Epilogue 1
It’s Thanksgiving Day eve, and while the moms are having a lasagna cook-off, Junie and I are rolling out the dough for the pumpkin pie. Technically, she’s doing the work, but I’m getting a workout watching her smooth the rolling pin forward, turn the dough, and repeat.
Well, a mental workout—cardiovascular too, with the way she makes my heart pound.
It’s nearly midnight and I’m tired after winning the game against the Oklahoma Thunder—seriously, I’m not even sure why they bother playing. But someone has to be the losing team. Unfortunately for them, they haven’t won a game in over a decade.
The kitchen is warm and I take off my hoodie, setting it on the back of the chair, then wash a few of the dirty measuring tools.
Junie tosses her long, dark hair and then tips her head to the side as if trying to get a stray piece out of her eyes, but doesn’t want to get it sticky with dough since her fingers are covered in the stuff.
I dry my hands and then lean over her from behind. Taking a deep breath, I enjoy her almond and citrus scent. Some people like cinnamon and pumpkin spice, especially this time of year, but I like Junie.
She’s my favorite smell, season, human ...
I wonder if I reached out to Candlegram and described the way she smells, they could make me a candle.
“Need help?” I ask over her shoulder.
She shivers like my breath tickles her skin and from behind, I see the rise of her cheek as she smiles. “That pesky piece of hair.” She tosses her head as if trying to get it out of the way.
My fingers brush her scar as I tuck the piece of hair behind her ear. But I don’t stop there. I can’t, even if she needs to get this pie in the oven.
I drop my lips to the space behind her ear, then slide over to the corner of her jaw, before brushing my mouth across her scar.
“Mikey, I have to roll out this dough.”
“I know,” I say.
She pauses as if to ask Why am I initiating a make-out session?
Answering her unspoken question, I say, “And I need to kiss you.”
She giggles and spins around so she’s facing me. Holding her dough-covered hands between us, she says, “Okay, but no touching.”
“Your rules.” I brace my hands on either side of the counter, bracketing her in, and press my lips to hers. Or she presses hers to mine. I’m not sure who gets there first, but right now we’re rivals.
But not against each other. For each other. It’s like we’re both trying to make the kiss better for the other, sans hands, per Junie’s rules.
I nibble her lower lip and then shift directions, deepening the kiss.
She tilts her head, pecking her way along my jawline to the place behind my ear, and then she draws her mouth back to mine.
We continue in this way, kissing, teasing, pausing, and resuming as our pulses race, our breath quickens, and time and tasks are forgotten.
I don’t know how many times Junie and I have kissed—hundreds and hundreds. I’m not counting, but it never gets old or dull.
She smiles against my mouth and I sneak a peek. Her eyes are closed, long lashes brushing her cheek, lips lifted at the corners.
Her beauty will always catch me off guard. It’s like witnessing a miracle. A triumph. My grin grows along with my love for her.
Drawing back, she asks, “What?”
“Do you mean you can’t read my mind?”
She chuckles. “I just want to hear you say it.”
“I love you, Junie.”
She lets out a throaty laugh, and then she breaks her “no hands” rules, peeling up the sleeve of my T-shirt. “You still have the tattoo.”
I chuckle. “Uh, yeah. That’s kind of the nature of tattoos. They’re permanent.”
She playfully swats me. “I know that. But you could’ve gotten it covered up or had laser removal.”
I glance down at her name written on my arm and surrounded by roses and a, ahem, masculine design. There’s a hockey puck and stick in there, too, so don’t make any comments.
“You made a permanent mark on my life. It just took me a minute to get out of my own way and realize that.”
“Fourteen months,” she corrects, then nods. “I was figuring things out too.”
“But we’re together again and that’s what matters.”
“You’re tattooed on my heart. Everywhere.”
“You’re tattooed in my brain.”
“I love your brain and your face and your arms and your heart. All of you.”
She wraps her arms around my neck and pulls me in and the kiss deepens, widens, broadens. The pie will have to wait. Although we’re getting better at communicating and speaking, some things are best said without words because I know what she’s telling me.
Junie loves me, too.
How do I know that other than the way she kisses me like she never wants to stop?
Because she’s my wife.
Junie came with me to my away game back in New York. We’d already arranged to meet with the priest and had a small wedding in the same church where we were baptized, with a few witnesses—namely Margo and Beau, along with Gracie and Vohn.
We haven’t told the moms yet.