CHAPTER NINE
Michael
Idrown out the noise as much as I can. But it’s everywhere.
This morning, I made the mistake of turning on the TV.
I just wanted to check the news—maybe weather, maybe headlines, maybe anything that didn’t have my name on it.
But five minutes in, it shifted to entertainment.
Grainy photos of me in uniform flashed across the screen with the caption Michael Lee in Hiding?
I shut it off before they could speculate about where I am or what I’m doing.
My phone isn't any better. Messages from my teammates pile up with screenshots of Reddit posts, Facebook rumors, TikToks of fans analyzing my last public appearance.
Heather called last night about another sponsor walking away. She said it’s “still under negotiations,” but I could hear the truth in her voice. It’s not under negotiations. It’s slipping.
I take a breath and step outside. I’m wearing the usual gym clothes, because I don’t own anything else.
Magnolia Heights is already gearing up for Christmas, even though it’s barely October. Fairy lights hang lazily from balconies. Parol lanterns dangle over the main street, glowing faintly even in daylight.
Today is also the first day of the pop-up market. It stretches down the road, white tents lined like dominoes.
I remember when I was a kid, and Tricia and I lived in Seoul. We only lived there until I was seven, so the memory is grainy. But there are markets just like this one. But while both places exude a certain warmth and homey feel, there’s nothing that compares to this.
Each stall looks homemade: candles poured into old coffee jars, hand-painted mugs, trays of warm pan de sal in baskets.
Someone’s handing out free sampaloc candy at the end of the row.
There’s even a karaoke machine set up near the food trucks, and the feedback squeals every few seconds while someone tries to set it up.
For once, nobody’s staring. So I figure that it’s safe to roam around and snack a little. I approach one stall selling puto bumbong.
And then I hear it.
Laughter.
Sharp and familiar.
I glance behind me and see Kate. She’s at a vegetable stall a few tents away, hair falling loose from her ponytail, tote bag already stuffed with leafy greens and fresh bread. She’s arguing with the vendor—playfully, not seriously—holding up a tomato.
I should walk away. Pay for my puto bumbong and leave in silence.
But I don’t wanna go back to that quiet house, and Kate is right there.
I pay for my food and cut across the row of stalls, passing between tables of woven baskets and rows of bottled honey. She’s mid-negotiation with the tomato guy when she glances up, and the look on her face when she spots me is priceless—like she just discovered mold on her bread.
“Oh, great,” she mutters, immediately defensive. “What are you doing here?”
I hold up my bag of puto bumbong. “Shopping.” I also take a tomato from where she’s buying. “Isn’t that what this place is for?”
“This is my thing,” she says, clutching her tote tighter like I’m about to steal it. “I do this every year—buy one item per stall to support the locals.”
I blink at her. “Every single stall?”
“Yes.”
“That’s… aggressive.”
“It’s supportive,” she corrects. “Thanks, Kuya Mark!” She smiles at the man behind the stall, then she steps to the next booth.
I follow. “Wow, local hero.”
She ignores me and buys a jar of peanut brittle. I wait until she thanks the vendor—then buy the same jar. Her head snaps toward me. “What are you doing?”
“Supporting the locals,” I say, dead serious. “It’s my new thing.”
She narrows her eyes. “Stop copying me.”
“I’m not copying. I’m matching.” I hold up my jar next to hers like we’re taking a photo. “See? Team spirit.”
Kate pauses mid-aisle, juggling two overflowing tote bags. With a resigned sigh, she sets one bag on the ground, digs out another folded tote from inside it, and starts transferring her haul.
Before she can pick the first one back up, I grab it.
“So, anyway,” I say, casually slinging it over my shoulder and ignoring her shocked expression, “what’s next?”
“Give me my bag.”
“Nope.” I smile. “You’ll just slow yourself down if you’re carrying both. And by slow, I mean… slower than you already are.”
She glares and moves to the next stall of hand-painted mugs. She picks up one with uneven lettering saying ‘World’s Okayest Human.’
“This one’s cute,” she says to the vendor, then hands over her money.
I grab a mug right after. “I’ll take one too. I’m also the world’s okayest human.”
