Page 3 of Between Love and War
“Yeah, but you’re nice after knowing you for a few years. You have to be nice for first impressions too.” She pulls her headphones off and tucks them into her bag before turning to face me. Heather is only a few years older than me, but she’s one of the best in the business. Sharp, efficient, and always ten steps ahead.
She’s also the reason Istillhave sponsorships and endorsements. So I just… sit here and listen.
“We’ll stop by your new house now,” she continues. “Pretty sure your sister and the adorable little Polly are already there.”
My sister Tricia lives in the next town, but Polly, my five-year-old niece, goes to Magnolia Preschool. She says the teachers are nice. That’s part of why I chose to do my service there. At least this way, I get to spend more time with Polly and Tricia—something good has to come out of this mess.
Heather gives me a pointed look over the rim of her sunglasses. “Look, Mike, you got yourself into this mess, but I’m getting you out of it. That means smiling at the neighbors, shaking hands, and—heaven forbid—maybe even looking like you enjoy hanging out with a bunch of preschoolers.”
I grunt in response, crossing my arms. It’s not that I don’t like kids. I just don’t like being forced into anything, especially when it’s meant to ‘fix’ a version of me the media decided was the truth.
The van rolls to a stop in front of a two-story house that’s way bigger than I expected. It’s modern but not flashy. It has clean white walls, dark-framed windows, and a front porch with just enough space for a couple of chairs. The lawn is freshly cut, the garage wide enough to fit two cars, and there’s even a tree in the front yard, its branches swaying lightly in the breeze.
Tricia is already on the porch, one hand on her hip and the other holding Polly’s little wrist to keep her from sprinting toward the van. My niece is practically overflowing with excitement, her pigtails bouncing as she waves both hands at me.
I push open the door and step out. Polly immediately breaks free from Tricia’s grip and barrels toward me.
“Tito Wowski!” she shrieks, launching herself at my legs. Ever since she learned how to talk, Polly was obsessed withMonsters Inc. And her favorite is, yes, you guessed it, Mike Wazowski. She tried calling me Wazowski but she couldn’t say it at first. And now her nickname kinda stuck.
I barely have time to brace myself before she crashes into me. I scoop her up, and she wraps her arms around my neck, squeezing tightly.
“Hey, Pol,” I say, my chest loosening for the first time all day.
She leans back with a frown. “Call me Polly. Pol is a boy’s name.” She scrunches her nose and makes an exaggerated gagging sound.
I shake my head, amused, as I adjust her higher on my hip. “Alright, alright—Polly. Happy now?”
She nods, satisfied, then fixes me with a serious look. “Are you really gonna be at my school every day?”
“Not every day,” I say. “But a lot, yeah.”
Her eyes go wide with excitement. “Can I tell my friends you’re my bodyguard?”
I let out a laugh. “You need a bodyguard now?”
She nods eagerly. “Yup. In case of emergencies. There’s this kid at school, Adam. He says I can’t play basketball because I’m too small.”
Tricia sighs, clearly having heard this before. “Polly, we talked about this. Adam is just a kid, like you.”
“He’s a mean kid,” Polly insists. “And he told me that when we grow up, boys play basketball and girls become cheerleaders. So I told him,Nuh-uh, my Tito Wowski plays basketball, and I’M gonna play too.” She crosses her arms.
I bite back a grin. “So let me get this straight. You want me to show up at preschool and intimidate a five-year-old?”
“Six,” she says, completely serious.
Tricia groans. “Michael, don’t encourage her.”
I smirk. “I don’t know, Trish. Sounds important.”
Polly gasps. “So you will be my bodyguard?”
I press a finger to my chin, pretending to think about it. “I’ll have to check my schedule.” Polly squeals as I set her down, and Tricia just glares at me.
My older sister has always been more of a mother to me ever since our parents died when I was three. And since she’s ten years older, she assumed responsibility early on.
Heather steps out of the van, giving Tricia a polite nod. “House looks good. It should be far enough from all the drama but close enough to keep up appearances.”
I roll my eyes. “Great. Just what I wanted—an appearance-friendly house.”
