Page 118 of Between Love and War
“Last week. Because I don’t feel like I need it anymore. I used to think it’s something I have to do give myself somethingto control.” I play with the hem of my blanket. “But ever since Michael, I didn’t feel the need to…”
“You relied on him, Kate, and that’s fine.” Bon brushes my hair with her fingers. “Please do not smoke. We love you.”
“I just… I just think it’s unfair because I’ve always wanted the big cheesy gestures, and I’ve always wondered who I wanna receive it from. The guy in my dreams never had a face, but now he’s Michael. And it’s unfair because I held out my entire life and waited for this moment, and when it arrived, it’s… gone. Poof.”
I look at my friends, each of them scrambling to give me a sense of reassurance, but all I see are pity eyes and confused eyes.
Emily passes me the ice cream and a spoon. “You’ll get your cheesy grand gesture, Kate. Or maybe a quiet one. Whichever gesture you get, you’re gonna love it. And you’re gonna deserve it.”
“Yeah,” Bon says. “And when it happens, it’ll be the kind of moment we can replay dramatically for years.”
“You’ll roll your eyes and pretend you’re embarrassed,” Haley adds.
“I’ll cry,” I admit.
“We’ll cry too,” Emily says.
“Too far,” Haley mutters.
We laugh, the four of us. In this little room, surrounded by snacks and comfort and people who’ve seen me at my best and at my most heartbreakingly human, I realize something.
Love doesn’t always look like a boy with soft eyes and broad shoulders. Sometimes, it looks like Bon driving across town just to bring store-bought cookies. Like Emily brushing the knots out of my hair without asking. Like Haley saying the hard things out loud, so I don’t have to.
I used to think being in love would be the peak of everything—like life started when someone finally picked you.But sitting here in these blankets, surrounded by the loud, loyal, unshakable women I get to call my friends, I think maybe I was wrong.
Maybe love starts right here.
It may not be the same kind of love, but it’s love. And I’m here for it.
We’re closer to Christmas now. So the decorations have also tripled in grandeur. The lights are not just in every lamppost. They’re in every house. Every establishment.
And everyone’s out. Everyone’s buzzing. Families are shopping in matching shirts, kids are begging for cotton candy, and someone, somewhere, is always blasting Jose Mari Chan or Mariah Carey.
And me? I’m doing something a little scary. Something small, but new.
I’m standing behind a booth at a weekend pop-up market in the middle of a mall parking lot that’s been transformed into a festive maze of tarp tents and string lights. It’s hot—my shirt’s sticking to my back and I already regret wearing my hair down—but it’s also… exciting. Bright. Alive.
I’m sharing the booth with my friend Farrah, who’s selling her new line of bottled flavored coffee. She offered to split her space and asked if I wanted to make something sweet to pair with her drinks.
So here I am. My cookies, muffins, and little hand pies are laid out in neat rows on a pastel-checkered cloth. I even made tiny cards with the names and ingredients. There’s no branding yet, no business name, no official logo. Just a piece of masking tape with “Kate’s Bakes” scribbled in marker, and a shy smile I’m trying to keep on my face.
But people are buying them. Real people. Not just friends doing me a favor. Strangers. Someone just told me my ginger cookies reminded them of their lola’s. Another asked if I had a social media page they could follow for future orders. I didn’t—so I made one, right then and there, on my phone, hands still sticky with brown sugar.
I know it’s not much.
It’s a folding table under a tent, in the middle of a market that’ll be gone in a weekend.
But it feels like grand.
Because I’ve always waited for someone to tell me what to do next. And when Michael came into my life, it was like someone reminded me I could choose a direction. That I had something to offer. That maybe the life I wanted wasn’t too far away.
It still hurts, the way things ended. Or paused. Or fell apart—whatever word makes the ache in my chest sound softer.
But this is me trying.
“Kate!”
I look up from where I’m rearranging the muffin tray, and there he is—Dan, holding a paper bag in one hand and waving with the other, his ever-present baseball cap flipped backwards this time, hair sticking out.
