CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Kate
“You guys ready?” I ask Michael and Polly.
Michael is drying his face with a towel, and Polly is bouncing beside him, her energy through the roof. It’s hard to believe that she didn’t just launch herself headfirst into the foam wall five minutes ago.
“I told my co-teachers I’m heading out early today,” I say as I gather the last stray ball. “They all said yes immediately. I suspect it’s less about me and more about not wanting Michael Lee hovering in the preschool hallway like some six-foot-four celebrity dad.”
Michael raises a brow. “Celebrity dad?”
“You know the type,” I say, slinging my tote over my shoulder.
He just shrugs and takes Polly’s things. “Come on, Pol.”
“Okay! I’m so excited for our sleepover. What did you prepare? All my sleepovers with my friends always have a princess tea party. While we watch Elsa!”
Michael blinks, obviously not planning things through. He smiles at her and says, “You’ll see!”
Polly lets out a delighted gasp and skips a few steps ahead of us, humming the Frozen soundtrack under her breath. Michael waits until she’s out of earshot, then gently grabs my arm. His hand is suspiciously cold against my skin.
He immediately takes his hand away from my arm, but he looks at me in panic. I raise my eyebrows as he says, “I did not prepare any of that. Tea parties? Elsa? I bought hotdogs and apple juice. I thought that covered the basics.”
I can’t help but laugh.
“Not funny, Katie.”
“You’ll be fine,” I say, patting his shoulder. “Just say yes to everything, keep her sugared up, and pretend you’ve seen Frozen at least three times.”
“I’ve never seen Frozen.”
I gasp. “Oh, you poor, culturally deprived man.”
We reach my car, and we put Polly in the backseat, as I climb the driver’s seat. As I close the door, Polly immediately says, “This is so nice. You’re like my mommy and daddy for the day!”
I cough so hard I nearly choke on air.
Michael blinks, half-turned in his seat. “What now?”
“You guys look like a family!” Polly continues cheerfully, completely unaware of the minor identity crisis she’s causing. “Like in the movies! But cooler, because you smell like cookies and Tito Wowski knows how to shoot hoops.”
“Okay, Pol,” Michael says to stop her. Surprisingly, it works. She sits back and hums by herself.
We pull up to our neighborhood ten minutes later, and Polly practically launches herself out of the car before the engine even stops. “Yay!” she yells, making a beeline for Michael’s front door like she owns the place. She waves for him to follow, a tiny general summoning her exhausted soldier.
Michael just sighs, shoots me a grateful look, and jogs after her. “Thanks again,” he calls over his shoulder.
I wave back, already laughing under my breath. “Good luck, soldier.”
As I step into my own home, I catch Haley on the couch, legs tucked under her, clutching a massive bag of chips—the ridged, ultra-salty kind.
“Everything… okay?” I ask, eyeing the bag suspiciously.
“Oh, peachy!” she says brightly, mouth full. “I got the part.”
I pause. “The part?”
“Elphaba. In the local production. You’re looking at your new green-skinned, gravity-defying, witch.”
I blink. “And… that’s a bad thing?”
“No! I mean, yes. I mean—no, it’s great. It’s a dream role. It’s Elphaba! But also, it’s Elphaba,” she groans. “I have to sing upside down, possibly in a harness, and act like I’m not dying the whole time.”
“Ah,” I say, reaching into the bag for a few chips. “That’s why you’re chomping through our expensive chips that we reserve for drastic events, along with that full-fat truffle ice cream.”
She nods slowly.
“You’ll do great, you always do!” I say.
“Yeah,” she mutters, grabbing the remote. “I always do, don’t I?” She scrolls through the Smart TV, then—without warning—stands up and belts out Elphaba’s final, defiant cry holding an invisible broom with the commitment of a Tony nominee.
I blink.
She’s so good. Even when she’s being unserious. I’ve always admired that about her. She’s so confident even when she’s not. She believes in herself all the time.
Then she flops back onto the couch like nothing happened. “Anyway. If I fall mid-note and die in tech rehearsals, you can have my ring light.”
“Thanks?” I say.
She tosses a chip at me, grinning. For a second, the nerves are gone and she’s slowly coming back to herself.
I heat up some leftover pizza because it’s Friday night and I will relax. After eating, I head to my room, change into an oversized t-shirt with a questionable coffee stain, and do what I do best when the day’s been too much: I overdo my skincare.
