Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
I love my mom. I do.
But this new version of my mom is not someone I’ve been trained to deal with.
She and my dad arrived in Brooklyn at 4:00 p.m., so we met at Bookafe for afternoon coffee. We’ve been sitting down with our drinks for exactly twenty-three seconds when she leans in and asks about Mateo like he’s some sort of conspiracy theory. My dad rolls his eyes with a smile.
Mom wants to know everything about him: his personality, his interests, his family, his future plans, his soccer prowess—pretty much everything that could be on the Mateo Alvarez Wikipedia page. I try to answer her questions with enough detail to satisfy her without droning on forever, because I really want to hear about how things are going at home.
“Okay, but tell me more about Mateo’s?—”
“Mom,” I cut in. “You’re going to meet him at dinner, and you can ask him all the questions you want to then. But for now, I want to hear about how Olivia, Carter, and Dean are doing.”
She glances at my dad, and they share some sort of secret conversation in a split-second of eye contact. Uh-oh .
Dad clears his throat. “Well, may as well rip the Band-Aid off news from the home front. Dean was suspended from school for two days this week for fighting.”
My jaw drops. “What?! Was he hurt? What was he fighting about?”
Mom reassures me, “He’s okay, just a bit of a shiner on one eye. We’re more concerned about him emotionally. He won’t tell us what the fight was about. All he’ll say is that the other guy had it coming because of something he said. But he won’t say what that was.”
I know my mom is trying to put me at ease, but I see the stress on both their faces. I chew the inside of my lip and ask, “Have you considered having him see a therapist?”
“Oh honey, we’ve tried,” my mom says. “The school counselor talked to him about it too, but he refuses. Says therapists are for weaklings. But we keep praying he’ll change his mind.”
I can tell they’re ready to move on in the conversation, so I ask my mom about Samira, one of her Afghan clients from the summer that I became especially close to. She’s a single mom who escaped from Afghanistan with her 10-year-old daughter, Zahra, but her 13-year-old son, Hassan, had gotten separated from them. Samira chose to leave with Zahra when she had the opportunity, assuming that she would be able to send for Hassan shortly after. Of course, no one had any idea at the time what an impossible nightmare it would turn out to be to get people evacuated from Afghanistan after the final plane departed.
Mom smiles. “She’s doing well. She has a stable job, and Zahra is really starting to pick up on English at school. We’re still working every possible angle to get Hassan here.” She shares updates on some of the other families I worked with over the summer. Dad shares about the students he’s teaching in private lessons and jokes about enjoying his freedom before Nutcracker rehearsals begin in earnest.
At 5:45, my mom taps on her watch and says, “We’d best get going to the restaurant. It’s almost six o’clock. ”
Laughing, I tease my mom, “Surely you’re not old and hobbling enough that it’s going to take you fifteen minutes to walk two doors down.”
She brushes me off. “I’m just saying, I’d hate to make a bad impression on Mateo by being late.”
My dad jumps in this time. “If everything that Lana has told us about Mateo is true, I have a hard time believing anything we do could give him a bad impression of Lana.” But Mom is already walking her coffee mug over to the dirty dish tub, so Dad and I follow suit.
Even with my mom purposely walking slower than usual, we make it to the Italian restaurant two doors down in five minutes. We check in at the host stand but say we’ll wait for Mateo before sitting down.
We only wait a few minutes before Mateo walks through the door, characteristically early. Another point for him with my parents. He sees me and smiles, crossing the lobby to where we’re standing to give me a hug. I slip my right hand into Mateo’s left, and say with a proud smile, “Mom, Dad, meet Mateo.”
He firmly shakes both of their hands. “Mr. and Mrs. Grant, it’s so nice to meet you. Lana has told me such great things about you. I’m excited to get to know you for myself.”
Mom pulls him in for a hug and says, “Oh please, call us James and Alexis. And we’re equally as eager to get to know you.”
The host leads us to a table and passes out menus, which are promptly set aside as Mom dives straight into conversation. She starts off asking Mateo about his time at Townsend and classes this year. Dad interjects to ask several soccer-related questions, wanting to hear how Mateo wound up at Townsend. This naturally leads to my mom grilling him with questions about his family and childhood growing up in Michigan. Mateo answers all of their questions with graciousness and not even a hint of annoyance. I’m smiling to myself at their overzealous curiosity and his charming openness. Also, his hand holding mine under the table.
