Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
T eegan finger-combs her way through the curls in my hair to coax them into loose waves. “I wonder if I should add a bit heavier eyeliner to your makeup look,” she questions as she steps back to assess her work. “This is a dinner date after all.”
“Leave her alone now, Teeg,” Amaya interjects from her observation chair. “She wants to look like herself. The light makeup already looks perfect.”
Teegan pouts a little but gives in. I give my completed look a once-over in the full-length mirror. After way too long spent going through my closet, Teegan and I finally decided on a flowy, tiered dress from Anthropologie she found on clearance over the summer. I should fit in regardless of whether we’re at an upscale or casual restaurant.
At 6:23 p.m., I head downstairs to wait on the porch. I’m hoping I can race down to Mateo’s car and avoid any AOPis seeing me with him. I made Amaya and Teegan promise to stay inside and watch safely from a window so as not to draw attention to my departure. Suffice to say, Teegan is acting like I’ve ruined Christmas at the moment.
I take a deep breath and open the front door, relieved that no one is hanging around in the entry. Closing the door behind me, I turn around to see Mateo coming up the front walk. He’s wearing chino shorts and a blue button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. He pulls his sunglasses off and smiles when he sees me. I glance around quickly (no witnesses) and hurry down the steps toward him.
“You’re early,” I say.
“Well, Coach is constantly drilling into us that to be on time to practice is to be late, so I guess the habit spills over.” His eyes quickly scan down to my toes and back up to my eyes, and I feel the first whisper of a blush forming.
“Wow, you look amazing, Lana.”
“Thanks,” I say nervously. I’m fumbling to know how to accept compliments from Mateo. Objectively speaking, he’s strikingly handsome with bronze skin, tousled black hair, a strong jaw, and deep brown eyes—not to mention his muscular, athletic body build. The perpetual five o’clock shadow along his jaw has to be intentional because it always looks well-kept. I realize he has one dimple on just his right cheek as he smiles at me.
I feel so self-consciously average next to him. Once again, I’m in my head, wondering why he’s standing here with me instead of someone like Bailey. I clear my throat and ask, “Am I dressed okay for where we’re eating? Where are we going?”
“You’re perfect,” he says with a smile, gesturing for me to follow. “And that’s for me to know and you to find out.”
He opens the passenger door of an old blue truck. This isn’t a huge, look-at-me truck like a lot of the frat guys drive. It’s an unassuming, older Toyota model that looks well taken care of. I climb into the seat, and he closes the door behind me. I smooth my hands across my dress to calm their shaking.
It’s fine, you’re fine, everything is fine, I chant internally as Mateo gets in and starts the truck. “Ready?” He checks in with me with a quick smile. I nod and try to smile back.
We pull away from the AOPi house, past campus and Center Square. I’m not sure where we’re going since we’re driving away from most of the retail areas of town. Maybe Mateo knows of a hidden gem of a restaurant.
Mateo makes small talk, asking about how my classes are going. I ask how soccer practices have been this week. He tells a funny story about some of the team reenacting the “So Long, Farewell” scene from Ted Lasso . We’ve been driving for about fifteen minutes and made our way to the small highway heading out of the city. I have no idea what our destination could be.
Finally, Mateo pulls into the prairie reserve on the outskirts of Brooklyn, winding through the driving paths until we reach a parking area on a hilltop overlooking the Flint Hills. He backs the truck up to face the view and puts it in park. “We’re here!” he says with a mischievous grin. “I told you to dress for dinner outside.”
I laugh and open my car door. I’ve only been out to the reserve a few times, even though I’ve been at Townsend for over three years now. Looking out at the never-ending rolling views and feeling the breeze blow through my hair relaxes my nerves.
Mateo leads us to the back of the truck where he stashed a picnic basket. He pulls down the tailgate and arranges a thick blanket on it before hopping up to sit with his feet dangling over the edge. I follow suit, settling in next to him.
“Welcome to the Flint Hills Café,” Mateo says as he sweeps his hand toward the view. The truck is perfectly angled, so we won’t be staring directly into the sun but will be able to appreciate all the colors of the sunset. He sets up a wireless speaker and opens his phone to connect. Ed Sheeran starts streaming through the speaker, and Mateo turns the volume down to a nice background level. I tap my fingers along with the melody, the subconscious movement calming my heart rate.
