Page 93 of Love at Teamsgiving
“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.
EPILOGUE 2
It’s just before dawn on Thanksgiving Day. I wake to the sound of hushed whispering between a male and female voice—in Italian. Twisting the rings on my finger, today is going to be a big day—in addition to the meal.
Mikey and I are going to tell our families what we did while in New York, hope they don’t disown us, and let them plan the reception celebration with Margo.
But who’s out there? Does Mama already know? Is she holding Mikey hostage? He went home last night to not raise any suspicions. We’re still figuring out where everyone is going to live. There’s a large walkout basement at his house, our dream home, that the Cruz crew could finish off for her—then we’d all be under one roof.
I exit my bedroom to find my mother and brother at the kitchen table with an oversized piece of paper rolled out between them, heads bent together.
Asher’s gaze snaps up when I enter the room.
Mama rolls up the paper and says, “Nothing to see here.”
I rub my hand down my face. “What time is it?”
“Time for you to make some espresso,” Asher says.
“Why are you awake?” Pausing as my thoughts return from the dream I was having about turkeys baking pumpkin pie, I add, “What are you doing here?”
“Thanksgiving,” Asher says.
“No, I mean, what are you doing here?” Suspicious, I snag the rolled-up paper from Mama and open it to reveal a building plan schematic. Tilting my head, I ask, “Is this the salon? Have you been the ones sabotaging me?”
Asher gets to his feet. “No, of course not. Mama was concerned, so she called upon my expertise.”
“Your expertise? The Cruzes completed the remodel weeks ago.”
He nods slowly. “A different kind of expertise.”
I shake my head slowly. “I don’t understand.”
Our mother says, “Maybe it’s best you just leave this to Asher. You’re sleepwalking. Go back to bed.”
“Mama!”
