Page 52 of Between Love and War
Polly.
Kate.
I glance toward the middle of the room, heart catching for reasons I don’t fully understand yet.
They’re still there—curled up together on the floor mattress like two pieces of a puzzle that naturally found each other. The blanket has slipped halfway down, and the glow from the TV screen casts them in an odd, flickering light. The movie has long ended, replaced now by that low, looping ‘Are you still watching?’ prompt.
They’re both still wearing my jerseys, hilariously oversized. Polly’s tiny arms are completely swallowed by the sleeves, and Kate’s shoulder is peeking out where the jersey has slipped a little. Somehow, at some point during the night, they shifted until they were lying side by side, tangled in the kind of comfortable sleep that only happens when you trust the person beside you. Polly’s face is buried against Kate’s chest, her tiny fingers still clutching a handful of fabric. And Kate’s arm is looped protectively around her, anchoring them both in sleep.
And I’m just standing here in the doorway, like some stunned intruder in my own home, staring at two people who feel like they belong here more than I do.
I glance away before I get too far ahead of myself.
Still, I grab my phone from the counter and quietly snap a photo—not to post or share, but just to keep. A moment to hold onto for later, when things go back to whatever version of normal this was before.
Then I pad quietly to the kitchen, determined to make some coffee. Maybe pancakes too—if I can figure out whether I even own flour. But I haven’t even stepped foot in a grocery, let alone ordered some flour. So I quietly slip out of my house to go to the Corner Bistro.
Mornings in Magnolia Heights are never truly quiet. Even on a weekend. Especially on a weekend. It’s that specific brand of neighborhood noise. Pots clanging. Tricycles sputtering to life. Roosters screaming. Old 80s music blasting from someone’s house speakers. Somewhere down the street, someone is selling pandesal, and another yells “Taho!” Dogs bark in chorus.
I pass the same row of houses I’ve started recognizing by their front steps: the house with the flamingo lawn ornament, the one with three wind chimes, the one that always smells like garlic. This place is a sensory map.
The Corner Bistro’s sign hasn’t even fully turned to ‘Open’ yet when I arrive, but I step in anyway, hoping to be the first customer. The door creaks softly, and inside, the lights are already warm and inviting. It’s small inside, with booths on one end and tables on the other.
Somehow, Haley is already there, hunched over a plate of longganisa with half a pandesal in her mouth. So much for ‘first customer.’
“Good morning,” I say, already amused. “I thought this place opens at six?”
“It does,” she says, not even looking up. “But I told Irene I was in the middle of a spiritual crisis and needed pork. Stat.”
“I thought it was an artistic crisis?” Irene emerges from the back, tying her apron. She looks to be about middle age, like the rest of the ladies who hangout at night playing Bingo or some card game.
“Same thing.” Haley shrugs.
“So, what brings you here before opening hour, Mr. MVP?” Irene asks with her brows raised. “I was under the impression you have your meals prepped for you.”
“Well,mymeals are… But…” I stammer.
“Save it, Mike,” Haley says without looking up. “He’ll get a breakfast special number three. And maybe pancakes for the kid.”
Irene looks at me, and I just nod.
“Alright, dear, ten minutes.” Then she disappears to the back. I take a seat across from Haley. The sun is rising outside, casting long beams across the room.
Haley looks up at me, finally. “How’s domestic bliss?” She smiles.
I chuckle. “That’s not…”
“Okay, listen,” she says, setting her fork down. “Just don’t mess with her.”
“What?” I didn’t expect that.
“Kate doesn’t do casual or complicated. She wants the boring, quiet life. And you don’t look like… that.”
I freeze.
“Sorry, just… I know she told you she’s never been in love before…and if you see that as some sort of challenge or a fun thing to do while you’re here, don’t confuse her.”
Before I can respond, Irene slides two takeout bags on the counter. “Ready!” she exclaims. I stand and collect the bags, thanking Irene.
