Page 29 of Between Love and War
I try not to look at it. I really do. But the green isneon. But it’s also right there on her…
“Stop staring!” she shrieks.
“I’m not staring! You pointed it out!” I exclaim. I feel the heat rush to my ears when I say, “Just get the mop, will you? I’ll fix this.” I gesture to the puddle of water. Who the hell gives their toddler more than a liter of water?
Kate arrives with the mop. Her sweater is now removed, her hair attempting to escape her ponytail. I also see that the neongreen paint is apparently not just on her dress, but her skin, too. Her collarbone. I take the mop and look away immediately.
From my peripheral, I see Kate attempting to wipe the green smudges off. Since I know she’s concentrating, I sneak a glance. She’s sitting on a child’s seat, but somehow, it looks like it’s the right size for her. Her brows are furrowed as she aggressively wipes the paint. Before she can catch me staring, I look away.
Nothing to see there, anyway.
And then, my phone buzzes. Relentlessly. Notification after notification fills my phone. I stop mopping for a moment, then check it.
Shit. I have three texts from Heather.
HEATHER
I quickly check my Instagram story of what I thought was a boring hallway. Only to see a head peeking out of the door. And curly hair. Now it looks like I framed it to capture her, and not the hallway. Shit.
It’s a good thing she’s looking the other way, her face isn’t clear. But people are going to notice. Pretty sure most of them already have. With over five million followers, things like this escalate quickly.
Heather is calling, but I ignore her for now. She sends me a screenshot of the trending topics today. And there, at number seven…
Michael Lee Girlfriend
This is not good. Not good at all.
I’ve had girlfriends before, of course—all of them perfectly polished, poised, ready for cameras. Because I thought that was what dating meant. A performance of sorts.
But all those relationships barely lasted a year. Most would break up with me because I was, as usual, too nonchalant. Closed off. Uninterested. But really, I just don’t know how to open up to anyone. I tried it when I dated an actress. I tried to open up to her—told her stories about my childhood, my parents, that time I choked on a finals game. But even then, it felt… forced. Like I’m just saying what I’m supposed to say.
It’s not fair, I know. Not to the people I date. But the truth is, I’ve never really had anyone to talk to like that. I mean, there’s my sister, and we’re close. But even with her, there are things I don’t touch. Things I keep folded up in a corner of my head.
So, when the women I date start asking for more—which, yeah, is the bare minimum—I do what I always do.
I run.
Now imagine how this post is going to look to everyone. A blurry hallway, a door, and then—her. Kate. Nothing like the poised, curated women from my past. She’s got neon green paint on her chest, for crying out loud. Her hair’s half-out of its ponytail.
She’s not going to take this well.
She’s really not going to take this well.
I glance at the photo again. It's harmless, technically. But I know better. It looks like something. Something I didn’t mean for it to look like.
I should probably delete it, but it would spark more rumors.
“Um, Coach Mike?” a tiny voice says behind me. I whirl to see Justin, one of the kids, tugging at my pants.
“Yeah, buddy?” I crouch down to look at him.
“I’m nervous for the Little League,” he says. He looks down, as if he’s embarrassed to admit it. He fumbles with the hem of his shirt as he adds, “I don’t know how to dribble.”
I sigh and lower my voice. “You know what? When I was your age, I didn’t either.”
Justin’s face lights up, eager to hear more. “Really?”
“Yeah!” I say. “My first coach said I looked silly trying to play basketball and pat my head at the same time.”