Mateo hands me a Spindrift from a small cooler and opens the picnic basket. He pulls out two brown-paper wrapped sandwiches that I recognize from Sandy’s, a local sandwich shop. He also sets out a bag of ruffled chips and a tub of their famous dip—a secret recipe full of cheese and bacon and I’m convinced some sort of addictive substance that makes it so good.
He hands me my favorite Thai-inspired chicken salad wrap and says, “I’ll admit I had to enlist Teegan’s help to know what you like to order from Sandy’s.”
“Mateo, this is incredible,” I tell him, and take my first bite. “What did you order?”
He tilts his sandwich toward me. “Classic BLT, but add smoked turkey and chipotle aioli,” he says. “It’s my favorite, but I like to change it up and try different things from the menu. I’ll have to give your wrap a try sometime.”
“How did you even get these when they close at 3:00? It tastes fresh,” I ask him, chewing another giant bite.
He looks a bit sheepish and says, “I know Sandy, so I begged her to meet me there tonight to make these two sandwiches. I promised I’d bring the soccer guys in sometime for lunch in return.”
I swallow and look into Mateo’s eyes. He hasn’t said this with any degree of arrogance, just stating a fact. But he pulled those strings for me . He planned ahead, making an effort to do something extra special for our date. The fact that we are out in the open air with zero other people around, some of my favorite chill music playing in the background (a song by Piano Guys followed Ed’s lead), enjoying one of my favorite meals together—he’s done everything right so far to help me relax and feel special on this date.
It makes me realize once again how thoughtful he’s been—literally how much thought he has put into this night, into me—and how little thought I’ve given him leading up to now. I take another bite of my wrap to give my attention to something other than how I still feel like a bit of a jerk.
I need to divert my train of thought, so I ask Mateo how he’s feeling about their soccer match tomorrow. They lost some key seniors from last year, but a couple of transfer students came to play with their team because there was a lot of positive buzz about the coach and the program after winning the DII soccer tournament last year.
“It was really awesome hearing Andrès’ testimony last night,” I tell Mateo. “It’s amazing that you’ve been able to be there for him since his transition here last year.”
Mateo swallows a bite of his sandwich, and his face goes soft with emotion. “Yeah, he’s an incredible guy. He had a tough past, but I know he’s going to go forward to do great things, not just in soccer, but for his life, his family. I’m so proud of him.”
“Speaking of family, you said your parents are immigrants from Guatemala—does that mean you speak fluent Spanish?” I ask.
“That depends on your definition of fluent,” Mateo says with a chuckle. “If you asked my parents, they’d tell you I have a funny accent when I’m speaking Spanish. And I definitely don’t know all the correct grammar, so no writing papers in Spanish for me. But I can carry on conversations with all the native Spanish-speaking players on the team without much effort, so that works to my benefit.”
He dips a chip in the addict dip and motions it toward me, “Do you speak any Spanish or other languages?”
“That depends on your definition of speak,” I say with a smile, drawing a deep laugh from Mateo. “I actually spent the first ten years of my life in El Paso, so as a kid I knew a little bit of conversational Spanish from friends at school.”
“No way! I didn’t know you grew up in El Paso,” Mateo exclaims. “That’s so awesome.”
“See, there are things about me you still don’t know,” I tease, and Mateo winks at me. I’m surprised by the mini flip my heart does in response to that wink.
“I lost most of what I knew once we moved to Kansas City, but I took Spanish one year in high school and then my first semester here. It brought a little bit of it back, but I still can’t really have more than a basic conversation.”
Mateo asks me about my time in D.C. over the summer, so I fill him in on everything I did with my mom as well as the advocacy group I worked with in D.C. He’s tracking with the conversation and the lingo, asking all the right follow-up questions. It’s incredibly refreshing to discuss something I’m so passionate about with someone my age who also seems to care and understand the situation.
We continue chatting as we eat, sip our drinks, and listen to the music lightly surrounding us (he seriously nailed it with this playlist). Our conversation is easy, both of us equally listening and talking, with the occasional pause of silence that feels entirely normal.
