Chapter 9 #2
My mother says, “I’ll see you tomorrow and we’ll also discuss the meal.” They exchange kisses on each cheek and then start chattering again before I drag Mama away.
When we turn onto the road from the driveway, Miguel breaks the long stretch of silence. “Mrs. Popovik, hypothetically, if I had a guy friend who had an ex, whose brother meddled in, um, his life, what kind of advice would you suggest I give him?”
“What kind of meddling?”
“Oh, well, like, how about telling her what to study in, um, the school of life, how to decorate her apartment? Things like that.”
I sneak a peek at him as we pass under a streetlight. His eyes are tight.
My stomach is a knotted rope pulled in opposite directions by the moms’ pending involvement in my salon and how he’s trying to stick up for me. What could that mean?
Mama says, “I’d suggest that her mother, er, brother, loves her very much and just wants what’s best.”
“Yeah, I figured that’s what you’d say.”
“I’d also say your friend and his ex should spend Thanksgiving together and try to patch things up,” my mother adds.
She’s so onto him. Doesn’t miss a trick. Never has. Then why and how is she such a bulldozer when it comes to me orchestrating important things in my life?
Miguel says, “But they’ve proven that they’re not a good couple.”
“But do they love each other?”
Miguel and I both start squawking and coughing like a goose just flew into the car and got feathers everywhere.
My mother, small but mighty, speaks over us. “Love is easy, but whoever told you relationships are was a liar. Relationships take patience, sacrifice, compromise, devotion—”
“All the hard stuff,” I mutter.
“You go through the hard stuff and then it gets really good. You have to learn to be patient as you grow together. You sacrifice what you want and look at the reality of what’s best for you as a couple.
Choosing compromise over the stubborn need to be right and having utmost devotion to your future. Tell that to your friend.”
I glance over my shoulder, expecting to see an exploding bomb as we pull up at our ranch rental.
She leaves us both in silence as she says goodnight because obviously, she was talking to us.
Studying my hands for a long second, I grip the car’s door handle. “Thanks for trying to help.”
Miguel nods and says, “I’ll bring you to pick up your car.”
On the way to where I left it in town, we remain quiet, awkwardly so, but mostly because it’s like we were both scolded. However, strangely, now it feels like instead of coming at each other with forks and knives, we’re on the same side of the table, the same team.
He pulls up to the curb in front of the salon and gets out. I don’t move because I figured I’d be the one getting out, slamming the door, and that would be the end of our little evening together.
But he circles to the passenger side and opens the door for me. When we were younger, Miguel was more goofy than he was gentlemanly. We laughed a lot. When things were good, they were great. Somewhere along the line, we took a wrong turn. Ended up lost in a battle of the wills.
Joining him on the sidewalk, he looks up at the building. “What are you going to name it? I’m guessing not Pigtails & Ponies.”
He remembers that? “I should just let my mother handle it. It could be Guiliana and Carlotta’s Place.”
Miguel doesn’t laugh because he knows my comment isn’t just about the salon. “You could tell them no. Single word. Complete sentence.”
How about I tell him no ... let’s not play pretend: that we’re friends, that we can get along, plan another wedding. We don’t want Erica and Shane’s big day to be a disaster, so we should bow out now.
Yet I can’t say it. His eyes, his scent, his everything follow me wherever I go. They always have. Given my failure to convince myself that I am no longer in love with him, maybe they always will.
But, like Mr. Cruz, I switch the channel back to the matter of the moms. “When have I ever been able to tell them no? They’ll just roll the wallpaper over me. Then again, the last thing I expected was for them to join forces again.”
He rubs his hand down his face. “That was a surprise. But this salon is your baby, Junie. Your dream. They interfered once and ...”
He lets the sentence dangle. I know how to finish it. Our mothers got involved in our wedding and that didn’t work out well.
“Mom has had a tough time since Papa passed away. She hasn’t so much as eaten a meatball since—” I shrug, unable to remember when I last saw her eat a full meal, no less prepared one.
“They were a good couple. It has to be hard without him.” Miguel finds my pinky and squeezes it as if to say that he knows it’s been hard for me, too.
My eyes burn because this used to be our thing, secret little pinky squeezes when no one was looking. We started timing it to see how long we could hold on before we risked getting caught by any of the brothers.
