Page 68 of Between Love and War
“Oh my God,” I whisper.
Haley lets out a dramatic gasp. “You’re famous.”
“I’m blurry.”
“That’s soft launch level three, Katherine,” she says.
“There are levels?”
“Yes,” she says gravely. “Level one is a mysterious hand. Level two is two plates at dinner with one just slightly out of frame. Level three? Blurry features in the background. You’ve been soft-launched. Congratulations.”
I sink deeper into the rug. Mom finally looks up from her knitting, adjusting her glasses. “What’s the deal with you two? You’ve never been this… close to a guy before.”
“That’s not true,” I say, sitting up quickly—too quickly. “I’m close with Richard and Ryan Miller.”
“Because they’ve been living here since we were six. It wasn’t exactly over the course of a month,” Haley says.
“Ugh,” is all I manage to say.
I can’t believe it. I’msoft-launchedon TV but all I can think of is how I didn’t know it’s his birthday.
I didn’t know.
I know the sound he makes when Polly says something that catches him off guard. I know he likes the puto bumbong they sell at the local market. I know how he crosses his arms when he’s uncomfortable, and how he sometimes says something too sarcastic and then immediately checks to see if he went too far.
But I didn’t know it was his birthday.
“You should bake him a cake,” Mom says, like it’s the most obvious solution in the world.
“That’s a little much, don’t you think?” I ask, though I already know I’ve lost this battle.
Mom shrugs innocently. “Then just one cupcake. With a candle. Small gesture. No pressure.”
Haley nods solemnly. “Especially if the goal is to make him fall in love with you and stay in town forever.”
“Stop it,” I mutter.
But the truth is, the gears are already turning.
I don’thaveto do anything. I know that. He didn’t tell me. He probably didn’t want anyone to know. And I could easily pretend I didn’t find out.
But I kind of want to.
“Okay, I’ll see you later, family,” Haley says as she stands up and runs out of the door. Her rehearsal schedule is weird, and I don’t have the energy to ask her about it.
I stand too, taking all my crafting stuff with me, and I leave mom to watch the news about which celebrity cheated on who.
I’m not even sure if Michael likes cake.
I’m sure he likes cookies, though.
Now, to beveryclear, I am not doing this because IlikeMichael. But it’s his birthday. And it’s not like anyone else in this town is going to acknowledge it with something that doesn’t involve a giant feast and everyone invited. I’m just being nice. That’s all. I’m a nice person. Who bakes.
For people in general.
Plus, he was really helpful to me when I got sick. He even made me that soup.
Anyway, I bake a cookie cake. It’s nothing fancy. Just a large, slightly wobbly slab of cookie with crispy edges, soft chocolate chip centers, and a lopsided “30” in suspiciously blue icing I found in the back of the fridge. (I’m choosing not to question the flavor. Blue is blue.) It’s a little cracked. A littlecrooked. But it’s… honest. Honest and slightly underbaked on one side.
