Page 99 of Between Love and War
Then he clears his throat. “Ready?”
“Yeah,” I manage. “Just let me grab my shoes.”
I slip on my silver heels and grab my little clutch. When I glance at him again, he’s already waiting by the door, holding it open for me like some kind of prom prince.
Outside, the air is cool. The village is quiet except for the low thump of music coming from the new community hall just down the road—the same place Bon’s wedding was held, now strung with fairy lights and paper lanterns.
We walk the short distance in companionable silence. The garden comes into view first—lit like a scene from a movie, with string lights weaving between trees and tables set around a small outdoor dance floor. It’s soft and magical and slightly surreal.
People are already arriving, dressed to the nines in suits and sparkly gowns. There’s laughter, music, the clink of glasses.
It’s prom. But a million times louder.
A million times scarier.
A million times better.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Kate
The hall is alive. It’s similar to Bon and Ryan’s wedding last year, but this time it’s more… energetic. String lights crisscross the ceiling of stars, disco balls hang on random places, there’s a wooden archway (that Haley and I arranged last night) leading to the photo booth. I see Haley and Richard already drinking in the bar while dancing to the music blasting from the speakers.
“Do we… mingle?” I ask, slightly breathless, partly because I’m nervous and partly because Michael’s still looking at me differently.
“Technically,” he says. “But I vote we go straight for the snacks.”
We head toward the refreshment table—iced tea in mason jars (because we were teenagers in the 2010s), pastel cookies, mini sandwiches on toothpicks. Haley’s now behind the tablewearing a tiara and a long sparkly navy dress that complements her pink hair.
“I’m announcing prom queen later,” she declares. “So I can’t win. Tragic, I know. Especially considering I obviously deserve it.”
“Says who?” Richard butts in.
“Says you, in your head, probably.” Haley rolls her eyes and Richard laughs, but doesn’t correct her. He’s also looking at her in that way my books describe. And she’s… totally oblivious.
Michael takes two fruit cups and hands me one. We wander through the crowd, bumping into former classmates, nosy neighbors, and some of my co-teachers.
Emily and Joshua arrive holding hands, looking like lost celebrities who should be on a red carpet somewhere. He looks at her like he worships her and the ground she walks on. Like he’d start a war for her. Like he still can’t believe he has her. Which is wild, considering this is the same Joshua who once dated three girls in one month (not simultaneously, thank God).
Behind them, Bon and Ryan follow, and it’s a whole new energy. Bon’s clinging to Ryan’s arm like a koala in sequins, and he’s laughing, gently fixing her bangs with the hand that she’s not clutching. I swear, Ryan never laughs with anyone else. Like, ever. But every time they’re together, he’s always smiling. Always.
I’ve always been like this. Observant. Chronically people-watching. I guess most readers are. When you spend most of your time reading stories about love, you train your brain to look for patterns, for tension, for longing glances and unspoken things. I notice the looks, the body language, the literal lean-in. It’s like watching stories unfold in real life.
And okay, full disclosure: I also read a lot of thrillers, so I can spot a suspicious bag or potential killer from a mile away, but that’s not really relevant right now.
Anyway, I’ve always believed I’d have my moment. Maybe not a dramatic declaration in the rain (my hair would frizz), maybe not a viral flash mob (I would die), buta moment. Some tiny, cinematic second where it’s obvious—not just to me, but to everyone—that I’m not just watching from the sidelines anymore. I don’t really care about the how. I just want to be someone's moment.
After all, I’ve always been so far from the heart of the moment. I was the friend taking pictures at the school dance, the one keeping the group chat alive while everyone else fell in love, the dependable audience for other people’s grand gestures. I learned to be very good at noticing, at cheering, at cataloguing details for a story that never really had me in the center.
I glance at Michael as we find our table. He’s already looking at me. Like I actually am the center of his moment.
And I know. IknowI’m not supposed to get all swoony just because a guy is looking at me. I’ve read the essays. I’ve had the pep talks. I’ve underlined the self-help books and journaled the affirmations in my best handwriting.
But I owe it to myself to at least hope.
I owe it to the little girl in me—the one who sat in front of the TV staring breathlessly at Casper in human form. Or the twelve-year-old Kate who stayed up late rehearsing the lines to “Gotta Go My Own Way” just in case she needed to break up with someone at a poolside (didn’t happen, but she was ready). I owe it to teenage Kate, who stayed up past curfew with a flashlight, reading dog-eared romance novels and underlining every line that made her chest ache, imagining what it would be like to be the girl that gets the grand gestures.
And I owe it to present me—the one who’s finally starting to believe that maybe those dizzy, heart-thudding moments aren’t just for other people. Maybe they can happen for the background girl too.