Kate whips around. “You’re literally just copying me.”
“I’m blending in,” I say, deadpan. “Next thing you know, people will stop whispering about me being the bad influence corrupting the preschool teacher.”
Her eyes widen. “They’re saying that?”
“Lady behind the bread stall,” I say, nodding to the side. “Muttered something about ‘poor Kate, too pure for him.’”
She groans, covering her face. “I hate this town sometimes.”
“Why? I like it.” I grin. Being hated for something like that is nothing compared to the public hate I’m getting for my supposed disrespectful reputation. Here, I can almost just laugh at it.
“They see me as this sweet little girl,” she mutters. “Always saying I’m too pure or innocent for anything.”
I lean down, close enough for only her to hear. “That’s because they don’t know about your dirty books and your dirty cigarettes.”
She doesn’t miss a beat. Her foot slams down on mine.
“OW!”
“Oops,” she says sweetly, smiling at the vendor. “My bad.”
“That’s my lucky foot.”
“Not so lucky, is it?” Kate challenges
We move to the next stall. It’s Manong Jose’s barbecue. I notice him because I buy his skewers every afternoon. Today, though, instead of his usual pork skewers, there’s a handwritten sign: Samgyup Magnolia - Holiday Special.
“Samgyeopsal?” I ask. “I loved this as a child in Seoul. Still do,” I tell Kate.
“Sometimes I forget that you’re half Korean, and you share the same genes with my favorite celebrities.”
I chuckle. “They’re lucky to share genes with me.”
She rolls her eyes, then turns to Manong Jose. “Why the samgyup switch?”
Manong Jose beams. “My daughter showed me the videos! Everyone’s raving about it online. Harder to sell here though… fancy meat, expensive.”
Kate buys one skewer, smiling warmly as usual. I buy three. Then four more.
Kate blinks at me. “Hungry much?”
“Bulking season,” I say casually.
Kate takes her Samgyup skewers and proceeds to the next stall. I stay behind for a while, looking for smaller bills in my pocket. I overhear Manong Jose tell his daughter on the phone, “Anak, I hope I finish this batch today. I’m using the money for the check-up.”
Check-up. My chest tightens a little. He doesn’t say whose—his, his wife’s, his daughter’s—but it doesn’t matter. I’ve been around long enough to know what it means when you pin hopes on selling skewers. My lola used to sell all kinds of stuff when I was a child just to get us by.
He hangs up and catches me watching. “How many more, sir?”
“How much for everything?” I ask.
He blinks. “Everything?” I nod.
He hesitates, lowering his voice like it’s a secret. “Around… five thousand pesos, sir.”
I don’t flinch. Just grab the folded bills in my back pocket (probably more than five thousand), drop them into his cash box, and wave him off.
“You’re getting them all?” he stammers.
“No,” I say, picking up only four skewers. “I only need these. The rest… you keep. For the check-up.”
His eyes widen. “Sir, that’s—”
“Don’t mention it.” I take a bite of my skewer and start walking after Kate. “And let me know how the check-up goes, okay?”
Behind me, I hear him calling out blessings, and I smile.
By the time I catch up, Kate’s already at the next stall, clutching her skewer like a shield.
“You’re still here?” she asks, glaring at me over a row of homemade soaps. She takes one bar and smells it, then puts it back.
“It’s community service.”
“Community service implies you’re making the place better,” she mutters. “Not… whatever you’re doing.”
“Pretty sure one extra sale for each stall is making it better, Katie,” I mumble. She huffs, ignoring me, picks one up—lavender-scented, wrapped in brown paper. Drops it in her tote and pays for it.
“Good choice, Katherine,” the older lady says.
“Thank you,” Kate says.
“Your handsome boyfriend will love it,” she replies.
Kate sputters. “He’s not… We are not—”
“I think it smells amazing,” I say, taking the same soap. She glares, clutching her tote like a shield, and storms toward the next stall.
Behind us, the gossip hum rises again—whispers, giggles, a dramatic “bless her heart” that makes me laugh out loud.
Suddenly, I forget about the headlines outside of this place.