Cleanser. Toner. The fancy serum I pretend not to care about but secretly ration like liquid gold. And, finally, a mint-green face mask.
I lie back on my bed with my Kindle, propped up on a pillow, reading a romance novel. I even reach for the heating pad, because apparently, I’ve become the kind of person who voluntarily warms her back on a Friday night.
Peace. Quiet. A well-moisturized existence.
I wonder how Michael’s doing with Polly. Not that I want to join them, but I can’t help but imagine how he’s handling things.
I finish a few chapters before the doorbell rings.
I freeze. No one rings the bell at—I glance at the clock—nine p.m. unless it’s an emergency. Or a food delivery gone wrong. I huffle to the hallway and peek. Haley beats me to it and yells, “It’s for you!”
“What?”
“It’s your boyfriend!” she yells louder.
“I don’t have one!” I yell back as I run down the stairs, panic rising as I pat my face to check if I’ve already peeled off the mask. I haven’t. It’s still very much there. Cold. Sticky. Green.
Haley gives me a once-over and chuckles as she strides back to the living room, leaving the view of Michael standing in the doorway.
I am suddenly, painfully aware that I am wearing an oversized t-shirt that says Don’t Text Your Ex in Comic Sans, no pants (unless you count boyshorts), a towel-wrapped head, and a face mask that makes me look like a botanical swamp creature.
I glance down. The shirt just covers enough. Still, I subtly tug at the hem.
Michael bites back a smile. “Hello, Fiona, is Kate here?”
Haley cackles from the living room. I shoot her a warning glance.
“Whatever, what do you need?” I ask.
Michael looks at my head, then the ceiling, then my face. “Um… I have a question.”
“What?” I say, annoyed.
Michael smiles. And then he says, in a singing tone, “Do you wanna build a snowman?”
I narrow my eyes at him to keep myself from laughing. “You want me to help you babysit?”
“Yes,” he answers. “Sorry. I know dealing with kids is the last thing you need on a Friday night, but I’ll make it up to you. Think of this as me cashing in on—” He halts and make a smoking gesture with his hands.
I actually don’t mind Polly. She’s one of the sweetest kids.
“I wanna hear it from you though. That you need me. Desperately.” I cross my arms and tap my foot.
He groans. “Katie—”
I tilt my head. “Say it.”
He puts a hand over his heart. “I need you. Desperately. Please.”
I let the silence hang dramatically, then sigh. “Fine. Give me ten minutes. I’ll go over there.”
“Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
As I shut the door and make my way back upstairs, I hear Haley coming up behind me. “Kate,” she says in a serious tone that she rarely uses.
“Yeah?” I ask, trying to sound nonchalant. Because I have a feeling about where this conversation is going.
“He calls you ‘Katie?’ And you’re being mean to him? When did all of this happen?” she asks.
I push open my bedroom door, hoping that physical barriers might end this conversation. No such luck. She slips in right behind me like a mosquito.
“What do you mean, when?” I ask, grabbing a hoodie from my chair and pretending to look for pants.
Haley gasps. Actually gasps. “Katherine!”
Here it comes.
“You’re never mean,” she says, pointing at me like I’ve committed a federal offense. “You’re polite to telemarketers. You apologize when people bump into you. And now you’re out here throwing sass like a seasoned flirt?”
I groan. “I’m not flirting.”
She ignores me completely. “And ‘Katie?’ No one calls you ‘Katie.’ Not even me. And I’ve been with you since the womb. As your older sister, I need to understand.”
“You were born three minutes ahead of me,” I mutter.
“Still counts.” She hops on my bed, criss-cross applesauce, clearly settling in for a full psychoanalysis. “He calls you Katie, you let him, and you roast him like it’s your love language. Katherine—face it. You like him. And he likes you!”
I throw on the hoodie. “I don’t.”
“Sure,” she says, smug. “And I’m not currently playing a green witch in a musical where I belt notes from my spleen.”
I groan louder. “You are the worst.”
“And you, my dear,” she says, “are in denial.”
“Don’t you dare lecture me about denial, Miss we’re-just-friends,” I say.
Haley gapes. “Okay, I’m gonna let that slide since I like this new feisty side of you that somehow only the national athlete sees.”
I roll my eyes.
“Now go wash the swamp off your face and go play fake family with your not-boyfriend.” She rolls off the bed dramatically.
“And wear pants, for God’s sake.”