CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Michael
That was the best birthday I’ve had in years.
Which is weird, because it wasn’t even fancy. No VIP wristbands. No skyline views. No overpriced wagyu sliders passed around by people in bow ties. Just plastic chairs, someone’s kare-kare, and the sound of everyone singing ‘Happy Birthday.’
And yet… it felt good. Real. Like maybe birthdays don’t have to be curated events where you pose more than you talk.
I used to say I didn’t care about birthdays. But maybe I just got used to not having one.
When I was a kid, birthdays weren’t a big thing. No backyard. No candles. Just a longer hug from Trish or Lola, maybe an extra hotdog on my plate if we could spare it. Most years it passed with little more than a text or a quiet dinner. No fuss. No expectations.
I should’ve celebrated 30 with something lavish, right? That’s what people expected. And technically, I am doing that now—on the way to a restaurant in the city because Chris, Vince, and some of the guys from the team wouldn’t stop hounding me.
But if I’m honest, that backyard gathering of mismatched chairs and cake overload and Kate was all I needed.
And now my thoughts drift to her.
Now, look. You’d think I’m used to that—the attention, the birthday hype, the girls leaning a little too close with a glass of champagne in hand.
I’ve had people flirt with me because they knew my name before I even said it.
But I’m not the guy who just kisses someone at a party.
I never have been. Not even after a few drinks or when the music’s loud and everyone else is doing it.
I don’t kiss people I barely know just because it’s my birthday and they want me to.
Which is why Kate’s kiss felt like an earthquake.
It caught me off guard. Partly because it was really unexpected, especially coming from her. More than that, it’s because of how I felt after. I didn’t want it to end. She kissed me and pulled away like she had to erase it. Like she’d done something awful. But it wasn’t awful to me.
And for a guy who’s spent so long surrounded by noise, that kind of silence rattled me.
I arrive at the restaurant fifteen minutes late, but no one seems to notice because they probably didn’t even expect me to show up.
“Look who decided to show up,” Vince calls, raising a glass from across the table. “Birthday boy. Thirty and still not retiring.”
“Don’t tempt me,” I mutter, sliding into the empty seat beside Chris. A waiter appears like clockwork to offer me something sparkling, and I nod absently.
“How was the small town?” Chris asks, drumming his fingers on his beer bottle. “You’re not going soft on us, are you?”
I smirk. “Too late.”
For a moment, I tell them some things about the town. I still don’t tell them where it is, in fear of them showing up and ruining my peace. I tell them about the neighbors. How everyone is kind and hospitable. How I run the Little League.
“Seriously though,” Vince says, slicing into some impossibly tiny steak, “I still don’t get how you survived that long. Don’t you miss the city?” he asks, gesturing to the giant window behind us that overlooks the city.
“Sometimes,” I answer truthfully. “I miss the game. The fans. You guys,” I try to deflect.
They laugh, and thankfully, they don’t ask more.
There’s a mix of players from the team, some younger guys I’ve mentored, and a few ex-teammates who now coach or have moved to different leagues.
It’s all familiar: the shoulder punches, the bad jokes, the celebratory cheers that happen every time someone’s glass is refilled.
“Okay, okay, shut up,” says Carl, one of the newer guys on the team, lifting his glass and tapping the side. “Quick announcement.”
“Are you finally shaving off your sad excuse for a beard?” Vince asks, and everyone laughs. Carl chuckles, but he shakes his head firmly.
“I’m getting married.”
“No,” Chris says. Then a cheer erupts from the table.
“Seriously?” someone asks.
Carl just raises his hand with the tiniest smile. “It’s real. Got the ring and everything. Asked her last weekend.”
We all raise our drinks, clinking whatever’s closest. Vince immediately launches into a fake speech: “To Carl, who somehow found love despite smelling like locker room for seven straight years.”
Carl flips him off, but he’s smiling. “She likes how I smell. Says I smell like a man.”
“She’s just being polite,” Chris says.
As the jokes settle, Vince turns to me, casually elbowing my arm. “You next, Mike?”
I raise a brow. “What?”
“Don’t play dumb,” he says. “You deflect every time the conversation comes close to your curly-haired lady.”
“She’s not my lady,” I answer. “She’s my neighbor.”
“See,” Chris adds, “that’s the kind of thing we would know if you actually talk to us.”
I look at them, and I suddenly feel bad for keeping my distance. These are my friends. The guys I’ve known for years, teammates who’ve seen me screw up plays and miss flights. And I’ve barely told them anything about my life lately.
