Page 37 of Between Love and War
Men in movies fall in love with the confident ones. The sparkly ones. The ones who walk into rooms like they own them, not ones who pace nervously outside, then turn back because they forgot how to knock.
I glance toward the oven as it dings.
Cookies are done.
Well, if nothing else, at least I can bribe the universe with baked goods.
I put the cookies in the cooling racks and climb up the stairs to grab a book while waiting to store them.
As I reach my room, I take a glimpse out of my window. And I see him. Michael. Shooting hoops, oblivious to the fact that he’s being casually observed through sheer curtains. He’s wearing another one of his suspiciously well-fitted t-shirts and those sweatpants that are somehow more criminal than any tuxedo. His movements are relaxed—fluid in that way athletes move, like their bodies already know what to do.
He dribbles. Shoots. Scores.
Of course he does.
He does that a couple more times until the ball bounces off the rim. He jogs to retrieve the ball, sweat glinting on his forehead.
I lean against the window frame with a sigh. What must it be like to move through the world with that kind of confidence? To post a blurry hallway photo and not instantly spiral aboutwhether people think your hair is too curly or your arms look weird?
For a second—just a second—I wonder if I have a tiny, microscopic crush on him.
Because who wouldn’t? What kind of woman, who has never been in close proximity with a man, wouldn’t?
But I shake that off almost immediately.
It’s not a crush, it’s just… admiration. The way you admire a really well-executed cake. You don’t want to date the cake. It’s just a really cool cake.
It’s just Haley’s words polluting my mind. I roll my eyes. I am not that girl. I am the girl who bakes cookies at ten p.m. to cope with mild emotional turbulence and who considers getting bangs every three months out of sheer restlessness. I’m not the girl men write songs about, I’m the one they text for recipes so they can cook for the girl they actually write songs about (unfortunately something that truly happened to me).
Still, a part of me hopes Icanbe that girl. Not necessarily to Michael, but someone who sees me, all of it, and wants to be with me—who wouldn’t just thinkaw she’s cute, but also thinkwow, she’s beautiful.
I glance one last time at Michael, who’s now sitting on the edge of his patio, chugging from a water bottle and checking his phone.
And then I close the curtain, just in time for my phone to buzz. My eyes widen at what I see.
Unknown Number: Either join or stop staring, Miss Noodles.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Kate
Oh my God, he saw me?!
My mouth opens in terror, so I carefully walk back to my window, and very carefully push aside the curtain. Michael’s still there, this time waving his phone like a flashlight.
I shut it quickly, and fire a text.
Kate (Me): How did you get my number?!
Michael: From the Little League Document you gave me.
I stare at his text for a few seconds more, before he sends another one.
Michael: So, you coming out or am I gonna have to throw pebbles at your window?
And just like that, I’m sixteen again. Except I was never sixteen like this. I never had boys tossing pebbles at my window. Never had anyone texting me late at night, daring me out of bed.This feels like some alternate timeline where I’m a leading lady in a love song.
As absurd as it is, I text back anyway, smiling like an idiot while rolling on my bed.
