Chapter One Juliana #2
Tio Enoque guides us inside and points at the mistletoe hanging from the chandelier above the entryway. Well, this is new. Feels a bit too on the nose for my mother. But why is Tio looking at us expectantly? Oh, right. The mistletoe. Shit, this is going to be awkward.
Eric’s gaze dips to my lips, then he reaches for my coat. “Here, let me.”
I ease out of the sleeves, and he drapes my coat over his arm before he erases the distance between us. “May I?” he asks against my ear.
I nod quickly, then lift my chin and close my eyes.
Eric snakes his free hand around my neck and slants his mouth against mine.
It’s a brief kiss—nothing more than a tap, really—but what he does next causes my heart to gallop.
He lowers his chin and rests his forehead against mine as he massages my neck.
We’re cocooned in his warmth, his minty breath tickling my nose and his seductive scent, a heady combination of sandalwood and bourbon, enthralling me.
I sneak a peek at him. His eyes are squeezed shut, and his chest is rising and falling—as if he’s actively trying to calm himself.
I wish I still had the right to press my lips against his Adam’s apple.
I wish he still had the desire to touch me everywhere.
Judging by the way he just shivered, maybe he does.
“You okay?” I whisper.
“Fine,” he says, pulling away abruptly. He shakes his head and busies himself with removing his own coat.
I imagine this isn’t easy for him either. Just a week ago, we were lovers. And although we failed to come to a meeting of the minds on a host of issues—including, most egregiously apparently, my workaholic tendencies—chemistry has never been a problem for us.
I look around the entryway. We both likely realize at the same time that Tio Enoque is long gone. Thank the heavens for small favors.
Eric closes the closet and turns to face me. His expression is unreadable. “Ready?” he asks.
I breathe in through my nose and exhale slowly. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”
He takes my hand and guides me to the kitchen, where everyone typically gathers for our get-togethers even though there’s three thousand square feet of additional space we could be occupying.
My gaze immediately lands on my mother, whose dark-brown eyes brighten when she spots us.
My heart squeezes in my chest every time I see her.
Even if the world were crumbling around me, my mother’s presence would keep me steady.
She’s resilient—one would have to be to survive my father’s toxicity—and incredibly kind.
No matter what he threw at her, she remained true to her values, true to her morals.
Any goodness in me comes entirely from her.
“You’re here,” she says, crossing the expanse of the kitchen to pull me into her arms. “It’s so wonderful to hold you.”
I hug her tightly, immediately feeling grounded in the moment. She’s doing well, and we’re spending the holidays together. My romantic life may be in shambles, but I have a lot to be thankful for. “It’s great to be home. I’m so happy to be spending this time with you.”
“Same, filha,” she says softly.
She greets Eric next, embracing him with the same level of affection she showed me.
I leave them chatting with each other so I can say hello to everyone else.
The gang’s all here too: My younger sister, Beatriz, and her husband, Carlos, are sitting on counter stools, their two-year-old daughter and my perfect niece, Isabella, trying with all her might to squirm out of her father’s lap so she can crawl across the kitchen island.
My twin uncles, Tio Enoque and Tio Marcelo, and Tio Marcelo’s wife, Claudia, are sitting at the breakfast table, which is covered with all sorts of cookware and gadgets, while my mother’s wife of four years, Nicole, is filling the dishwasher.
“Hey, Beezy,” I say to my sister. She lifts her face for a kiss on her forehead, which I give her before making a beeline for the baby. “There’s my Izzy,” I coo, snatching her out of her dad’s arms.
“What am I? Chopped liver?” Carlos asks.
“Oh, definitely,” I reply with a wink. “Sperm donor at best.”
Izzy immediately lunges for my hair, her small fingers sifting through my curls while she stares at the strands with rapt attention. I snuggle her neck and inhale her irresistible smell, a combination of clean skin and cornstarch that takes on magical properties when a kid is involved.
Nicole sidles up to me, a dishrag in her hands, and gives me a kiss on the cheek. “I like the shorter curls. You look great.”
“So do you,” I say, inspecting her youthful face. “Actually, do you age?”
