Page 109 of Between Love and War
He grins, jogging after the rebound.
“But no,” I say, “not just basketball.”
He tilts his head. “Go on.”
“Every time you miss a shot,” I explain, “you have to say something real. Something true. But not just any truth—not like ‘I like peanut butter.’ I mean something honest that you don’t usually say out loud.”
Michael pauses, spinning the ball slowly between his fingers. “And if I make it?”
“Then you don’t have to say anything.”
His eyes gleam in the light. “And you?”
“Same rules. We both play.”
There’s a beat of silence where he just watches me. “I never miss,” he whispers to me.
“Then I guess I’ll be doing all the confessing.” I can’t think of another way to tell him everything I’ve been bottling. And somehow, in the guise of a silly game, I feel like I can.
But something flickers across his face, then he shrugs. “You first.” He bounces the ball, and I manage to catch it. I walk to the line and square up, trying to remember the tips he gives the kids—elbows in, follow through, breathe. I shoot. The ball bounces off the rim.
I wait for him to mock me, but when I glance at him, his face is serious and he’s just… waiting.
I laugh under my breath. “Okay. Um…” My fingers knot together in front of me. “I think I’m quitting cigarettes.”
“You think?” Michael asks.
“Well, I used to think I needed them to make myself feel in control, but ever since I met you, I realized all I needed was courage. I survived the Little League, I said no when Manang Linda asked me to bake extra batches. I wore something different. To school.”
He smiles. “That’s not because of me, you know that, right?”
“Yeah, but still. You brought it out in me.”
He nods. Michael steps to the line, spins the ball in his hands. Then shoots. It’s perfect. “Go again,” he says. His face is still serious, and I don’t know why.
I square up, breathe, shoot.
Another miss.
“Um,” I say, taking an extra breath. “I used to think I was inferior to my friends. Everyone always preferred them more than me. I always used to be in the background. Quiet. Fading.”
“That, I never understood,” Michael says as he takes the ball. “You’ve always been front and center to me.”
Michael takes the ball, dribbles. Shoots. He doesn’t even look this time, but it still perfectly goes through the net.
He doesn’t say anything else. Just gets the ball and hands it to me.
I attempt another shot, and I miss again. I let the ball roll away as I say, “I’m kinda scared,” and then more slowly, “of having to accept that whatever we have right now has an expiration date. Because you gave me so much strength and so much courage, and I don’t know what will happen when you’re not around anymore…” I trail off.
It feels weird admitting this weakness. This… dependency.Of course, I’m not strong like Haley, but I’m not dependent either. I try so hard to be independent because I can’t bring myself to ask favors from anyone.
His face is unreadable, but something in his eyes is molten. He doesn’t go to the line this time. He just picks up the ball, stands a few feet away, and with absolutely no effort... misses.
Deliberately.
“Michael—”
He steps closer.
