CHAPTER TWELVE
Kate
“Katherine, this is you.”
Bon slides into the booth at the Corner Bistro, nearly knocking over the ketchup bottle with her elbow. Today is Saturday, my day of seclusion. Her phone is already in my face before I can finish chewing what might be the world’s crispiest grilled cheese.
“It’s trending everywhere.” I take my glasses off and wipe it with my dress, only to squint at the phone Bon is thrusting toward my face (shakily, if I may add).
I hold her wrist to keep the phone in place, and then I see the photo.
It’s a photo of the school hallway, with my very obvious head poking out.
“Okay?” I ask.
“People are calling you Michael Lee’s secret girlfriend.”
“What?” I snatch the phone away from her hand. At first I didn’t know what the big deal was. So Michael posted a photo of the hallway. Then I remember that he’s not a normal citizen. It’s hard to remember that he’s a major celebrity sometimes. He seems so… normal.
Sure enough, there it is. “‘Mystery Girl with the Curls,’” I read aloud. “‘Michael Lee soft launches new flame? Let’s investigate.’ They’re writing think pieces about my hair, Bon. My hair.”
“Well, it is aggressively curly,” she says, lifting a few strands of my hair.
I groan and slump over my grilled cheese. “This is why I should never leave my classroom. Or peek out of doors. Or have hair.”
“Chill,” she says. “It’s not like they know it’s you. And it’s not like they know where you live. It’ll die down like most gossip does.” She takes the sandwich in my hand and bites it. I don’t even care anymore. My mind is spiraling.
“Sorry, Bon, I have to go,” I say hastily.
“What are you gonna do?” she asks, like she’s not sure if I’m going to really do something about this issue.
“Nothing, just forgot to drop off my pastries at Lily’s.” Lie. Thankfully, Bon doesn’t call me out. She just leans back and finishes my grilled cheese. I bolt out of the bistro, my brain firing off a million worst-case scenarios as I go.
Outside, it’s exactly fifty-three degrees Celsius.
Okay, maybe not exactly, but close enough that my bra has started a small rebellion against my skin.
The Philippines in November is not the cool, breezy season our elementary school textbooks promised.
Just the same sweaty, sticky climate with slightly more Christmas lights.
As I speed walk, I can’t help but smile at neighbors and wave at kids playing hopscotch near our house. I can’t help it. They’re nice to me, I’m nice back. If they’re mean to me, I’ll probably be nice still.
Unless your name is Michael Lee.
I approach his house, meaning to knock at the front door. But then, for absolutely no reason at all except for muscle memory, I sneak into the backyard.
The gate creaks as I slip in. I scan the perimeter like I expect lasers or a motion sensor to go off. Nothing. Just some potted plants, a basketball, and a garden gnome that’s seen better days. I run across the grass until I make it to the patio and plant myself in the shade.
And that’s when I hear it.
“You’re trespassing again, Katie.” Michael’s voice comes from behind me, and I whirl to see him wearing gym shorts and a baseball cap. No other articles of clothing.
Jeez.
I’ve never seen a male body before. Okay, that’s an exaggeration. Titos around here walk around half-naked all the time. Buying barbecue in the afternoons, visiting neighbors. Torsos are exposed everywhere. But none of them ever looked like Michael.
Michael does not have that energy. Michael looks like he was sculpted by bored angels on a long weekend.
Like he was commissioned for a Greek museum but shipped to Magnolia Heights by mistake.
On his right chest is a tattoo of something in Korean.
When he turns around to get his shirt hanging from the chair, I can see another tattoo. A big phoenix.
Now, he’s just standing there, casual, holding a bottle of Gatorade like he’s about to film a fitness ad. Frankly, he probably has.
Now, this is national athlete material. Forget what I said about him seeming normal. He is not. He is a walking protein shake ad. His abs have abs. And those abs are staring at me…
Without hesitation, I whirl around. “Could you please put a shirt on?”
“That’s what you get for not passing through the front door like a sane person,” he exclaims. But I hear him shuffling, and I hear the sound of fabric twisting and turning.
“The coast is clear.” He chuckles. He’s used to this. I’m sure he is. He probably has a long line of actresses and celebrities who've seen him like this. And more.
I wonder what more looks like.
I shake my head. Katherine! Stop!
I slowly turn around, eyes still squinted to make sure he’s really covered up. Once I confirm, I open my eyes. He’s still smirking.
“How can I help you?” he asks.
“Have you been on your phone at all?” I retort.
“Yep. You saw it too?” he asks calmly. He wipes his forehead with a towel, and sits on the patio furniture.
“Uh… yeah?!” I exclaim. “Why are you calm?”
“Katie, take a seat and take a breath.” He gestures to the seat beside him, and I follow. “No one can see your face,” he says as soon as I plop down beside him.