“Trying to get a better Christmas gift at the last minute?” she asks, playfully narrowing her eyes.
“It was worth a shot,” I reply with an equally playful shrug.
By now, Eric has joined us and is making the rounds himself, his gaze occasionally finding Izzy and me across the room.
Grinning widely, he greets everyone with a level of enthusiasm that I know in my bones is authentic.
He loves them just as much as they love him.
The only aspect of this situation that’s fake is our relationship.
And of course, my treacherous brain can’t help spinning out a version of this evening in which he’s here voluntarily, spending time with me and my family because he wouldn’t have it any other way.
Because we’re building memories, making traditions, cementing our future.
Ugh, brain, get it together. Those things are no longer in the cards for Eric and me.
My mother taps Eric on the shoulder and points at the breakfast table. “Recognize any of this?”
Eric spins and surveys the table. “Ingredients for a meal? Are we making something?”
“Yes, pasteles,” my mother says with a smile as she lifts a piece of parchment paper to reveal a stack of banana leaves. “I figured since you’re spending Ceia de Natal with us, you’d appreciate a taste of what your mother would make. She’s the one who gave me the recipe.”
So this is the surprise—and it’s an incredibly sweet one at that.
What a relief. Eric loves pasteles. The labor-intensive process for this Puerto Rican Christmas staple includes braising the pork; making the masa of green bananas, squash, yautia, and potatoes; and preparing the annatto oil, among other things.
My mother’s gesture is a testament to her love for Eric, and a reminder that our breakup is going to leave a hole in her life too.
My mother and Eric’s speak to each other on a regular basis; I hope their friendship transcends their children’s relationship.
Tia Claudia taps the seat of the chair next to her. “Come, filho, sit next to me. I want to catch up.”
“No,” my sister whisper-shouts, “she wants to be nosy.”
Claudia sticks her tongue out at Beatriz, then asks Eric, “So when are you going to have children? I mean, look at her over there, she’s ready.”
Her is me. Why simply holding my niece suggests I’m ready for anything other than . . . holding my niece is beyond me.
I refuse to stick around for Eric’s reply. The reality is, it doesn’t matter. We’re no longer a couple, so the correct answer is never. “I’ll grab our gifts from the car,” I announce loudly as I hand Izzy back to her father.
“It’s time for us to get her ready for bed anyway,” Carlos says.
Everyone blows kisses at Izzy, who waves a limp hand and rests her head against her dad’s shoulder before Carlos and Beatriz take her upstairs.
Eric begins to stand, but I hold up a hand. “Have fun making pasteles. I can handle the packages myself.”
“You sure?” he asks, his uneasy gaze penetrating mine.
“Absolutely,” I say, looking away.
“I’ll go with her,” Tio Enoque says. “I need to get the tree from my back seat.”
I tilt my head at him. “The tree fit in your back seat?”
“It’s a big back seat,” my uncle says proudly, puffing his chest as he passes me.
I’m not even going to try to understand how he managed to get a tree inside his car.
Before I leave the kitchen, Eric says, “Remember: No work, Snookie Wookie.”
Tio Marcelo furrows his brow. “Snookie what?”
“Oh, I’m trying to decide on a new nickname for Juliana. You know, like a—”
“A term of endearment?” Nicole asks, wearing a comically skeptical expression.
Eric nods. “Exactly. ‘Boo’ or ‘babe’ doesn’t sound right.”
Oh, he’s playing dirty and absolutely bullshitting about this nicknaming business.
But more than that, he issued a thinly veiled threat about my job, so now I’m extra annoyed.
Because, yes, my part of the deal is that I agreed not to work this weekend.
If I do, Eric will come clean to everyone.
He reasoned that if I was asking him not to ruin Christmas with our news, I shouldn’t be allowed to ruin Christmas by being mentally absent.
Whatever. I turn around and place my phone on the buffet table. “Believe me, I remember.”
Our gazes clash, but we recover quickly and plaster on fake smiles. Except now my mother’s staring at us as if she’s sensing that something’s amiss.
Well, lovely. Eric and I didn’t even last an hour.