Chapter 15 #2
“What about ‘Junie’s Hair Salon?’”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Your mother seems to be adapting. I saw her cheering us on.” Junie too. In fact, she was so distracting that I had to recite Hockey Hall of Fame stats so I remained focused on the game.
I pull the car into an on-street parking slot on 4th and cut the engine.
“What are we doing?” she asks.
“I said I’d walk you home.”
“My house is over a mile away.” She points.
“Or just walk for a little while.” I need to burn off some of this restless energy ... and I want to spend a little bit longer with her.
She exhales slowly and adjusts in the seat so she’s facing me.
I ask, “Remember when we walked home in the snowstorm?”
“Of course.”
“Then we’d meet up at dawn after snowstorms?” It became our thing. I wonder if that’s why winter is her favorite season.
Junie’s gaze floats to mine. “And the city was as quiet as it could get.”
“A hush.” My voice is barely above a whisper.
She leans closer, but I don’t think it’s to hear me better. “Stillness.”
My gaze dips to her lips.
Cheeks flushed, her eyes sweep mine.
“We could,” I whisper.
“But should we?” she asks.
A truck drives by and the bass shakes the car. We both laugh nervously. Maybe not so quiet after all.
As if unable to bear remaining stationary in the car together without doing something that might steam up the windows, at the same time, we both throw open the doors.
The scent of wood smoke hangs in the crisp air and I meet her on the passenger side.
My pinky hooks hers. Like with my arm earlier, she doesn’t try to shake me off.
But her exhale is shaky, as if still recovering from our almost-kiss.
I say, “It’s quiet here again.”
“Too quiet,” she says.
“I’m getting used to it.”
“I have to sleep with a white noise machine,” she confesses.
I chuckle. “Do you miss the deep bass from cars, honking horns, sirens, and hollering at all hours?”
“My body does.” She glances up at me.
Taking that as her way of saying that she’s missed me without wanting to risk rejection, I pause on the sidewalk. “I’ve missed you, too, Junie.”
Her eyes sparkle in the dim light. “Really?”
“Have I not made that clear?”
She sticks out her bottom lip. “Maybe you could make it clearer.”
I’m about to give in to temptation and go for a real winning kiss that’ll light up the entire block, but I don’t want this to just be about our physical attraction.
Taking her hand, I say, “Let’s take a walk down memory lane.”
“But we’ve never so much as strolled down this sidewalk together.”
“I meant back to when we decided not to have a future together.”
“You really want to go there?” Junie asks.
I pause on the sidewalk, “I’m not a puck bunny, Junie P.”
She laughs. “No, you’re a hockey player.”
“I want you to want me for more than just my devastating good looks.”
Her lips quirk. “You need a haircut.”
“Or my abs of steel.”
“I don’t need to use them to do my laundry. We now have a washer and dryer in the basement.”
I chuckle because she can deflect all she wants, but I score winning goals. Proved that tonight. “Don’t want me merely for my hockey prowess.”
She’s quiet for a moment. “What about for your way with your hands?”
I bump her with my shoulder because I know she’s teasing or is that subtext?
Taking a deep breath, I continue, wanting and needing to see this through. “It’s good to see the moms getting along, but what if all our problems were their problems?”
“Or that we refused to be responsible to each other rather than loyal to them.”
“Don’t get me wrong. I love and honor my family, but what if we took on their stuff?”
“Or let it get in the way.”
I squeeze her pinky. “Both. Having you back in my life, I’ve been thinking about all the things I love about you.”
“But we proved that we’re not good for each other, Miguel.” A plea enters her voice.
I go still before gently brushing her bangs out of her eyes. “Junie, I’m sorry that I hurt you. That my actions caused you to feel vulnerable. Put you in a position to fear risking your heart.”
She bites her lower lip and looks up at me, eyes liquid.
I repeat, “I’m sorry. What if we work things through?”
She brushes her fingers through my hair.
The air sticks in my lungs as I hold my breath. Hold onto hope.
But instead of answering my question, she says, “You do need a haircut, especially with the wedding coming soon.”
“Give me one,” I say, going along with her silly attempt to distract me. But I’m not turning away this time. Not even to get a haircut. The only person who can take a set of scissors to my hair is her and I’ll prove that even if it takes the next fifty years.
“No,” she says.
“Please.”
“No.”
Recalling what Mrs. Popovik said about patience, I say, “Classic Junie. So disagreeable.”
“No,” she says with a smile.
“I’ll pay you.”
“No.”
“I’ll even leave a tip.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because the last time I gave you a haircut ...” she trails off.
“I proposed,” I finish the sentence.
She was working late, so I brought us dinner and dessert. She gave me a trim, I helped her clean up, and then, after she locked up, I got down on one knee right there on the sidewalk outside Guys and Dolls.
Jarring me from the memory, Junie asks, “Are you bringing a date to the wedding?”
I sling my arm around her shoulders and continue to walk. She can play hard to get all day ... and night, but eventually, I’m going to win her back.
“Of course.”
She stiffens and comes to a stop. Looking up at me, fire blazes in her eyes. “Who?”
“The girl who wore my jersey tonight.”
“There were like a hundred of us.”
“But there’s only one of you, Junie.”
I won’t ask her whether she’s bringing a date. Because she is. It’s me.