CHAPTER TWENTY
Kate
Ihear the door open, and I spring to life. “Oh my God, Michael,” I say. “At least leave a note or something!”
I’ve been pacing the living room for approximately fifteen minutes, wondering where he was.
He blinks, holding up two paper bags like peace offerings. “You were asleep. I didn’t want to wake you.”
“You left your niece and an unconscious woman alone in your house,” I say, gesturing to Polly, still curled up in the blanket fort. Her hair is a bird’s nest and one sock is halfway off.
“Yeah, not a good call,” he says sheepishly as he proceeds to the dining room to place the bag he’s holding.
“You got food?” I ask, instantly distracted, my stomach roaring in betrayal. I realize then that I hadn’t eaten anything since popcorn and a single gummy bear from Polly’s stash.
“Breakfast special number three,” he says, pulling out the containers. “And pancakes for Polly.”
I don’t hesitate—I plop down on the chair with the grace of a potato sack and immediately start opening the container. The smell alone could undo me: garlic rice, eggs cooked exactly the way I like them, and the mix of tocino, fried fish, and vegetables arranged on the side.
“How did you know my order?” I ask, chewing already.
“Haley told me,” he says. Oh. Uh-oh.
Haley knows I stayed here. And that I woke up here. That I never made it home last night like I swore I would. Not that anything happened—God, nothing happened—but she’ll still tease me. Or worse, give me that knowing look and convince me that I’m catching feelings.
I’m not.
I didn’t mean to stay over. I told myself I’d leave as soon as Polly fell asleep.
I even sat upright for a while to make sure I wouldn’t accidentally get too comfortable.
But then the blanket fort was warm, and Michael was humming terribly off-key, and the night was winding down…
and now here I am, barefoot and eating breakfast.
Michael heats up his sad little breakfast of oats and fruit—a diet that smells like penance—and joins me.
“How did you sleep?” he asks.
“Honestly, my back hurts,” I say, reaching for the spot on my shoulder where the pain is. “Your floor mattress is not bone-friendly.”
He chuckles, handing me the water pitcher, and my arm stretches across him to take it. His gaze flickers, mid-motion, to the lavender tattoo on my upper arm.
“You have a tattoo? I never noticed that before,” he says, eyebrows climbing.
“Why are you so surprised?” I ask, instantly defensive. Maybe it’s the tone, or the way his eyes linger, like he’s seeing something new about me.
He doesn’t respond right away, so I go on. “We got these in college. Me, Bon, Emily, and Haley. It was like… our little group thing. Everyone chose a flower that represented them. Mine was lavender.”
He nods, thoughtful. “Why lavender?”
I shrug, then pause, suddenly unsure. “I think it’s supposed to mean calm. Steady. Soothing. Something like that.”
He chews thoughtfully and says, “That sounds like you.”
I glance at him sideways, caught off guard. A strange flutter stirs in my stomach—somewhere between flattery and disbelief, because I have never been calm around him. “Does it?”
He smiles, eyes still on his bowl. “I mean, not with me, obviously. But everyone else around here? They all describe you like that.”
He pauses, then lifts his gaze, smirking. “To me, though? You’re more like… a Venus flytrap.”
I narrow my eyes. “Charming.”
“I’m serious,” he says, laughing. “You lure people in with politeness, then chomp down when they least expect it.”
I roll my eyes, but a smile sneaks out anyway.
The silence between us turns comfortable again. Outside, the sun is rising higher. The curtain lets in beams of gold across the floor. Polly stirs but doesn’t wake, buried beneath a lopsided mountain of pillows and her oversized jersey. And then I realize I’m still wearing my own oversized jersey.
And for a moment, I let myself sit in the absurd calm of this morning. Sitting cross-legged in Michael Lee’s dining room. Eating my favorite breakfast. Wearing his shirt. Watching his niece sleep like this is a regular day.
Then he says, “Katie.”
“Yeah?”
He hesitates, his eyes lingering on Polly sleeping. He opens his mouth, then clears his throat and asks me, “Do you ever see yourself having a family?”
The question surprises me. Not because it’s too personal, but because it’s coming from him. The national athlete who’s also my temporary neighbor. He’s not supposed to ask me these life questions over breakfast.
I blink. “You mean like, as a mother?”
He nods.
And I pause. I know what to say, it’s a truth I’ve upheld over the years. But somehow, baring it here feels like peeling off a layer of myself to a stranger, of all people. However, as I meet his gaze one more time, I realize he’s not just a stranger anyway.
“I do,” I say softly. “It’s kind of always been the dream. I picture this little house—not fancy or anything. Somewhere near here. I’d still be teaching. Maybe baking on weekends. Kids running around. A routine.”