We’ve finished the food and are both leaning back on our hands, watching as the sun starts to slip below the hills. The Kansas sky is really putting on a show tonight, pinks and purples dancing together to create a masterpiece. There are just enough clouds to add dimension to the colors and cast bright beams of light through the gaps. We take in the scene in comfortable silence.
Taylor has just started strumming her guitar in the next song on the playlist when Mateo hops down from the tailgate and holds his hand out to me. “Would you care to dance?”
I feel my cheeks flush with color as I look at his sweet smile, his hopeful eyes, his outstretched hand. I nod and put my hand in his, totally not prepared for the pleasant hum of energy that shoots through me when our fingers touch.
I ease off the truck as Mateo steadies me, then he moves his right hand to my shoulder blade and holds out his left. Placing my hand in his, I feel the warmth of the energy moving through my arm and down my back. When Aaron and I danced together in the homecoming exhibition, I remember being so excited to have a reason to touch him, but I can’t recall if I felt this same heady buzz. I can’t recollect anything about Aaron in this moment as Mateo’s sure touch leads me to the music.
Mateo guides me into a twirl out to the side. He spins me back in with a flourish, his hand settling on my waist. “Wow, so suave,” I teasingly compliment. “Did you take dance lessons along with all that soccer practice?”
Mateo laughs quietly. “No lessons, just a mom who loved to dance. When my dad or older brother weren’t available, I was stuck being her partner.” He’s smiling softly at the memory, which melts my heart a little. “She says dance is in our DNA, so I guess I’m genetically hardwired for it.”
He pulls me the tiniest bit closer, our clasped hands now just inches away from his chest. Without even inhaling deeply, I can detect his distinctly masculine smell, what seems to be a mixture of cedarwood, pine, and maybe a hint of clove? That doesn’t mean I don’t inhale deeply. Multiple times.
“But I have to admit I never dreamed I’d actually get to dance with you,” he says seriously, even though he’s smiling to lighten the words. I focus on the sensation of his thumb lightly rubbing the back of my hand, staring at his forearm above his rolled-up sleeve.
My throat has gone dry, so I swallow hard before speaking. “Well, of the two of us, I never even knew it was possible to dream of dancing with you, so I guess I’m still the more surprised one,” I say softly, shifting my eyes to his.
Mateo’s dark, chocolate-brown eyes are locked on mine with a spark of intensity, and I hold his gaze as my ears tune in to the lyrics of “Timeless . ”
My mind races even as we sway slowly. Were we supposed to find this? All along I’ve been thinking I already found Aaron, but what if I was wrong?
Heart suddenly pounding, I wonder if Mateo can feel my pulse picking up. We’ve slowed to barely swaying when Mateo’s gaze flickers to my lips for a split second before he closes his eyes. He takes a step back, breathing deeply, and moves to hold both of my hands in front of us.
“Well, I’m going to suggest that we sit back down and enjoy the dessert course of our dinner, because if we keep dancing, I’m going to kiss you, and kissing you is not in my plan for our first date,” Mateo says with total honesty.
My face floods with heat, but it’s getting dark enough outside that I hope he can’t tell.
Mateo clicks a button, and a strand of battery-powered string lights brighten the back of the truck. He helps me back up onto the tailgate and opens the cooler, handing me a small takeout box .
I open it and go still, staring at the contents.
“Tiramisu,” I say quietly. I look at Mateo looking at me. “Tiramisu—that’s a ‘Lana’s Favorites’ deep cut.”
Mateo smiles as he hands me a plastic fork. “I told you. Paying attention.”
He pulls a second box from the cooler and adds with a grin, “Don’t worry, I’m not going to make you share. That one’s all for you.”
I throw my head back in a laugh and take a bite. “Well, that’s good, because that may very well have been the end of this,” I tell him, motioning my fork back and forth between us.
“I’d never take that risk,” Mateo says solemnly before taking his first bite. “I haven’t had tiramisu before, but I’m officially a fan now.”
“I’m a good influence,” I giggle.
“No arguments there,” he winks. “Okay, while we eat dessert, we each get to ask each other three questions.”
“Any question we want?” I ask.
