Page 53 of Between Love and War
I look at Haley and her surprisingly terrifying stare. “I won’t,” I say. She doesn’t smile. She just nods and returns to her breakfast.
As I welcome the morning sun when I step out of the shop, I realize something: I don’t think Kate is the one who should be worried about being confused here. I think that’s me.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Kate
Ihear the door open, and I spring to life. “Oh my God, Michael,” I say. “At least leave a note or something!”
I’ve been pacing the living room for approximately fifteen minutes, wondering where he was.
He blinks, holding up two paper bags like peace offerings. “You were asleep. I didn’t want to wake you.”
“You left your niece and an unconscious woman alone in your house,” I say, gesturing to Polly, still curled up in the blanket fort. Her hair is a bird’s nest and one sock is halfway off.
“Yeah, not a good call,” he says sheepishly as he proceeds to the dining room to place the bag he’s holding.
“You got food?” I ask, instantly distracted, my stomach roaring in betrayal. I realize then that I hadn’t eaten anything since popcorn and a single gummy bear from Polly’s stash.
“Breakfast special number three,” he says, pulling out the containers. “And pancakes for Polly.”
I don’t hesitate—I plop down on the chair with the grace of a potato sack and immediately start opening the container. The smell alone could undo me: garlic rice, eggs cooked exactly theway I like them, and the mix of tocino, fried fish, and vegetables arranged on the side.
“How did you know my order?” I ask, chewing already.
“Haley told me,” he says. Oh.Uh-oh.
Haley knows I stayed here. And that I woke up here. That I never made it home last night like I swore I would. Not that anything happened—God, nothing happened—but she’ll still tease me. Or worse, give me that knowing look and convince me that I’m catching feelings.
I’m not.
I didn’t mean to stay over. I told myself I’d leave as soon as Polly fell asleep. I even sat upright for a while to make sure I wouldn’t accidentally get too comfortable. But then the blanket fort was warm, and Michael was humming terribly off-key, and the night was winding down… and now here I am, barefoot and eating breakfast.
Michael heats up his sad little breakfast of oats and fruit—a diet that smells like penance—and joins me.
“How did you sleep?” he asks.
“Honestly, my back hurts,” I say, reaching for the spot on my shoulder where the pain is. “Your floor mattress is not bone-friendly.”
He chuckles, handing me the water pitcher, and my arm stretches across him to take it. His gaze flickers, mid-motion, to the lavender tattoo on my upper arm.
“You have a tattoo? I never noticed that before,” he says, eyebrows climbing.
“Why are you so surprised?” I ask, instantly defensive. Maybe it’s the tone, or the way his eyes linger, like he’s seeing something new about me.
He doesn’t respond right away, so I go on. “We got these in college. Me, Bon, Emily, and Haley. It was like… our little groupthing. Everyone chose a flower that represented them. Mine was lavender.”
He nods, thoughtful. “Why lavender?”
I shrug, then pause, suddenly unsure. “I think it’s supposed to mean calm. Steady. Soothing. Something like that.”
He chews thoughtfully and says, “That sounds like you.”
I glance at him sideways, caught off guard. A strange flutter stirs in my stomach—somewhere between flattery and disbelief, because I have never been calm around him. “Does it?”
He smiles, eyes still on his bowl. “I mean, not with me, obviously. But everyone else around here? They all describe you like that.”
He pauses, then lifts his gaze, smirking. “To me, though? You’re more like… a Venus flytrap.”
