Page 54 of Between Love and War
I narrow my eyes. “Charming.”
“I’m serious,” he says, laughing. “You lure people in with politeness, then chomp down when they least expect it.”
I roll my eyes, but a smile sneaks out anyway.
The silence between us turns comfortable again. Outside, the sun is rising higher. The curtain lets in beams of gold across the floor. Polly stirs but doesn’t wake, buried beneath a lopsided mountain of pillows and her oversized jersey. And then I realize I’m still wearing my own oversized jersey.
And for a moment, I let myself sit in the absurd calm of this morning. Sitting cross-legged in Michael Lee’s dining room. Eating my favorite breakfast. Wearing his shirt. Watching his niece sleep like this is a regular day.
Then he says, “Katie.”
“Yeah?”
He hesitates, his eyes lingering on Polly sleeping. He opens his mouth, then clears his throat and asks me, “Do you ever see yourself having a family?”
The question surprises me. Not because it’s too personal, but because it’s coming fromhim. The national athlete who’s also mytemporaryneighbor. He’s not supposed to ask me these life questions over breakfast.
I blink. “You mean like, as a mother?”
He nods.
And I pause. I know what to say, it’s a truth I’ve upheld over the years. But somehow, baring it here feels like peeling off a layer of myself to a stranger, of all people. However, as I meet his gaze one more time, I realize he’s notjusta stranger anyway.
“I do,” I say softly. “It’s kind of always been the dream. I picture this little house—not fancy or anything. Somewhere near here. I’d still be teaching. Maybe baking on weekends. Kids running around. A routine.”
He’s listening, his expression unreadable.
I shrug. “I know it sounds… simple. But it’s really all I’ve wanted my whole life.” I’m convinced I’d make a good mother. And I really do want to be one. Someday.
He leans back slightly and smiles. “If that’s your dream, then go for it, Katie. You’d be amazing at it.”
I exhale, relieved, until he adds, “But first—answer this.”
I give him a look. “Answer what?”
His gaze sharpens. “Is that your dream because it’s what you really want... or just the safest thing you’ve let yourself imagine?”
The question knocks the breath out of me.
Because I don’t know.
Because I’ve never really asked myself that before.
And what’s the alternative anyway? I’m not built for anything bold. I’m not some big, sweeping romance heroine.
But still…
What if therewasmore?
What if the only thing keeping me from imagining something bigger was the belief that I don’t deserve it?
I blink back to the present and look at Michael, who is still calmly eating oatmeal like he didn’t just ambush me.
I lift my fork slowly and say, “You ask really heavy questions for someone eating boiled fruit.”
He grins. “I like to keep things balanced.”
And I laugh, but a part of me is still circling the question, trying to figure out if the dream I’ve clung to all my life really is mine, or just another thing I’ve been conditioned to want.