“She’s cool,” I say after a beat. “Katie. I mean, Kate. She’s funny.
Kind. A little shy and awkward sometimes.
But not in a helpless way. Just... in a human way.
She’s a preschool teacher who loves the kids way too much that she always brings snacks in case a kid forgets theirs.
And she bakes. Like, every day. For no reason. ”
Chris raises a brow. “So what you’re saying is... she’s secretly your wife and you’ve been hiding it.”
I shake my head at him. “She’s just easy to be around,” I add. “Like... you don’t have to put on anything with her. You just sit, and talk, or not talk. And it’s nice.”
They go quiet again, this time with less teasing in their faces. The way it usually happens to a rowdy group of guys when something real gets said.
“Anyway,” I say, picking up a fry. “It’s nothing. We’re not… anything.”
“Sure,” Vince says under his breath, smirking again. “Totally nothing.”
They laugh, but they don’t push again. And I appreciate that. Because I don’t really know what this thing is with Kate. Or if it even is a thing that needs defining.
I wanted to walk around the city after our lunch, but I forgot that I can’t just…
do that here. In Magnolia Heights, no one really bats an eye anymore.
I’m just Mike—guy who helps carry stuff and teaches kids to shoot basketballs.
In the city, I’m Michael Lee. Which means I can’t take ten steps without someone raising their phone, pretending to text while quietly whispering, “Is that him?”
So instead of walking aimlessly, I start heading toward the parking garage.
And that’s when I pass an appliance center.
There, on display under a halo of LED lights like it’s being canonized, is a purple stand mixer. Retro. Very girly. Very… Kate.
I blink.
Because I remember—clear as day—Kate telling me that her mixer is seven years old, and that it’s harder to operate now.
Without thinking, I walk toward the door. It opens with a jingle, and a young guy in a vest and name tag pokes his head out. “Sir Michael?” he says, starstruck. “Hi! Do you need help?”
I point. “That mixer. The purple one.”
He lights up like a Christmas tree. “Excellent choice! It just came in—vintage style, planetary motion, five-speed settings. I can give you a demo if you want?”
“No demo,” I say.
He nods and disappears into the back to get a new stock. Just then, another staff member approaches. He squints at me.
“I’m a big fan, sir…” he says. I smile politely. “Always have, always will be.” I shake his hand and agree to take a photo as the stand mixer is being prepared for me.
I walk to the counter, ready to pay when I spot a rack of sticker labels nearby. I aimlessly take one decorated with cupcakes.
“Can I… uh, borrow a pen?” I ask the cashier.
The saleslady blinks. “You want to add a gift note?” She hands me a pen.
“Nope,” I say, peeling the sticker. I grab her pen and scrawl, ‘For Michael Lee’s cookies.’ Then I stick it on the stand mixer and smile at the lady as I return her pen and put the stickers on the counter.
She gives me a look that says she has so many questions but chooses to stay silent.
I exit the store door with a giant box and head toward my car.
Thankfully, Heather agreed to let me bring my car to Magnolia Heights—arguing that people here already know me and won't suddenly treat me like a walking billboard just because I drive a fancy car. She’s right.
No one cares. I could pull up in a blimp and Manang Linda would still ask if I’ve eaten dinner.
The drive back is uneventful, except for the fact that I spend 80% of it overthinking a purple stand mixer. It’s just a gift. Just a small appliance. For someone who bakes cookies. Specifically cookies I may or may not be obsessed with. I’m not trying to impress her. I’m not.
I pull up to Kate’s house, box in hand, fully ready to drop this off with a casual “hey, thought you could use this,” and then disappear like a humble little elf.
But then I see the shoes.
So many shoes.
And since I’m used to just barging into people’s houses, because that’s how they do it here, I open the door and enter.
Which is a terrible mistake.
Every single person in the room turns to look at me. Aunties. Uncles. A suspicious toddler with a lollipop. A dog in a sweater. A guy who might be Kate’s cousin or her uncle—I have no way of knowing.
And standing in the middle of it all?
Katie.
Holding a plate of spaghetti. Mouth slightly open. Eyes wide.
I glance down at the box in my hands.
“Hey,” I say. “I, uh…”
I don’t finish because Kate immediately locks eyes with me and sets her spaghetti down. She grabs my arm and takes me to the kitchen.
“I brought you something,” I manage, as we pass three aunties, two confused cousins, and what might be a choir forming in the living room.
She doesn’t say anything yet. Just keeps pulling me toward the kitchen like she’s trying to save us both. And I let her.