Page 1 of Between Love and War
CHAPTER ONE
Kate
If you press a hot towel to your forehead and breathe like you’re dying, you can fake a fever for at least twenty minutes.
It’s a hack I’ve mastered in the past three days. A survival skill. Because when you have a big family and also live in a small neighborhood where everyone knows each other, finding solace is like a mission onThe Amazing Race, but the obstacles aren’t locked doors or cryptic puzzles. They’re tactless aunts and nosy third cousins.
I make my way down the stairs to sneak into the kitchen as quietly and as invisible as possible.
My extended family isn’t always here, but when they are, the world shrinks by three sizes and our house is jam packed. Even my room isn’t sacred. Haley and I currently share it, which is fine most days. But when you’re introverted and your twin is a pink-haired force of nature currently hiding from a cousin who called her hair atrocious, the chaos doubles.
“Katherine,” my Tita Tess says from behind me. How do I know it’s her? You can hear her coming before you see her—the heavy clip of her wedge sandals and the faint jingle of her oversized bangles. And when I whirl around and she finally appears, she’s a sight to behold: a neon-green blouse, jeans that look like they’ve time-traveled from 2005, and a pair of earrings so big they could double as wind chimes. Her perfume also does a really good job of announcing her arrival a full ten seconds before she does. She smells like those sampaguita perfumes at a department store tester aisle.
“You should really stop wearing those long floral dresses, they age you,” she says, while stirring her coffee in an old mug with a photo of a forgotten political candidate from years ago. I want to tell her that I don’t think I should take fashion advice from Divisoria Cyndi Lauper, but I smile instead.
Balancing my tumbler and a stack of my students’ paintings, I say, “Oh, I don’t mind. I’m on my way to teach five-year-olds. Looking aged is the least of my concerns.” I finish off with a chuckle.
“Still,” she insists. “A little effort never hurt anybody. Especially when you’re almost thirty and still single.” And there it is. It took exactly three minutes from the moment I stepped out of my room before someone reminded me that I am apparently on a fast track to spinsterhood. I want to tell her that I’m twenty-seven, which is technically closer to twenty-five. But I don’t. People-pleasers don’t fight every battle. Or any battle.
I force another smile, gripping my tumbler a little tighter. “I’ll keep that in mind, Tita.”
“You do that.” She gives me an approving nod, then goes to the kitchen for breakfast. Suddenly I’m not in the mood to eat anymore. I sigh. I wish I had Haley’s ability to not give a single care in the world.
When my mom calls from the dining table, asking if I’ve had breakfast, I feign an apologetic look. “I forgot I need to finish a report before class,” I say, tapping my tote bag as if that somehow proves my point.
She frowns. “You should still eat something, anak. You always skip meals—”
“I’ll grab something on the way,” I say quickly, already inching toward the door.
I weave past my nieces and nephews, who are shrieking as they dodge my Lolo, who’s pretending to be a monster, arms outstretched and growling in mock terror. My Lola yells at them to stop before someone breaks a vase or a bone, but as usual, they ignore her.
Just as my fingers curl around the doorknob, the morning news plays from the living room TV.
“—heated controversy involving Michael Lee, captain of the national basketball team, after a video of him pushing a referee surfaced online—”
Curiosity wins over escape, and I turn just in time to see the grainy footage flashing across the screen. It’s taken from a courtside angle, shaky from someone’s phone, but the scene is clear enough.
Lee, all six-foot-infinity of him, in his signature blue and white jersey, chest-to-chest with the referee. A moment of heated words, then his hands make contact. It’s not a full-blown shove, more like an aggressive brush-off, but the referee stumbles back. Whistles blow. Chaos erupts.
The sports analyst continues, “This incident has sparked heated debate among fans and analysts alike, with some calling for disciplinary action while others defend Lee, citing that he needed a break from his recent injury and not to forget the emotional intensity of the game.”
I scoff under my breath.Emotional intensity?That’s a convenient way of sayinghysterics.
A montage of talk show hosts and sports commentators flash across the screen, all weighing in on the drama. A news ticker at the bottom scrolls through words like ‘suspension’ and ‘public apology.’
“Hmm,” Lola hums from the couch, her eyes still glued to the TV. “That boy needs to learn some manners.”
Tita Tess chimes in from the kitchen, “He just needs to find a nice girl to humble him. I heard that one TV actress is interested in him.”
Shaking my head, I push the door open, letting the humid morning air wash over me as I step onto the porch. I have a full day of preschoolers ahead of me, and the last thing I need is to waste brain cells on an entitled athlete throwing a fit.
I enter my car, finally in solitude. I make a quick detour to Lily’s, our convenience store-hangout spot that’s open 24/7, to drop off the brownies and cookies I baked last night. I bake fresh batches everyday for Lily’s lounge. It’s therapeutic for me, and I feel like I contribute to everyone’s cravings in a way.
“Kate,” Manang Linda, the owner, says as I enter the store. “Thank you.” She grabs the tray off my hands and starts arranging the pastries on the table. She’s in her seventies now, but she’s as put-together as ever—tailored pants, a polka-dot blouse, hair neatly styled. And, as expected, she’s already deep into the latest neighborhood gossip. Today’s topic: Freida, our neighbor, who apparently has a new boyfriend after being widowed for years.
I barely have a second to breathe before she presses a folded piece of paper into my palm. “It’s time for the year-end party preparations.”
I glance at her, then at the paper. “It’s October.”