“Yes. The only rule is that you can’t repeat the other person’s questions,” Mateo replies. “Since I’ve already had time to give it thought, I’ll ask first.” When I nod my agreement, he continues. “Question one: what’s something about younger Lana that would surprise your friends you met in college?”
Wow, that’s a really great conversation starter. Also, there is a lot about younger me that would surprise my college friends. I take a bite of tiramisu to buy time to consider what I want to share. I can tell Mateo sees the wheels turning in my head, and I get the feeling that he’s going to be prying more of these stories out of me in the future. For now, I settle on a safe but entirely shocking fact.
“When I was in middle school and early high school, I had my own lawn care business,” I state.
“No way,” Mateo responds with surprise.
“Yes way,” I laugh. “When I was in middle school, my parents were trying to balance taking care of me plus my three young siblings along with two demanding careers, so they taught me to mow the lawn to take something off their plate. I realized that being outside—alone, in my own zone, having a break from the noise of my siblings—made me feel calm. Plus, it was satisfying to see the finished product.
“I was a practical kid, and I knew I’d need to save up to buy a car someday—my parents told me that they would match whatever money I had to put toward a car when I turned sixteen. So, I decided there was no reason that boys should have a corner on the lawn care market, not when I could earn money doing something I enjoyed,” I finish with a smile.
Mateo is looking at me with open admiration. “That’s super impressive,” he says. “How many yards were you mowing?”
“By the final summer, I was up to ten lawns,” I share, realizing how proud I am of my younger self. “I paid for my first car and got a great tan.”
Mateo laughs and waves his hand toward me. “Okay, your turn for a question.”
“Wait, give me a second to think,” I stall. Mateo looks out at the final traces of the setting sun as I rack my brain. What do I want to know about him? I’m starting to feel like I want to know a lot about him.
“What’s your favorite thing about your family?” I ask. I figure there’s a lot you can tell about someone from what they think of their family. Mateo turns to me and smiles as I take a bite of tiramisu.
“Well, joke’s on you, because you just asked the question that could keep me talking for hours,” he says with a twinkle in his eye. “I should have brought you a second dessert.”
I smile at him. “Better get started then! I’ll just steal the rest of yours while you’re talking.”
He jokingly guards his box from me, but then sets it down between us like an open invitation. “My favorite thing about my family…I guess if I had to sum it up, I would say it’s how we’re always there for each other when it counts.”
I angle my body toward Mateo, stretch my legs out, and lean against the side of the truck bed, settling in to listen .
“My brother is four years older than me, and my sister just eighteen months older, so we were all close growing up. My parents were really busy running the restaurant they own, my siblings had their activities, and I had soccer, but when it really mattered, we were always there for each other. We couldn’t eat dinner together often, but my mom would make us a big breakfast to share before school.”
Mateo pauses for a moment, formulating his next thought. “Even as adults now, my family has each other’s backs. My sister had a bit of a rough time a couple of years ago,” he pauses, voice thick with emotion. He clears his throat before continuing, “But we were all there. My brother flew in from New York, and I went home for the summer.”
“Summer after freshman year?” I ask. “The year you didn’t go to Summer Project?”
Mateo nods. “We always tackle life together. We’re in each other’s corner, no questions asked. I love that about my family, and it’s how I always want to be,” he finishes with conviction.
I digest this personal tidbit of his life he just shared. I’m burning with curiosity to know more about his sister’s story, but it seems like something he’s protectively guarding, in the best sort of brotherly way. I admire that about him. “How did your family wind up in Michigan?” I ask him.
“Nope, sorry, you have to wait your turn,” Mateo says, his joking tone cutting through the serious air and making me laugh. “You’ll have to save that for question number two, because now I get to ask mine.”
I hold my hands up in surrender.
“Okay, next question,” Mateo begins as he copies my position and stretches his legs out next to mine. “Why cello music?”
“Why cello music?”
“Yes, why do you like listening to cello music?” he asks. “I mean, it’s a pretty-sounding instrument, but I get the feeling there’s a specific reason you like it.”
Gosh, this man is so intuitive. Or maybe it’s only me he reads like a book ?
