Page 78 of Between Love and War
Kate
Iknow this mixer. I’ve stared at this mixer through glass storefronts. I’ve added it to my online shopping cart more times than I can count. I marvel at it, scroll through the colors, and read all the reviews like bedtime stories. I imagine it sitting on my kitchen counter, whipping up magical, symmetrical cookie dough. And then I look at the price.
And I close the tab.
Because I cannot, in good conscience, spend a preschool teacher’s life savings on an appliance—even if it is planetary motion with five speeds and a retro finish in purple, which, for the record, is the exact color of joy.
But now… I have it.
It’s here. In my kitchen. Because Michael Lee got it for me.
And in true fashion, he put a sticker on it labeled ‘For Michael Lee’s cookies.’
I don’t know what breaks me. Maybe the sheer thoughtfulness of it. Or the fact that someone listened to me babble about mixers and remembered. Or maybe it’s just that I’ve had the kind of week where I kissed my neighbor and got ambushed by relatives. Whatever it is, it makes me cry.
Yup.
I remove my glasses and place them on the counter. I cover my face with my hands, trying to stifle it, but a tiny, embarrassing sniff escapes anyway.
“Oh my God,” I mumble. “I’m crying over a mixer.”
Michael takes a step closer. “Hey, hey,” he says, alarmed but soft. “It’s okay. I cry over appliances all the time.”
I give him a wet laugh, muffled through my hands. “You do not.”
He chuckles. “Okay, I don’t. But I almost teared up when I discovered air fryers.” I roll my eyes. “It’s your kitchen, Katie. Cry about whatever you want.”
I look back at the mixer. My mixer. That Michael got for me because I mentioned itoncein passing.
And then, very softly, I say, “Thank you.”
Michael just shrugs, like it’s no big deal. But I can tell he’s pleased. He takes a paper towel from the counter and gently wipes my eyes. Then he takes my glasses and puts them on me.
I wipe under my eyes with the back of my hand and breathe. “Okay. I’m fine. I’m good. I’m totally fine.”
From the living room comes a noise. “Kaaaaate! Introduce your boyfriend!”
Michael lifts a brow. “Still fine?”
“No,” I say. “Now I want to cry for a whole different reason.”
Before I can even toss the dish towel aside and flee the scene, my mom pokes her head into the kitchen like a nosy meerkat.
“Oh, there you are!” she says brightly, spotting Michael. “Come meet everyone!”
I give Michael one last panicked glance, like maybe he’ll fake an injury or disappear into a puff of smoke, but instead he just smiles at me—like this is fun. Like this is a game. He follows my mom into the living room with the confidence of a man who has no idea what he’s about to endure.
“This is Michael,” she announces. “Kate’sfriend.” The way she says it implies that she doesn’t believe it at all.
Tita Tess narrows her eyes. “Are you the basketball guy? Huh. Much more handsome in person. Good job, Katherine.”
“We’re really not—” I say, but I’m interrupted by Tita’s husband.
“Don’t we get a free jersey? You’re dating our Kate, after all.” He stands and shakes hands with Michael. “Call me Tito Jun.”
I sigh. “Again, we’re really not—” I start, but I’m again interrupted. By Michael this time.
“Free jersey coming up, Tito Jun,” he says, smiling. The room erupts in laughter. Even my notoriously unimpressed cousin Monette lets out a “Hmp,” which, in her world, is practically a standing ovation.
