CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Michael
I’ve lost track of how long I’ve been here. Time behaves strangely in Kate’s room.
Lunch was… questionable. She managed half a slice of plain bread, folded in half like she was rationing. I, meanwhile, fell down a rabbit hole of ‘Stomach Flu Recovery Tips.’
Turns out she already had most of the essentials—electrolyte drinks, crackers, ginger tea. The only thing missing was the mysterious broth currently steaming in my hands.
Getting here was a process, though. First, I dug through her fridge and found nothing remotely resembling broth.
Then I scavenged the pantry and found a lone packet of miso paste, two carrots, and something that may or may not have been vegetable stock powder.
I boiled water, sliced the carrots thinner than paper (don’t ask how long that took), and added the miso and stock.
Then I stared at it for a solid thirty seconds, wondering if I’d accidentally made soup-flavored water.
For good measure, I threw in ginger slices because the internet said ginger helps nausea, and a splash of soy sauce because it looked… beige.
By the time it stopped smelling weird, I’d been in her kitchen for exactly an hour, which is about fifty-nine minutes longer than I’ve ever willingly spent in anyone’s kitchen (including my own).
I set the mug on her bedside table.
“Don’t ask what’s in it,” I tell her. “Just know I googled, cross-referenced, and taste-tested so you don’t have to.”
Her eyes peek over the blanket, glassy but curious. “You taste-tested?” she croaks.
“Twice,” I say.
She snorts weakly, then pulls the blanket back just enough to take the mug from me. Her fingers brush mine, and I catch the tiniest smile before she takes a sip.
“You actually… made this?” she asks, like she’s trying to figure out if I’m messing with her.
“Don’t look so shocked,” I say. “I’m capable of boiling water without setting anything on fire.”
I wait for the wince, the joke, the polite ‘thanks’, but she just swallows, sets the mug back down, and murmurs, “It’s good. And… thanks.”
And then I just… stay there.
We cycle through board games as time goes by. We settle for chess, which is the only thing that didn’t bring out the absolute worst in us.
“You should really start getting ready for Little League,” Kate says as she moves a chess piece.
I sigh and drop my head back against the wall. “I know, I know. It’s just… different without you there.” I blink suddenly, unsure if I said it the wrong way and that I might be insinuating that I like her there.
Kate raises an eyebrow, her hands still on the board. “The other teachers don’t bite, you know.”
“Sure,” I say, “but the principal looks like she might. And the rest of them keep staring at me like I’m a foreign object. When you’re there, I don’t notice it as much.”
I realize how that sounds, so I pivot. Hard. “Because your clumsiness is distracting.”
Kate looks at me with an unimpressed expression. “You know what? I hope Mrs. Ramos does bite you.”
I chuckle, and then move my chess piece. I think I’m winning. I think. “Where did you learn to play chess? You’re surprisingly good.”
Kate rolls her eyes and lifts her glasses to the bridge of her nose. “Please, it’s the loser game in high school. There’s this guy who taught me how.”
“And here I thought you never had a boyfriend.”
“I haven’t!” she says quickly. “He wasn’t a boyfriend.
He was barely a friend. I mean… I liked him.
At the time. And I thought he liked me back.
But turns out he just needed someone decent enough to play with for the interschool chess tournament, and I was the nearest warm body who knows what the chess pieces are called.
He stopped talking to me after we won gold. ”
“Ouch.”
Kate shrugs. “I read way too much into it. Which isn’t shocking. I’m a hopeless romantic.”
I look at her. “And… you’re still one? I’d have lost all belief in love.”
“That’s not surprising. You’re a big, giant quitter.” She chuckles to herself. I don’t tell her that if I were a big, giant quitter, I’d have given up on basketball in high school. “Kidding,” she adds. “But yeah, I still dream about the grand, sweeping love stories.”
I narrow my eyes at her in confusion. “Really? You’re still holding out for the big romance? Sparks flying? Epic declarations in the rain?”
“Maybe not the rain, I don’t wanna get pneumonia,” Kate says. “But yeah. I don’t know. I still want it.” She holds out her fingers as she lists her life plan. “Meet someone, get the sweeping declaration of love, marriage, and two kids. That’s it. That’s the plan.”
“That’s it? The whole plan?” I ask.
“Honestly, I don’t know. Maybe I’ll be brave and do something else. But I don’t know.”
“Okay…” I say, unsure if I should prod. I don’t. “Well that’s still pretty nice. Most people wouldn’t admit they still want that stuff.”
We’re not playing chess anymore. Just sitting on her bed, facing each other.
She shrugs again, this time smaller. “I mean… it’s not like I have people lining up to deliver grand gestures. Or gestures in general. Or even, like, a mildly enthusiastic wave.”
“Well, maybe they just don’t know how to approach you.”
Kate raises a skeptical brow. “Approach me?”
“You give off a vibe,” I say, gesturing vaguely. “Like you’re about to assign homework if someone breathes too loud.”
She shakes her head, laughing now. “So what, you’re saying I need help being more approachable? I am literally the kindest person in Magnolia Heights.”
“I’m saying,” I reply, “if you want the sweeping romance and the sparks and the poetic confessions under mildly threatening weather conditions—you might need a little… charisma training.”
Kate gives me a long look. “You’re offering to train me. In charisma. You. Who doesn’t answer press questions and doesn’t do interviews,” she says, deadpan.