“Sure,” I say, suddenly aware of how close his arm is, so I scoot a bit further. “But still! Everyone who lives here knows that’s me. I’m the only person in town with this hair! A child at Lily’s once called me Miss Noodles!”
“Well, Miss Noodles, everyone who lives here also knows we work together,” he says it like it’s a simple thing. “And it’s no big deal. Everyone already thinks you’re too good for me, anyway.”
I glare at him. “This isn’t funny. They're calling me your mystery girl. Someone made a slideshow of my possible identities, Michael. A slideshow.”
He whistles, impressed. “Wow. You’re a fan theory now.”
“This isn’t cool!” I exclaim, standing up only to pace in a tiny, frantic circle.
“Do you have any idea how fast rumors spread around here?” I say, and before he responds, I continue, “I know, I know. They know we work together. But you posted! And that’s enough for the senior citizen club to plan our wedding.
” I shut my mouth. What the hell am I saying?
“To be fair,” Michael says, completely oblivious to my spiraling brain, “maybe they already are.”
I whip my head to look at him dramatically.
“This morning, while I was jogging, I made the very rookie mistake of stopping in front of Manang Linda’s house.”
“Uh-oh,” I say. He nods aggressively.
“Yep. And there were women with her. One woman, Elena, I think–” he starts.
“That’s my friend Emily’s mom,” I cut him off.
“Yeah, she said you were ‘wife material.’ And that I made the right choice,” he says with air quotes. “Then Manang Linda agreed. Freida, however, did not agree. Said we don’t match.”
I bury my face in my hands. “Oh God, it’s already happening.” I peek through my fingers, and ask, “What did you tell them? Did you at least deny it?”
“I…” he stutters. “I just smiled.”
I swat his arm. His impossibly rock-hard arm. What in the world? “That is not clearing things up!”
Before I launch into another spiral session, Michael leans back and gives me a look. “Kate. Is it really so bad? I mean, even if people figured out who you were—which they haven’t, for the record—would it be the end of the world?”
I pause and think. I mean… no. Of course not. The world wouldn’t spontaneously combust if people thought I was dating Michael.
But still. I just—I don’t know. Having a boyfriend is still a very serious thing for me. There’s something about the idea of being paired off—accidentally, theoretically, virally—with someone like him.
He’s very… put-together, you know? Tall, confident, doesn’t have any vices, works out regularly, and drinks water on purpose.
I’m the kind of person who still panics when I see a bank document addressed to me.
So having people, even just internet strangers, mistake me for someone who has her act together enough to date someone like that? It feels… wrong.
And the worst part?
A tiny gremlin part of me is kind of flattered. Which is deeply unsettling and must be ignored immediately. And, I admit, is probably the only reason I want this to be dealt with.
“I guess not.” I admit, pushing my glasses up.
“There we go,” he says like we’ve just had a breakthrough in therapy. “So how about we just… do nothing?”
“Nothing?”
“Yep. Just sit tight. Let the town aunties have their theories. Let the internet run through its chaos cycle. This’ll all be forgotten by next week when another celebrity gossip comes to light.”
I purse my lips. “You’re probably right.”
He stretches his arms behind his head, looking completely unbothered. “But, hey, if you really want me to clear the air, I’ll do it. I’ll post something like, ‘Not dating my curly-haired neighbor who trespasses into my backyard.’”
I snort. And he genuinely chuckles as he says, “I’d do that for your peace of mind, Miss Noodles.”
I smile again. I hate how effective his calmness is. Funny how I can hate him and like him at the same time. “Thanks, but no. You’re right. It’ll die down.”
I stand, ready to leave. Michael stands too, and says, “If you ever feel like you need a break from anyone, my backyard is open. Trespass all you want.”
I look at him, eyes wide and mouth open. “You’re giving me back my safe space?”
“I’m sharing it with you. Don’t get too cocky.” He chuckles as we step down his patio.
When we reach the gate that connects to my house, I say, “Thanks for being nice. I expected you to ignore my crisis.”
Michael wipes his forehead with a towel, and says, “No one deserves to be on the bad side of the news. Not that you are, it’s just… I know what you feel, being sidetracked like that.”
For a second I wonder if my initial judgment of him is wrong. Maybe his whole referee push is justifiable. Maybe there is more to the story.
But it’s not my story to tell. Or hear. So instead of thinking about it, I say, “Thank you. Really. Truly.”
Michael nods. “You’re not so bad when you’re being nice, Katie.”
As I step out of his backyard, I reply, “So are you… Mikey.”
I hear him chuckle behind me, and say, “Okay, no. That’s not gonna happen.”
I don’t look back, but I raise a peace sign as I go.
It’s not a truce.
But it’s close enough.