Page 75 of Between Love and War
Immediately, a chorus of “yieeeeeeeeee” erupts from various aunties, teenagers, and at least one of my former students. Frieda from across the street even says, “So you are a couple!”
“We’re not!” I say, loudly.
Everyone ignores me.
“Anyway,” Michael says, clapping his hands to get their attention again. “The year-ender will be sometime during the second week of December, before everyone disappears for the holidays. The theme is prom. So that means gowns, tuxedos, and corsages. So choose a prom date wisely.” He looks at me with an eyebrow raise to confirm if he’s saying the right things. I nod absentmindedly.
And then I look away. Because my insides have turned to gelatin and my cheeks have turned cherry red.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Bon tucked into Ryan’s side, laughing at something only the two of them could possibly find funny. I blink—and for a split second, I imagine myself like that too. Leaning into someone. Sharing inside jokes. Maybe even slow dancing under backyard string lights with… someonetall. Probably an athlete. Maybe one who was attacked by my cat and likes cookie cake.
I shake the thought away. Hard.
And then I take another bite of the basketball-themed cake—which earlier tasted perfectly fine, but now tastes like plain flour.
Great. I’m spiraling so hard even cake isn’t safe.
This is what I get for kissing my neighbor.
Nice work, Katherine. Truly thriving.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Michael
That was the best birthday I’ve had in years.
Which is weird, because it wasn’t even fancy. No VIP wristbands. No skyline views. No overpriced wagyu sliders passed around by people in bow ties. Just plastic chairs, someone’s kare-kare, and the sound of everyone singing ‘Happy Birthday.’
And yet… it felt good. Real. Like maybe birthdays don’t have to be curated events where you pose more than you talk.
I used to say I didn’t care about birthdays. But maybe I just got used to not having one.
When I was a kid, birthdays weren’t a big thing. No backyard. No candles. Just a longer hug from Trish or Lola, maybe an extra hotdog on my plate if we could spare it. Most years it passed with little more than a text or a quiet dinner. No fuss. No expectations.
I should’ve celebrated 30 with something lavish, right? That’s what people expected. And technically, I am doing that now—on the way to a restaurant in the city because Chris, Vince, and some of the guys from the team wouldn’t stop hounding me.
But if I’m honest, that backyard gathering of mismatched chairs and cake overload andKatewas all I needed.
And now my thoughts drift to her.
Now, look. You’d think I’m used to that—the attention, the birthday hype, the girls leaning a little too close with a glass of champagne in hand. I’ve had people flirt with me because they knew my name before I even said it. But I’m not the guy who just kisses someone at a party. I never have been. Not even after a few drinks or when the music’s loud and everyone else is doing it. I don’t kiss people I barely know just because it’s my birthday and they want me to.
Which is why Kate’s kiss felt like an earthquake.
It caught me off guard. Partly because it was really unexpected, especially coming from her. More than that, it’s because of how I felt after. I didn’t want it to end. She kissed me and pulled away like she had to erase it. Like she’d done something awful. But it wasn’t awful to me.
And for a guy who’s spent so long surrounded by noise, that kind of silence rattled me.
I arrive at the restaurant fifteen minutes late, but no one seems to notice because they probably didn’t even expect me to show up.
“Look who decided to show up,” Vince calls, raising a glass from across the table. “Birthday boy. Thirty and still not retiring.”
“Don’t tempt me,” I mutter, sliding into the empty seat beside Chris. A waiter appears like clockwork to offer me something sparkling, and I nod absently.
“How was the small town?” Chris asks, drumming his fingers on his beer bottle. “You’re not going soft on us, are you?”
I smirk. “Too late.”
