conferring softly in Italian and almost giggling.
Tension coils in Miguel as we wait for them, yet he still doesn’t say a word. My mind scrambles for how to redirect this remodel and seize the reins.