Page 87 of Between Love and War
“This.” He gestures between us with a small shrug. “Being here. Talking like this. It’s not about who I’m supposed to be. You’re not impressed by my highlight reel.”
“I’ve never even seen your highlight reel,” I admit. “But I’ve seen you eat every single cookie I made. And bring snacks to kids. And make my mom laugh. So… yeah. That’s more impressive, I think.”
He smiles at me and scoots closer. “Thank you,” he says. “I’m still not sure what I’d do if I weren’t playing basketball, but it’s nice to know it wouldn’t matter to at least one person.” He traces lazy circles on the back of my hand.
“And not just one person,” he adds. “You.”
I feel the heat crawl up my neck, even as the air nips at my cheeks.
I know this moment. I’ve read about it. Dreamed about it. The stillness. The nearness. The split-second of breath before something changes.
And I get the urge—that urge—to lean in.
Because, I realize, in this moment, under the soft light, surrounded by the smell of pine trees and a sky full of stars, we’re both beginning to be seen. Not for what we do, but for who we are. Messy, unresolved fragments. People who are unsure of what to do with their lives. People who have lived under the impression that we have to live up to other people’s expectations.
Here, with him, I feel like none of those things matter. It’s like I can be myself, even when that “self” is still someone I’ve only just met.
And for a second, I think he feels it too. Because he leans in. Slowly.
Our faces are close, and I swear I can hear my heartbeat echoing in my ears.
Maybe I really do like him, despite my best efforts not to.
Maybe this really is the start of something I’ve always wanted but never actively sought.
Maybe this is what the firstrealkiss of my life is supposed to feel like.
And then the rollercoaster above us grinds to life with a loud, rusty groan like someone dragging a metal trash can across concrete.
I burst into laughter—startled, giddy, slightly breathless. Michael leans back, chuckling too, rubbing the back of his neck.
The moment’s gone. But something lingers.
He doesn’t scoot away. If anything, he shifts just enough that our shoulders brush. And we stay like this. Shoulder to shoulder, watching the empty amusement park blink sleepily around us.
Not kissing.
But still something.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Michael
Tita Frances, Kate’s mom, hands me a shirt. She insists that I call her ‘tita,’ like everyone else around here. We just finished breakfast, and she immediately hands me this.
“I don’t know if it’s your size, you’re a very large person, but I hope it fits.”
I mutter a quiet “Thank you,” and then hold the shirt out. It’s light blue, and on it are the words, ‘Cruz Family: We Stick Like Rice’ written in bold red ink.
I chuckle. I’ve been given a lot of brand deals, with shirts that are personalized to my liking. But never as a part of a tight-knit family. I smile at her and thank her again.
From behind me, a voice says, “Don’t tell me you actually like it.” I turn and see Kate, in the same shirt, wearing a sun hat and denim shorts.
We arrived late last night, or early morning, or whatever 3 a.m. is categorized as. I barely slept, but somehow I feel better than I normally do.
Her lips curl into that half-smile she does when she’s trying to tease but can’t hide the softness underneath.
“I think it’s iconic,” I say. “It has corny lines. What’s not to like?”
