Page 33 of Captured Heart

“I give it three months,” Corey says.

I stare at him, confused. “For what?”

“They’re either gonna end up boning...or one of them is gonna end up dead.”

Zayn scoffs. “Well, if those are the options, you better start writing my eulogy. My money’s on her.”

We continue chatting, bitching about how none of us have time for a social life, let alone a love life. Somewhere along the way, Zayn also states (quite bluntly) thatJohn has got it bad for you.

Honestly, I don’t want to read too much into it, but these things are starting to pile up. I suspected that Alex might sort of be interested in me on Thursday, but I brushed it aside because I had nothing concrete to work with. Then yesterday at the gym, I got the same feeling. The way he looked at me when he had me pinned down on the floor. I could’ve sworn he wanted to kiss me. Unfortunately, that kiss never happened because he abruptly pulled away and ended the session, so I thought I’d misread that, too.

But now, Corey and Zayn are telling me the same thing I suspected. Surely, I’m not deluding myself here, and Alexisinterested in me. The question now is, what do I do with that? I don’t want to get into another relationship, but it wouldn’t hurtto just see where this goes, see if we’re compatible. No harm in testing the waters, right?

I leave the café half an hour later, and by the time I get home, I’m starving. I remove my sneakers as soon as I enter, carrying them with me as I walk to the kitchen. Placing them in the corner near the table, I make a mental note to take them upstairs after I’m done cooking.

The house is relatively small but cozy, filled with personal touches from my grandad’s obsessive tinkering. The living room has shelves stacked with old records and DVDs, little potted succulents on the windowsill, and a framed black-and-white photo of my grandparents on the mantle.

I wash my hands, then head to the fridge, grabbing all the ingredients I need. Today, I’m keeping it simple. Miso soup, grilled fish, and a small bowl of pickled vegetables. As the aroma of the broth fills the air, a sense of nostalgia wraps around me. When I was a kid, my parents and I would come up to Berkeley to visit my grandparents, and the house used to smell just like this. It’s comforting, a small way to conjure up their presence.

Just as I set the fish on the grill, my phone buzzes on the counter. A video call from my parents. They used to call at least once a week to make sure I was okay. My dad has gotten so paranoid lately that he’s upped these calls to three times a week now. I don’t mind, though. I love catching up with them.

I wipe my hands on a kitchen towel and answer, the screen filling with their smiling faces.

“Kate,” my mom greets, her voice warm and cheerful.

She’s wearing one of her colorful scarves, the kind that makes her stand out in any crowd. My dad stands behind her, looking as composed as always, though there’s a hint of mischievousness in his expression.

“Hi, Mom! Hi, Dad!” I greet, leaning against the counter. “What’s up?”

“Nothing much,” he replies with an exhausted breath. “Just another long day.”

“It’s Sunday, Dad. You need to take a break every once in a while.”

“Now, don’t you start. Your mother’s been nagging me to take it easy, and I promised I will...as soon as I’m done with this case.”

“There’s always something,” she grumbles. “And I keep telling him he needs to make more time for me, for us. How will a relationship flourish if it’s not nurtured?”

“Well, we managed to get throughalmosttwenty-five years, but dedicating half my life to you is still not enough.” He plucks a quick kiss on her cheek, then focuses on me. “Apparently, I’m supposed to channel all that energy I put into work into being more romantic. But romance doesn’t pay...the water bill or the light bill, does it?”

I smile. I love how playful they are with each other, even after all these years. My dad is a workaholic, so they have little tiffs like this all the time. I find it adorable. They’re good role models because I want to have what they have one day.

My mom rolls her eyes, smirking. “Well, if you can make time to play golf, surely you can make more time for me.”

He tenses slightly. “But that was Victor, honey. I can’t say no to Victor.” Whatever weirdness he’s feeling, he brushes it off quickly and gives a wide smile. “But even though I didn’t want to go, it was good for me. Good for the mind, you know. The view was spectacular. Sunsets...over the green are hard to beat.”

“You say that about every course,” my mom teases.

“Not every course,” he says with a smirk. “But it’s hard to argue when you’re surrounded by...tall palm trees and fresh air. It’s peaceful.”

I narrow my eyes at him, something tugging at the back of my mind, but I can’t quite place it. My dad plays this odd game withme. It started when I was a kid because he wanted to develop my critical thinking skills, so he used to give me cryptic clues, and I had to decode a hidden message. He never tells me when he’s playing this game. I just have to pay special attention to the cadence of the conversation and figure it out.

There were three unusual pauses so far, which probably means the game is on. This was a hard one because he was so light and playful. I didn’t expect him to sneak it in like that.

After a few more minutes of chatting about the usual—work, weather, and if I’m eating enough vegetables—they say their goodbyes.

“Take care, Kate,” my mom says, waving at the camera.

“Bye, sweetheart,” my dad adds. “I love you. Call me soon.”

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