Page 69 of Between Love and War
It’s not weird.
Whatisweird is that I’m now heading into the backyard and grabbing the spare key Michael gave me that one time he gave me back access to his backyard. He included his house key ‘just in case.’
I stand at the shared gate and peer through the slats. Lights are off and the house is silent. It feels safe enough to approach, but I still tiptoe like a cartoon burglar.
Once I confirm that he’s really not there, I creep into his kitchen and take a second to be judgmental. The fridge opens with a soft breeze of cold air and… disappointment. Inside are stacks of neatly labeled protein meals, three sports drinks that look radioactive, and at least six different types of energy bars wedged in random places like edible Easter eggs.
Tragic.
I slide the cookie cake onto the middle shelf and pause, just staring at it for a minute.
I feel ridiculous.
Absolutely, undeniably ridiculous.
What am I doing? This is a grown man. He doesn’t need a cookie cake from the preschool teacher next door. My friends would laugh at me for even doing this. Or worse, pity me. That I’m too gullible to think he would even like this.
And then, to make me feel even more ridiculous, I hear a honk. Peeking out of the window, I see a small delivery truck. Two guys hop out and begin unloading what I can only describe as cake madness. There’s a three-tiered fondant sculpture that looks like a basketball court. One cake has his face printed on it. Another has sparklers.
Oh my God.Of course.Michael is a celebrity. He is clearly drowning in confectionery declarations of love and capitalism.My humble little cookie cake is practically agranola barin comparison. I need to abort the mission.
Then a sleek, black pick-up pulls up behind the delivery truck.
And out steps Michael.
Michael, in dark jeans and a white button down. His hair is fixed and he looks like someone who really does live in the limelight. He looks like Clark Kent without the glasses. Superman without the costume. You get it. Definitely not a small-town resident.
I make a small, involuntary noise–something between a gasp and a squeal–as I hear him instructing the delivery guys to bring the cakes inside.
Insidethishouse. That I am in.
I panic.
I need a cigarette. Or five.
I sprint to the fridge, rip off the sticky note I’d written—Happy Birthday, Mikey(which already felt like an emotional risk)—grab the cake like it’s a smuggled artifact, and tiptoe back toward the door.
I make it as far as the front step before I hear a voice behind me.
“Um… hi?”
Behind me, I hear keys jingle against the table and the muffled voices of the delivery guys wheeling in the sugar monuments that made me regret my entire existence. I turn slowly, like I’m in a horror film where the monster is… really attractive. Michael Lee. Star athlete. National icon.
“Oh, hello,” I say, because I am nothing if not eloquent in moments of crisis.
He glances at the cookie cake in my hands, then back at me. “So either you’ve started robbing neighbors for their baked goods, or that’s mine.”
“It’s not yours,” I say quickly. “I mean—itwas.But then I saw the truck. With the cakes. And I figured, you know. You had enough sugar. So I’m un-baking it. Mentally. Just pretend it never happened.”
The delivery guys finish with the cakes, and one of them even waves bye to me. Michael tips them generously, murmurs a thank you, and then turns back to me with the kind of look that is unfairly gentle andveryinconvenient for my nervous system.
“So you broke into my house. Toun-giveme a cookie?” He chuckles.
“Not broke,” I say, flustered. “Key. Spare key. Thatyougave me.”
He crosses his arms. “Kate.”
I clutch the cake tighter. “It’s not a big deal. I just didn’t know it was your birthday, and then I found out on the news, and I thought—well, I don’t know what I thought, honestly. I’m just being nice. It’s a cake. A cookie. A cookie cake. Really, it’s nothing—”