“That’s by choice, Katie, not because I can’t do it. I can be charismatic when I want to be,” I say. “And yeah, maybe ‘train’ is a bit much. I’m simply… nudging you.”
I don’t know what I’m doing. Am I really offering to help her be more appealing to guys? Are we that kind of ‘friends’ now?
“Whatever.” She rolls her eyes. “How are you even going to do that?”
“For starters, you’re either too kind or too deadly. You need to find that sweet middle,” I say.
“This is the sweet middle,” she says, gesturing to herself.
I chuckle, and so does she. Kate finally reaches forward and starts putting the chessboard away, sighing like she’s accepted that the game isn’t happening. We’ve been sitting here too long, talking instead of competing.
“Forget it,” I say. “You’re gonna do just fine on your own.”
“No,” she replies. “Maybe you can just, give me unsolicited feedback from time to time. If I’m talking too much, not talking enough, babbling about irrelevant stuff.”
I laugh. “Sure, Katherine, I’ll try.”
Then she yawns, soft and sudden. The meds must be kicking in.
“You should rest,” I say. She doesn’t argue. Just nods and curls up into a ball like she’s done this a hundred times before. I pull the blanket over her without thinking.
“Thanks,” she says. And I know it’s not just for the blanket. It’s for the company. For staying. For not making her feel weird about needing someone there.
“Anytime,” I say, surprised that I mean it much more than I thought I would.
I swing my legs off her bed and plant my feet on the floor, but I don’t stand up right away. I’m still looking at her, already half asleep, arms tucked under her chin.
“I’m serious about trying to help you, though. And I won’t even ask for too much in return.”
She opens one eye.
I grin. “I just need the recipe for those cookies.”
She groans and throws a pillow at me without lifting her head.
I catch it midair, laughing.
“I’ll see you later, Katie.”
But she’s already drifting as she waves a lazy hand at me.
Little League wrapped up about twenty minutes ago.
Without Miss Kate there to round up the chaos with her weird but effective way of cheerleading, the whole thing felt…
lopsided. The kids were still loud and wild and sugar-fueled, but there wasn’t anyone gently reminding them to use their kind hands, not their mean hands, or passing out the post-practice fruit cups with stickers for ‘good hustle.’
She’s the only one who makes an effort when it comes to that stuff. That’s why the kids love her.
I ran drills, refereed a mini scrimmage, and only got hit in the face with the ball once. A new record.
Still, it felt like something was missing. Maybe it was just me noticing it more than anyone else.
After we wrapped up and the kids filed out with their water bottles and neon drawstring bags, I stayed back to help the other teachers clear up cones and stray basketballs. And now, I’m here, still sitting on the bench, dribbling a ball.
Just as I’m about to go, my phone rings, and Heather’s name pops up.
I sigh, and lay on my back on the long benches. I stare at the gym ceiling and click the green button.
“Hey,” I say, wiping my forehead with a towel. “What’s up?”
“You finally picked up,” she says, brisk and caffeinated. “I was starting to think your new life plan was to vanish into a preschool.”
She’s been calling me since this morning, but I was rather… busy.
“How can I help you?” I ask.
“Actually, the question is how I can help you,” she says. “Got an offer for you.”
I roll my neck against the tension building there. “What kind of offer?”
“An interview. Big name outlet. Gentle angle. Humanizing, sympathetic, nothing aggressive. Just a chance for everyone to see you again and maybe empathize.”
I don’t respond right away. I stare at the overhead lights in the gym, then shut my eyes.
Heather’s voice softens, just slightly. “Look, I know it’s been a mess.
And you’re probably hoping if you lie low long enough, this all blows over.
But it won’t. Everyone’s asking about you, and I’m running out of excuses.
Nobody except your teammates know about the community service.
Others think you’re just laying low. And it’s gonna give the wrong impression if you don’t speak at all, then just show up during training.
” She pauses for a while, then continues, “This could help.”
I sigh. I haven’t even thought about it. My friends mentioned that the SEA Games will open soon. And I have to practice eventually.
“Yeah,” I say eventually. “Maybe.”
“Just… look at the email I sent you. Read it before you decide. You don’t have to say yes right now.
” She pauses. I can hear her typing in the background, because of course she’s doing ten things at once.
“But official training camp starts in three months,” she adds.
“If we’re going to get ahead of the press cycle, it needs to happen soon. ”
I hum some kind of acknowledgment. She takes the hint.
“Alright. Call me when you’re done pretending to think about it.” She hangs up without saying goodbye. Classic Heather.
I lower the phone and let it rest on my chest.
Heather’s right. I can’t hide forever. Eventually, I’ll have to talk. Answer the questions. Smile like I mean it. Let the public see the real me again. The polished, unproblematic version. The sanitized golden boy with the charming smile and just enough nonchalance.
I sit up, then walk out of the gym. I can’t run away forever. But I still have at least a few weeks to just, I don’t know… eat cookies.
When I step out of the gym, Heather calls again.
“Yes?” I ask, bracing myself for another ambush call about PR tactics.
“I forgot,” she says. “You have to meet with me somewhere tomorrow. Or drop by here at the agency. They’ll give you cakes for sure.”
“Cakes?”
There’s a long silence, as if Heather is giving me time to reach the conclusion. After a few seconds, she sighs. “You’re hopeless. It’s your 30th birthday, Mike.”
Oh. Right.