Page 16 of Between Love and War
Michael leads the kids through basic warm-ups, and to my surprise, again, he’s actually good at this. He’s patient but firm, gently correcting their form and making them laugh with his exaggerated demonstrations.
A particularly tiny boy, Elliot, struggles to balance, his feet awkwardly positioned. Michael crouches beside him, resting his elbows on his knees. “Hey, little man, let’s try this.” He flips his baseball cap so the flap doesn’t hit Elliot, then shifts his footslightly and demonstrates the movement again. “Think of it like stepping into an invisible portal. Like you’re a superhero about to take off.”
The boy’s eyes widen like this is the most important moment of his life. He mimics Michael’s stance, his tiny legs still wobbling but more determined now. When he finally gets it, Michael gives him an approving nod and a gentle pat on the back.
And just like that, Elliot looks at him like he hung the moon.
Annoying as the man is, Michael is good with kids.
After more warm-ups and exercises, Michael decides we’re done for the day. According to him, we should learn our warm-ups and stretch our bodies before playing basketball. And, somehow, the children believe him.
Once all the kids are gone and only his niece Polly is left behind, Michael starts sweeping the mat.
“You don’t have to do that,” I say.
“I do, if I don’t want my niece to think I’m an asshole,” he replies.
“She thinks the world of you,” I say, glancing at Polly. She’s sitting on the chair, dangling her feet. “I personally don’t get it, but as I told you, not everything is my business.”
Just then, Tricia arrives to pick up Polly. “Sorry, I’m late!” she exclaims.
“Want me to drive you home, Mike?” she asks Michael.
He looks at me, and says, “I’m assuming you won’t give me a ride back…” He trails off.
“You have assumed correctly,” I tease. “Unless you return my Kindle.”
“Then enjoy sweeping the mat, Miss Kate.” He drops the broom dramatically, gives me a sarcastic smile, and walks off with Tricia.
I roll my eyes. Just because he’s good with kids, doesn’t mean he’s kind. He’s still the same guy who shoves old referees. And one who wears sunglasses indoors. Who steals Kindles.
I finish cleaning up until the janitor, Kuya Tino, stops me and insists that it’s his turn to clean.
I walk out of the gym and retreat to the comfort of my tiny car. I got this as a gift during my last year of college. Haley got a big role in a local production and managed to get her own car, so my mom only had to worry about mine. I was so happy when I got Daisy. She’s tiny, yellow with white little stripes. Perfect for me.
My drive home is quiet, thankfully. I let the sound of the audiobook wash over me. I’m at the part where the billionaire CEO confesses to the unsuspecting baker that he’s been selling out her pastries every morning to keep her from going bankrupt. Romantic. Sweet. Unrealistic. Exactly the kind of thing I eat up.
Also, I’ve always wanted a bakery (and, frankly, a billionaire CEO, but they’re a lot harder to come by).
Of course, dreams cost money.
I first wanted to take culinary studies. But the tuition fees were high, and my mother always thought Haley deserved all our extra funding because she’s ‘destined for greatness.’ I believe her, though. Haleyisdestined for greatness. She’s an amazing theater actress who’s already making it big locally. She tried fighting for me, as Haley always does. She says that my dreams were as important as hers, and that she’d work to keep us both thriving.
I hugged her that day and told her not to bother. I told her that it wasn’t really that big of a dream anyway. Also, because I was already convinced—I mean, brainwashed—by my mother.
According to her, the culinary world wasbrutal—long hours, impossible standards, ruthless competition. She said I was too soft for that. Too gentle. Too much of a people-pleaserto survive in a world where one bad review could kill a dream overnight.
Instead, she nudged me toward early education. Teaching, she reasoned, was safer. More stable. Moreme. And I didn’t argue.
It took me years to realize that I had stopped talking about my dreams altogether. Somewhere along the way, I learned it was easier to just keep them to myself. If you don’t say them out loud, no one can tell you they’re silly, or impractical, or unrealistic. If you don’t say them out loud, they stay yours. Untouched. Unruined.
So here I am, preschool teacher by day, frustrated baker by night.
And I guess it’s not all bad. I love the kids. I love their sticky high fives and their weird little brains, and the way they talk to me about their imaginary friends (which, by the way, is more alarming than cute).
But sometimes, I still wonder what could have been. Would I have been great at it? Would I have been terrible? Would I havethrivedunder pressure, or would I have crumbled like mom predicted? I don’t know. And I’ll probably never know.
CHAPTER SEVEN