“Fine, fine, you’re right,” I say, raising my hands in surrender again. “My dad plays the cello. He’s always taught cello and piano lessons—he’s the one who taught me to play piano—and he’s the reason we moved to Kansas City. He grew up there, and he got a position playing with the Kansas City Symphony. We were living in El Paso at the time, but one of his high school buddies plays for the symphony and told him to come audition for the opening. It was huge for him to get offered the spot.”
Mateo nods, subtly encouraging me to keep sharing.
“I grew up hearing him play, and it always relaxed me,” I continue. “When I was in high school and got decent at the piano, we even started playing duets sometimes. My mom would come home from a long day at work and ask us to play. She’d just sit there with her eyes closed, listening. I think it helped ground her after hard days advocating for clients,” I share.
“Which must be why you like Piano Guys music so much,” Mateo guesses.
“Nailed it,” I laugh, and Mateo gives a fake bow. “So, I guess cello music grounds me too. And it makes me feel close to my parents when I’m away, like it transports me back into our living room with them,” I finish, suddenly feeling a little emotional thinking about all those days with my parents.
“ And , it’s a pretty-sounding instrument,” I say with a wry grin and nudge Mateo’s leg with my foot. He glances down at the contact and then smiles back up at me.
“My turn,” I declare, hardly pausing before asking, “How did your parents wind up in Michigan? Feel free to take your time because I know that question came out of left field.”
Mateo chuckles and says, “That one’s easy, although again, it could be a long answer.”
I gesture for him to continue. He smiles. “Short version, my parents originally came to the US as asylum seekers.”
My face turns serious, because I know that means there’s a solemnity to his family’s history. Mateo isn’t fazed though and continues. “They were granted permanent residence and recently received citizenship, but when they first arrived, they made connections with people who were migrant farmworkers. So, for the first couple of years here, they traveled around the country harvesting crops.
“They were in Hart, Michigan, for the asparagus harvest, and my mom was about twelve weeks pregnant with their first child. One day out in the fields, she started having terrible cramps, and she wound up miscarrying the baby. All these years later, she still gets really sad on the days surrounding the anniversary,” Mateo pauses as emotion catches in his voice. I wait patiently for him to continue.
“Miscarriages are unfortunately so common, so it probably had nothing to do with my mom working in the fields. But my dad was convinced that the physical labor was to blame, so he wouldn’t let her harvest anymore. She needed something to do so she wasn’t alone and grieving all day long, so she started cooking meals to sell to the migrant workers. She’s an incredible cook.”
Mateo has a wide smile now, clearly proud of his mom. “Pretty soon, locals were wanting to buy her food as well as the workers. One thing led to another, and they opened a restaurant and never left Hart. They’re an integral part of the community now—literally everyone in town knows my parents,” he finishes with a laugh. “And no one ever goes hungry.”
I smile back at him, feeling his love for his family radiating off him. I appreciate how openly Mateo expresses his affection for them, how he wears his emotions on his sleeve. A glance at my watch shows it’s already 9:15 p.m. I look over at Mateo and ask, “What time do you have to be on the bus for the match tomorrow? Should we head back so you can get some rest?”
He waves me off and says, “I’m pretty sure I won’t be sleeping much tonight regardless of what time I go to bed. You’re just trying to get out of answering your final question.”
I look down at my hands with a blush at his honesty. It’s starting to look like I may not sleep much tonight either.
“Last question: why UC Davis?” Mateo asks. “You live in Kansas, and there are great law schools all over the country, so why California? ”
“Well, that’s an easy one for me,” I tell him. “It’s my mom’s alma mater. She’s originally from southern California, and my grandparents still live there. UC Davis has a great immigration law program. It’s always been my dream to go through the same program where my mom got her training; follow in her footsteps, I guess you could say.”
Mateo nods. “Your parents sound like great people.”
I smile. “They really are. I love them a lot.”
“I can tell,” Mateo says, smiling back at me. “Alright, final question goes to you.”
I pause to mull things over. Talking about going to law school in California has made me wonder where Mateo plans to wind up after college. I’m trying to think of a way to fish for information about his future when I decide to just go the direct route.
“What are you planning to do after you finish at Townsend?”
“I’m not quite so ambitious to be going after a law degree,” Mateo says self-deprecatingly. “But I do hope to get my master’s degree and become a licensed therapist.”