I like the way his attention and touch feel. So why do I resist it so hard? Because it’s taken a hot (and tear-stained) minute to put my broken heart back together. If you know me at all, I don’t cry easily.
The truth is, when it comes down to it, he won’t pick me. It’ll be his family or hockey first.
A shiver runs through me and I take a deep breath of the crisp air. “My mother is a formidable woman, but without Papa, it’s like she’s lost. I thought leaving New York would help. Get her out of her shell. She started a new life in America, why not again ... in Cobbiton?”
We both chuckle, as ever, in sync.
“Small world?” Miguel asks.
“Strange one.”
He leans on the car and puts his hands in his pockets. “I know this is what you always wanted. Don’t let them take it from you.”
Opening a salon is only part of the story. Less than two years ago, my life looked a lot different—my future involved being married to and making a life with this man, spending all of our holidays together, and opening a salon in Manhattan.
“Thanks, but—”
He turns to me, expression serious. “If you don’t want their help, we’ll tell them no.”
“Have you met my mother? Yours?”
The corner of his lips quirks. “I’ve also met you, Junie. They have to team up to be a force of nature. You’ve got that ferocity, determination, and motivation all on your own. If you want a modern, sleek salon and to hire a different company to see that happen, that’s your decision to make.”
He’s right, but my shoulder lifts in a shrug. “Thinking more about it, given this area, maybe the idea they have is better. Know your clientele and all that.”
“You’d have a better sense of that than they do.”
He plants his palms on my shoulders. His gaze sweeps over me until I look up at him and our eyes lock. My heart flutters. Warmth replaces the chill on my skin as the autumn air sweeps along the street, dusting up dry leaves.
My body aches for his arms around me in a hug because what he’s saying without saying also applies to us, to our big dream of being married.
Miguel knows me. Loved me once.
But we don’t close the space. Not even an inch.
It’s like if we keep our distance, we won’t have to relive the agonizing disappointment.
“Thanks.” I grip his wrist, still on my shoulder, wanting to kiss the little patch of skin and then find my way up to his tattoo. But my name probably isn’t there anymore. He’s no longer mine.
“I’m happy to help. Whatever you need to get your shop open the way you want it, I’m your guy.”
But he’s not. I shrug out from under his grip and to maintain the emotional space as well as the physical, I tease, “I think you just want an excuse to hang out with me.”
“Is that so bad?” Miguel asks.
His reply is almost as good as a hug. But it’s as if I’m preprogrammed to try to repel him, and I say, “You’re bad for me. And I’m bad for you. We both know this.”
“Do we? Or is that a story you told yourself because you’re disappointed that we didn’t stand up to Momzilla and Queen Kong and do things our way when we had the chance?”
And those words are like a slap in the face.
His dark eyes bore into mine. “Instead of creating boundaries with your mother, you pushed me away.”
I shuffle back, casting a glare. “Way to psychoanalyze me, Dr. Cruz.”
“I’d send you the therapy bill, but I know you’d just throw it in the trash.”
The truth sends a shudder through me, but I storm off, calling over my shoulder. “Thanks for the help, but your services are no longer required.”
I stew and simmer all the way to the rental.
The house is dark. I could really use another meatball right now.
A whole plate of them because there’s no way I’m wearing my wedding dress again.
If Miguel can be married to hockey, I can be married to meatballs and my salon and it’s going to be the best one in Cobbiton. The only one, but still.
I hardly sleep that night. The inner simmering goes to a full boil until the water evaporates, and the pot begins to burn.
I was under the false impression that this big move would not only benefit Mama, but I’d finally get to do things my way, outside the confines of New York and beyond the trappings of the past.
Then Miguel has to be here along with Momzilla and Queen Kong. I wonder what life is like in Alaska, Antigua, or Austria. Maybe I could open a salon in one of those places.
Who does he think he is, telling me that I don’t have boundaries with my mother and pushed him away because it was easier than dealing with her?
A little betraying brat inside reminds me that it’s because that’s my own interpretation of events. He didn’t say any of it. I inferred it because ... it’s the truth.
Whatever. He doesn’t get to reveal that to me. It’s not his job. I didn’t solicit his advice. Made no request for his opinion.
The brat snaps her fingers again, pointing out that it’s somehow easier to say no to Miguel than to my mother. I toss in the bed, not wanting to face that truth either.