Page 14 of Between Love and War
I slowly glance toward the car. He’s still sitting there, staring at the dashboard with a scowl so deep it might leave a dent. His arms are crossed, his whole body stiff.
I could leave him…
Except I can’t do that. I can’t leave him unattended. Because what if I’ve said something that actually cut too deep? Whatifthisis the moment that sends him spiraling? What if five years from now someone’s like, “Hey, whatever happened to that basketball guy?” and the answer is:Oh, he got emotionally nuked by a preschool teacher in a parked car? I can’t have that on my conscience.
So, I wait.
And wait.
And wait a bit more.
“I don’t always hate being told what to do,” he finally mutters, barely loud enough to hear.
I bite back a smile. There it is.
“Glad you could join me,” I smile sarcastically. His nostrils flare. I swear, if looks could kill, I’d be a chalk outline in the parking lot.
“Glad you’re entertained,” he retorts.
“Highly.” I smirk. He seems to still be bothered by my presence just as I am of his, so we walk toward the school in silence.
Magnolia Preschool sits at the end of the street, a quaint little building that could easily pass as a regular house if it weren’t for the massive, cartoonish sign above the entrance. The exterior is painted a soft orange to exude brightness, and the front gate is decorated with rainbows and fluffy animals.
The parking lot, usually neat and quiet, sometimes features chalk drawings when one of the teachers is feeling particularly festive. Today, remnants of faded doodles of a lopsided heart and stick figures peek through.
When I enter my classroom, I’m surprised to see Michael still trailing behind me. “What are you doing here?” I ask.
“I have nowhere to be.”
“Then why did you come early?” I ask. He’s not needed until the end of the day, when the Little League will start.
“So I can hitch a ride.” He shrugs like the answer is obvious. “I don’t like walking very far, and those tricycles will injure my knees.”
“Injure your knees?” I ask.
“Yes, they are death traps. Hitting one pothole is all it takes for my skeletal system to crumble. And I don’t know about you, but my bones are pretty valuable.” For some reason, his earlier issues are nowhere in sight.
Michael smiles sarcastically, removes his baseball cap, and ruffles his hair. I notice now that his hair is short, but soft and flowing. Like, if he jumps, his hair will jump with him. It’s black and shiny, and covers just a part of his forehead.
If this were some other situation, I’d totally have a harmless little crush. I’d spin entire scenarios in my head, reimagine our first meeting into something out of a romcom film, picture our future based on a book I recently read, and daydream endlessly.
Because, Iswear. This is the look of the male protagonist in every book I’ve read and in every movie I’ve watched (and in every imaginary scenario I’ve spun in my head). He’s like… Superman.
But I can’t imagine him like that. That’s not this.
This ishim.
And he’s hot-headed, frustrating, and objectively annoying. A walking, talking red flag.
“Miss Kate?” His voice pulls me back, laced with amusement.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “You’re staying here until then?”
He shrugs. “Unless you’ve got a better idea.”
“Yeah. Leave.”
He grins, completely unbothered. “Tempting. But nah.”
