Page 119 of Between Love and War
I knew he’s not balding.
“Hey,” I say, surprised at how light my voice sounds.
He buys a pack of cookies, saying he needs it to convince his daughter to come home with him because she’s obsessed with her auntie.
“I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” he says after taking a banana muffin sample. “But only if you’re up for it.
“I was wondering if you’d want to grab dinner sometime,” he says, then quickly adds, “No pressure.” Geez, he’s as awkward as I am.
In a perfect world where a basketball superstar didn’t crash land into my safe haven, Dan would have been perfect. Steady. Kind. I would’ve liked him back. Maybe more than liked. I would’ve married him, lived in this town without ever wondering what else was out there, treated his daughter like she was my own.
And maybe that would have been enough. Maybe I’d have been happy.
But when someone like Michael shows up—someone who pushes you, frustrates you, and makes you see yourself in ways you didn’t think to look—it changes the shape of “enough.” It ruins you a little for the safe choice, even when the safe choice is good.
I take a breath. “Dan, I really appreciate that. I do. But I’m… still kind of in the middle of getting over someone.”
He doesn’t flinch. Just nods.
“I figured,” he says. “But hey, how about something friendly?”
He pulls something out of his pocket and hands it to me: two glossy tickets. No.
“They’re for the national team’s comeback game,” he says. “Got them from a friend of mine who used to do PR for the league. I thought maybe you’d want to come.”
I stare at the tickets. My heart does something slow and painful.
Michael’s game.
“I don’t want to lead you on,” I say quietly.
Dan shrugs, offering a crooked smile. “Then don’t. Come as a friend. Really, it’s an extra ticket.”
I nod, fingers curling gently around the tickets.
“Okay,” I say. “As friends.”
And as he leaves, waving over his shoulder, I glance back down at the tickets in my hand.
It’s just a game.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Michael
“These taste terrible, Tito Wowski,” Polly declares with full conviction, frowning as she places the cookie back on the napkin. “They’re crunchy in the wrong places. Nothing like Miss Kate’s.”
I raise an eyebrow. “That bad, huh?”
She nods solemnly. “Like burnt cheese. But there’s no cheese.”
Fair. They’re inedible. Batch number four, same result. I even bought new measuring cups this time.
I snap a photo of the tray—uneven circles, edges blackened like regret—and text it to Kate.
Me: Burnt my fourth batch. Pretty sure you rigged this recipe. Polly’s traumatized.
Her reply comes a few minutes later, a beat longer than usual. She sends me a photo ofherperfect cookies.
