Page 56 of Between Love and War
Iwake up to a crash.
For one glorious second, I think it’s part of my dream. But then I hear the follow-up clatter and the muffled thud of various objects falling on the floor.
I sit up so fast, my head hurts. The mounted shelf above my desk—the one holding my modest collection of knickknacks and mytinypride-and-joy book stack—has finally given up. It’s leaning at a dangerous forty-five-degree angle, screws dangling halfway out of the wall. Three paperbacks are splayed dramatically on the floor, and a ceramic candle holder has cracked in two.
“Great,” I mutter. “Perfect start to the day.”
It’s Sunday again, somehow. Which is weird, because Iswearwe just had Sunday. Didn’t I just do laundry, swear I’d start meal prepping, and vow to try exercising this week (again)?Every week here blurs into the same Sunday. Except this time, mine is already off to a catastrophic start.
I grab my phone and scroll through my contacts, debating whether this qualifies as a DIY problem or a call-the-local-handyman-before-it-kills-me problem. One glance at the wobbly bracket answers that for me.
I dial.
“Kuya Ferdie? Hi, it’s Kate.”
“How can I help you, Katherine?” he asks. I hear a faint sound of something frying in the background, and my stomach rumbles at the thought of breakfast.
“Yeah, sorry to bother you. My shelf just… fell. Or, well, it’s in the process of falling. Can you maybe… stop it?” I chuckle as I go down the stairs, toward the kitchen to find something to eat. Normally, I’d eat with Haley and my mom, but Haley’s busy with her rehearsals and voice lessons. My mom is out in the market to buy food for lunch. So I’m alone.
“Did the screw fall?” Kuya Ferdie says from the other line. Now, look. I’m not being an inconsiderate fool by calling someone for work on a Sunday. Kuya Ferdie prefers to work on weekends. Says his weekdays are busy with dealing with his kids. He’s not an actual handyman by profession (he’s an engineer or something like that), but since he’s the only one, next to Joshua, who can handle repairs, he helps out on weekends. Helikesto.
“Uh-huh. Yes, the screw thing.”
He says he’ll swing by before lunch. Which leaves me with exactly two hours to stew in my own chaos.
The only thing within arm’s reach is the tofu empanada I bought yesterday. I unwrap it and take a bite. The crust is flaky, sure, but the tofu filling is a suspicious shade of green. I ignore it. I’m starving. Hunger trumps caution.
I flop onto the couch with my questionable breakfast and turn on the TV, hoping for white noise. Instead, I’m greeted by a familiar face.
Michael. Great.
It’s an old sports feature, probably replayed because the SEA Games are coming up. He’s in a pressed polo, hair neatly styled, seated beside his teammates. Commentators gush about his stats, his ‘killer instinct,’ his discipline. Highlight reels flash across the screen: three-pointers, impossible layups, gold medals. Crowds roaring, confetti raining, cameras flashing.
I take another bite of empanada, suddenly aware of the absurdity of it all.
I’ve been letting myself forget who he is out there. Forget that ‘Coach Mike’ isn’t just some neighbor who teases me about my cookies and shows me how to dribble. Out there, he’sMichael Lee, national heartthrob, MVP. The guy kids pretend to be on makeshift courts along the road.
And I can feel it—that inevitable shift coming. Because this thing between us (this weird tag-team thing) only exists inside Magnolia Heights’ bubble. One day, he’ll go back to that life. And I’ll still be here, buying local empanada and bribing toddlers with gummy bears.
I shouldn’t read into anything. Not the late-night basketball. Not the breakfast. Not the way he calls me ‘Katie’ like it’s always been my name.
But God, it’s hard not to. Just last night, I fell asleep to love songs on shuffle, and I daydreamed to each one of them. Before that, I read a sports romance novel, which in hindsight was not a good idea.It felt like holding up a mirror I wasn’t ready to look into.
I glance back at the TV and, because I have zero self-control, I torture myself. I look up old interviews, post-game pressers,fan cams—every digital breadcrumb that proves he exists in a different world.
He’s usually avoidant of press questions. But there’s one video of him holding a championship trophy, and he’s carrying Polly. I click on it.
“Congratulations, MVP. What inspires you to play?” the interviewer asks.
Michael doesn’t hesitate. He just looks at Polly and grins.
“Little Polly over here,” Michael says with a smile.
I sigh. I’m so deep in thought I barely hear the doorbell.
I scramble upright, nearly dropping the empanada, and rush to open the door. Kuya Ferdie stands there, toolbox in one hand.
“Your shelf?” he asks.
