Page 45 of Between Love and War
She freezes. I freeze. Her eyes widen like she didn’t mean to say it out loud. Then she immediately looks away, pretending to check her watch even though she doesn’t wear one. Then she mutters something I don’t understand, then speed-walks to her car.
I catch up to her and say, “Glad you think I’m the benchmark of future husbands.”
She rolls her eyes, but she chuckles again, easing the tension. “Not a benchmark, more like a prototype of whatnotto be.”
“Yeah, okay, Katie.”
She gets into her car and shuts the door. But as she does, I notice a flicker of a smile. I wave at her as she drives away.
I’m about to continue my jog when my phone rings.
“Mike!” my sister squeals as I answer.
“What? Is something wrong?” I ask, already panicked.
“Nothing,” she says too quickly, then adds, “I mean, yes. But not serious!”
I can hear chaos in the background—clinking dishes, shrieking, possibly a small dog yapping for its life.
“I need a huge favor,” she continues breathlessly. “Peter has this last-minute business trip to Cebu. Big pitch. Superimportant. I have to go too, because technically the idea was mine, but I let him pretend it was his because—ugh, office politics.”
“Trish—”
“Listen, we had a babysitter lined up for the weekend, but she just tested positive for the flu, and I can't bring Polly because the last time we flew she got airsick, and that would be fine for vacations, but this is important.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Take her here.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, I love Polly,” I say.
“Oh, thank goodness. It’s only for two days, Mike. Well, two and a half, including today. I’ll drop her off at school this afternoon, let’s meet then. Love you, bye!”
I shake my head. My sister loves to overcommit and overperform. She always gets bitten in the ass for it, but she never changes. Good for her.
I jog back to my house, thinking about making some last minute preparations for Polly. The only food in my fridge are eggs and the pre-packed protein meals. And maybe a bottle of sriracha. Not exactly child-friendly. What do children even eat these days? Are hotdogs still a hit? Nuggets?
I shake my head and glance at the clock. I can always go get something from Lily’s. Or the bistro in the corner of the village entrance (wittily named Corner Bistro). I take a quick shower, have lunch, and dress for Little Leagues.
I usually ride every morning with Kate on Mondays and Wednesdays, but Fridays are my “fitness” days, which means I usually jog to the sports complex. Not today, though. With the Polly situation looming and my thighs still recovering from my leg workout this morning, I cave and flag down a tricycle. They’re still the most uncomfortable form of transportation known to man. The seat’s too narrow, the ceiling’s too low, andmy knees are practically at my ears. But until Heather finally relents and lets me bring my car here, it’s my humble steed.
When I arrive at Magnolia Preschool, Kate’s car is already in its usual spot—right by the gate under the one tree that actually offers decent shade. I walk past it, heading toward the little gym the kids use for sports classes, half-expecting the place to be empty this early.
So I’m a little surprised to spot Kate already inside, crouched near a set of foam cones, organizing them by color–red, blue, green, yellow. She doesn’t notice me at first, and for some reason, I don’t announce myself right away.
She’s still in her usual dress, and her hair’s up in a ponytail—well, it probably started off neat, but as usual, a few curls have already escaped around her temples and neck.
“Don’t you have class until 4?” I check my watch to make sure I’m not the wrong one here. Sure enough, it’s only 3:00.
She startles just slightly before straightening up. She dusts her hands off on her dress and flashes me a crooked smile. “One of the teacher's aides covered for me,” she says. “It’s nap time anyway. I needed to step out before I lost my sanity. Those kids are feral today.”
She places hands on her hips and looks at me.
“Feral?” I repeat, raising a brow and walking toward her.
“Yeah,” she replies. “One student tried to bite someone else over a sticker.”
I raise an eyebrow, walking toward her. “So you’re telling me you left the kids to come organize cones?”