I raise my eyebrows in surprise. “I have to admit I would not have guessed that.”
Mateo laughs. “I know, I know, not what you’d expect from a college soccer player, and it wasn’t my original major as a freshman. But I’ve observed the impact that a therapist can have on someone who’s struggling, and I’ve seen the number of kids—especially of immigrant families—who could really benefit from having a professional to talk to.”
“Makes sense,” I encourage him.
“I haven’t decided whether to get a master’s in counseling or psychology yet, or where exactly I’m going to apply. I’ve been fortunate to be here at Townsend on an athletic scholarship, but I don’t want to go deep into debt getting my master’s. So, I’m hoping to maybe coach soccer somewhere and slowly take online classes toward my degree as I can afford them,” Mateo says, looking pointedly at me.
I can practically hear his heart communicating to mine. I can pursue my next step anywhere. Even California .
Neither of us says anything; we just sit there looking at each other, the evening breeze rustling my hair as 2Cellos softly swirls from the speaker and the crickets join in to sing around us. There’s a touch of magic charging the air that both of us seem reluctant to interrupt.
I finally speak quietly. “Well, I think you’d make a great soccer coach and a great therapist. You’re certainly good at observing and listening to people.” Mateo just smiles at me in return.
I have a feeling that Mateo wouldn’t refuse me anything at this point, so I decide to push my luck. “Can I have one bonus question? You know, since you’re such a gentleman?” I ask with a teasing smile.
“Ah, how could I possibly refuse when you phrase it that way?” Mateo responds with a chuckle. “Ask away.”
I look in his eyes and consider how to phrase my question. “You’ve said you liked me for a long time, and you’ve definitely proved that you were paying attention all the times we hung out with each other at Arrow stuff. I know you said you were giving me space because of Aaron, and I get that. But…I guess my question is, why didn’t you give me even a hint that you liked me? I had absolutely no clue that you saw me as anything more than a friend. All those Arrow trainings and Tuesday mornings we spent together at Summer Project, why didn’t you give any sort of signals?”
Mateo smiles softly, his single dimple showing, then leans his head back against the side of the truck looking up at the sky. After a moment, he looks back at me and says, “I didn’t want to lead you on, Lana. Yes, I liked you—a lot—but if I wasn’t going to officially pursue a relationship, it didn’t seem fair to hint at my feelings.”
I ponder his logic…a sharp contrast to Aaron’s. “Kind of a risky move though, to blindside me with your feelings and hope I’d say yes to a date?” I assess with raised eyebrows.
He shrugs. “I guess I’d rather take that risk than play with your heart. And I’m willing to take things at your pace as you catch up from the blindsiding,” he adds with another soft smile.
I bite my lip and look down at my hands before responding. “ That’s actually very considerate, Mateo. I’ll try to be honest about where I’m at pace-wise going forward.”
A grin spreads across Mateo’s face as he says, “Does this mean this isn’t our last date?”
I laugh. “It’s definitely not our last date.”
“Well, I suppose that means I can take you home instead of just extending this night into forever then,” he jokes with a wink.
I help him pack up the picnic supplies, and he leads me to the passenger door so I can hop in the truck before he turns off the string lights. I have a moment in the total darkness by myself before he comes around to the driver’s door. Adrenaline rushes through my body, making my hands shake and giving me the shivers, but it’s the greatest sort of rush.
I just had the best time with Mateo. I did not see that coming.
Mateo starts the truck and begins driving back toward the highway. I ask if I can connect his phone to continue playing music. I’m not sure how much I trust my conversational abilities right now.
“The truck is faithful but old, so you’ll have to use the aux cable,” he tells me, fishing his phone out of his pocket. He hands it to me. “The code is 3147. Just pull up Spotify.”
I type in the number and click the Spotify icon. The music we’d been listening to pops up, and I hit the play button right as I notice that the playlist is titled, “LANA heart emoji.”
My thumb clicks the screen off as my eyes dart over in the darkness to look at Mateo’s profile. His eyes are on the road (the deer in Kansas are a real and present danger), but he starts humming along to Ed Sheeran’s song.
Perfect.
Yes, Ed, I do think this night was perfect.