He’s listening, his expression unreadable.
I shrug. “I know it sounds… simple. But it’s really all I’ve wanted my whole life.” I’m convinced I’d make a good mother. And I really do want to be one. Someday.
He leans back slightly and smiles. “If that’s your dream, then go for it, Katie. You’d be amazing at it.”
I exhale, relieved, until he adds, “But first—answer this.”
I give him a look. “Answer what?”
His gaze sharpens. “Is that your dream because it’s what you really want... or just the safest thing you’ve let yourself imagine?”
The question knocks the breath out of me.
Because I don’t know.
Because I’ve never really asked myself that before.
And what’s the alternative anyway? I’m not built for anything bold. I’m not some big, sweeping romance heroine.
But still…
What if there was more?
What if the only thing keeping me from imagining something bigger was the belief that I don’t deserve it?
I blink back to the present and look at Michael, who is still calmly eating oatmeal like he didn’t just ambush me.
I lift my fork slowly and say, “You ask really heavy questions for someone eating boiled fruit.”
He grins. “I like to keep things balanced.”
And I laugh, but a part of me is still circling the question, trying to figure out if the dream I’ve clung to all my life really is mine, or just another thing I’ve been conditioned to want.
Just as I’m drowning in my existential dread, a voice rips through the silence.
“What’s that smell?”
Polly materializes into view. Her hair is like a nest, her cheeks are red, and her eyes are still groggy. “Are those pancakes?” She points to the paperbag.
Michael coughs back a laugh. “Good morning, Pol.”
Polly stretches like a cat, then walks toward us.
“I dreamed I was on stage with Elsa, but then she turned into Miss Kate, and we did high kicks together.” She yawns mid-sentence, smacks her lips. “Wait, are those pancakes or did I dream about those too?” She pouts.
“They’re real,” I say, scooting the takeout box closer to her. “Michael got them for you.”
She gasps. “Tito Wowski, you’re the best!” She scrambles up and tackles him in a sleepy hug, nearly knocking over his very sad bowl of oatmeal.
He ruffles her hair. “You’re lucky I like you.”
Polly sits on one of the dining chairs and digs in with reckless abandon. As she eats, she starts telling us about her dream in very specific, very confusing detail, and the strange, quiet moment we were just in vanishes like mist under sunlight.
Michael glances at me once more, his earlier question still echoing somewhere between us.
But for now, I let it drift.
I’ve always imagined myself living a simple life. That’s where all my choices have led—teaching at the local preschool, waiting for the right man to come along, avoiding messy relationships, filling my days with baking and cooking so I’ll be ready for the family I dream about.
But maybe Michael’s right. Maybe it isn’t really a dream at all. Maybe it’s just the safest thing I’ve ever let myself imagine. A future that asks for nothing risky, nothing that could truly break me. Safe.
My phone buzzes, cutting through my thoughts, and I check to see that there are 3 messages. All from the same person.
Haley: He calls you Katie, he buys you breakfast, and you take care of his niece TOGETHER. OVERNIGHT.
Haley: IDK about you, Kate, sounds pretty serious to me.
Haley: Just please take care of yourself!!
I know she means well. She’s been watching over mesince we were kids, and now that we’re adults, she hasn’t figured out how to stop. I know this is how she loves—by worrying, by teasing, by lovingly insulting.
Sometimes, though, she forgets I’m not made of glass. That I am an adult, who, on good days, can make my own choices.
I reply to her to tell her I’m fine and that she should worry about belting notes while harnessed. That’ll keep her off my back. Haley’s very passionate about her job.
I look at Michael cutting up pancakes so Polly can eat them with her little fork. She’s still talking about another dream she had—something about flying whales and pink slides that lead to a classroom made of candy. And he’s listening. Intently.
And I’m here, still barefoot in someone else’s home, eating takeout that he got for me. So, I’m not going to pretend Haley’s being dramatic. She’s right. This? This is not normal. This isn’t a casual neighborly morning hangout.
But the thing is, I’ve spent so much of my adult life protecting my peace and guarding the soft parts. I don’t trust feelings when they first arrive; I examine them seriously. Is this affection? Comfort? Endorphins? Sugar high?
I don’t know. I never really do at first.
And okay, fine. I’m enjoying it. I’m enjoying the pancakes and the casual shoulder brush and how Polly calls us “team.”
But maybe I don’t have to be on high alert all the time. Maybe I can let myself be like this. Not forever. Not until I’ve mapped every possible emotional consequence. Just… for now.
Whatever this is—whatever it becomes—I think it might actually be okay.