CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Kate
Iknow this mixer. I’ve stared at this mixer through glass storefronts.
I’ve added it to my online shopping cart more times than I can count.
I marvel at it, scroll through the colors, and read all the reviews like bedtime stories.
I imagine it sitting on my kitchen counter, whipping up magical, symmetrical cookie dough. And then I look at the price.
And I close the tab.
Because I cannot, in good conscience, spend a preschool teacher’s life savings on an appliance—even if it is planetary motion with five speeds and a retro finish in purple, which, for the record, is the exact color of joy.
But now… I have it.
It’s here. In my kitchen. Because Michael Lee got it for me.
And in true fashion, he put a sticker on it labeled ‘For Michael Lee’s cookies.’
I don’t know what breaks me. Maybe the sheer thoughtfulness of it. Or the fact that someone listened to me babble about mixers and remembered. Or maybe it’s just that I’ve had the kind of week where I kissed my neighbor and got ambushed by relatives. Whatever it is, it makes me cry.
Yup.
I remove my glasses and place them on the counter. I cover my face with my hands, trying to stifle it, but a tiny, embarrassing sniff escapes anyway.
“Oh my God,” I mumble. “I’m crying over a mixer.”
Michael takes a step closer. “Hey, hey,” he says, alarmed but soft. “It’s okay. I cry over appliances all the time.”
I give him a wet laugh, muffled through my hands. “You do not.”
He chuckles. “Okay, I don’t. But I almost teared up when I discovered air fryers.” I roll my eyes. “It’s your kitchen, Katie. Cry about whatever you want.”
I look back at the mixer. My mixer. That Michael got for me because I mentioned it once in passing.
And then, very softly, I say, “Thank you.”
Michael just shrugs, like it’s no big deal. But I can tell he’s pleased. He takes a paper towel from the counter and gently wipes my eyes. Then he takes my glasses and puts them on me.
I wipe under my eyes with the back of my hand and breathe. “Okay. I’m fine. I’m good. I’m totally fine.”
From the living room comes a noise. “Kaaaaate! Introduce your boyfriend!”
Michael lifts a brow. “Still fine?”
“No,” I say. “Now I want to cry for a whole different reason.”
Before I can even toss the dish towel aside and flee the scene, my mom pokes her head into the kitchen like a nosy meerkat.
“Oh, there you are!” she says brightly, spotting Michael. “Come meet everyone!”
I give Michael one last panicked glance, like maybe he’ll fake an injury or disappear into a puff of smoke, but instead he just smiles at me—like this is fun. Like this is a game. He follows my mom into the living room with the confidence of a man who has no idea what he’s about to endure.
“This is Michael,” she announces. “Kate’s friend.” The way she says it implies that she doesn’t believe it at all.
Tita Tess narrows her eyes. “Are you the basketball guy? Huh. Much more handsome in person. Good job, Katherine.”
“We’re really not—” I say, but I’m interrupted by Tita’s husband.
“Don’t we get a free jersey? You’re dating our Kate, after all.” He stands and shakes hands with Michael. “Call me Tito Jun.”
I sigh. “Again, we’re really not—” I start, but I’m again interrupted. By Michael this time.
“Free jersey coming up, Tito Jun,” he says, smiling. The room erupts in laughter. Even my notoriously unimpressed cousin Monette lets out a “Hmp,” which, in her world, is practically a standing ovation.
I stare at Michael, who’s now juggling a plate of spaghetti, a handshake from my cousin’s husband, and a story about how he once lost a sneaker mid-game.
He’s handling the chaos better than I am.
And for some weird, unexplainable reason, that makes my chest feel like it's full of bees and balloons. I don’t even know why I chose bees and balloons, the point is my chest is both full and painful at the same time.
“You okay?” someone whispers near my ear as Michael weaves his way into my life.
I look behind me to see Haley, appearing out of nowhere, holding a glass of iced tea in one hand and a lechon kawali cube in the other.
“I—define okay?” I whisper back.
Haley looks toward Michael, who is now laughing with my Lolo and complimenting my Tita Josie’s spaghetti. “He’s thriving,” she notes. “Is this, like… a real thing now? Can I sing at your wedding?”
I shake my head. “Nothing is real. He’s still leaving after the year-end thing.”
She ignores me, snickers, and hands me a tissue. “You’re sweating.”
“Emotionally,” I say.
“No,” Haley says slowly. “Physically, you’re sweating. Emotionally, you’re spiraling. Because, my dear Katherine, you like him.”
“I kissed him,” I mumble.
Her eyes go wide. “You WHAT?”
I don’t know why I told her. But Haley has been with me through everything, and it feels wrong to not tell her. “I know, I know.” I press the tissue to my forehead. “It was an accident.”
“There are a lot of things in this world that can be accidental. Slipping on a wet floor. Liking a tweet from 2014. Not kissing someone is easier than kissing them.”
“I’ll tell you about it later. It wasn’t even a real kiss. It was like a peck, but milder.”
“Yes, but to you, that’s basically sex.” She gets distracted by one of our titas commenting on her new stage role, and I’m left alone again.
And then I remember why I didn’t tell her.
As much as she loves me, she also… underestimates me.
Like I’m the designated good girl in the group dynamic.
And I don’t blame her. I built the brand.
I’ve always been careful, packed emergency snacks and first aid, I recycle.
I’m the one who crushes in silence, loves from afar, and overthinks her way into never trying.
I fall in love through romance books. Not real life. And for most of my life, being ‘the good girl’ has felt like a compliment. Something sturdy and sure and something I can actually live up to.
But ever since I kissed Michael I don’t know whether I want to crawl back in that persona… or keep running toward whatever this is. Whatever he is. Whatever I might be, if I stopped trying so hard to be the version of myself everyone already thinks I am.
And then, cutting through my thoughts, my mom walks over with her ‘play nice’ smile—the one she uses on waiters and new neighbors and unconfirmed boyfriends.
“Kate,” she says sweetly, but with sharp intent. “Invite Michael to tomorrow.”
“To… what?”
“The outing,” she says, as if it’s obvious. “We’re all going to Tagaytay. You know, the place with the infinity pool and the shaded cottages? We already rented the place.”
“No, Mom, I don’t think—he probably has plans—” I glance toward Michael, who’s now helping my Lolo adjust the volume on his phone.
“Michael!” my mom calls sweetly.
He looks up immediately. “Yes, ma’am?”
She beams. “Do you have plans tomorrow?”
I mouth ‘don’t do it’ behind her, like I’m in a hostage video.
Michael glances at me—just a beat longer than necessary—and then says, all calm and easy, “None that I can’t reschedule. Why?”
“We’re going to Tagaytay. Family trip,” she announces like it’s a red carpet premiere. “We’d love for you to join.”
There’s a long pause. He seems to consider it for all of one second.
“Sure,” he says. “Sounds fun.”
My internal organs collapse as everyone cheers for the news. When my mom leaves, I walk over to Michael and whisper, “What are you doing?”
He raises his eyebrows innocently. “Why?”
“You’re joining our family trip, are you sure about this?” I ask.
“Honestly? I’ve never been part of a big family before. It’s so nice.” He smiles at me, and I can’t bear to be mad at him for saying yes.