The waiter returns for a third time asking if we’re ready, so we pause the conversation long enough to look at the menus and place an order. The break in my parents’ interrogation gives Mateo an opening to ask his own questions about their jobs and backgrounds. He asks my mom about her time in El Paso, which definitively earns him a hundred gold stars in her eyes, because she loves nothing more than to talk about her attorney work at the border.
The conversation continues steadily, and I barely get to add a word in edgewise. I almost feel like a spectator to a dinner between old friends catching up as my parents share about their lives and interests, and inquire about Mateo’s. My dad has droned on about his love for the cello following Mateo’s leading questions, and Mateo has enthusiastically shared about inheriting his love of soccer from his father. He adds effusive compliments to my dad for the “Bullseye” sign at my old matches—one hundred gold stars from Dad.
Our food arrives, and my dad says a blessing for our meal and time together. As we unwrap silverware and place napkins in our laps, my mom inquires, “So, Mateo. Lana told us that you liked her for quite a while before you asked her out earlier this year. I’m curious to know when she first caught your eye.”
Mateo smiles and sets down his fork. He looks over at me briefly, and I hold my breath because I’m also very curious to know this answer.
“Well, Mrs. Gr—I mean, Alexis, in September of our sophomore year, Lana and I were at a meeting for the student leaders in Arrow. I knew who she was from freshman year, but because I didn’t go to the Summer Project that year, I hadn’t really gotten to know her very well yet. We broke into small groups to pray for the upcoming school year, and Lana and I were in the same group.”
I can picture exactly what Mateo is talking about. We have the same type of meeting for Arrow every fall. I don’t remember being in the same group as Mateo that year, but then again, I wouldn’t have been paying attention since I was already crushing on Aaron.
Mateo continues, “Everyone in the group was sharing prayer requests about people in their lives who they were trying to be good friends to and share about Jesus with. And everyone was talking about the obvious people around them on campus—people on their dorm floors, or in their fraternities or sororities. The standard groups that students involved with Arrow would be trying to build relationships with.”
At this point, Mateo turns to look straight at me. “But Lana here shared about someone else entirely. She had been volunteering as an ELL tutor through the local after-school program, and she desperately wanted to be a positive influence on the middle school girl she was tutoring.” He pauses to smile at me, and then turns back to my parents. “At that moment, I knew that there was something different about Lana, something special. Her love and concern for other people drew outside the typical campus ministry box.
“She caught my eye that day, and she hasn’t lost it since,” Mateo finishes with a shrug. I think my mom audibly swoons, and my dad just nods his head in approval at Mateo’s answer.
I, for one, am rapidly blinking to fend off tears, because I absolutely don’t want to start openly crying in the restaurant. Mateo’s response was so sincere, so heartfelt—and I had no idea that had been the catalyst to his feelings for me. I’m overcome with affection for him, because he truly saw me for me, for what was close to my heart even all those years ago.
Mateo asks my parents about my siblings, and I over-chew my bite of food, waiting to see how honest they’ll be. Apparently, Mateo’s winsome willingness to share about his life has opened the door for my parents to speak candidly as well, so they share about their challenges with Dean. Mateo pauses eating and leans in with a furrowed brow as he listens. Genuine concern flickers across his face as I watch his profile, and it only makes my heart swell even more.
“It seems like Dean needs a jolt of some sort to get him off the track he’s currently on,” my dad shares. “We’re just praying the right person at school or in our community crosses paths with him, someone to help him realize he’s worth more than the choices he’s making right now.”
Mateo nods. “It’s not my story to share the details, but a couple of years ago my sister had a rough time. Isabel did eventually meet a friend, well, more of a mentor I guess, who latched onto her and wouldn’t let go until Isabel believed she could live differently. I’ll pray that Dean meets the same kind of person soon.”
My parents murmur their appreciation as the waiter comes back to inquire about dessert. We all order decaf coffees, and my parents order a tiramisu to share. I turn toward Mateo, but he’s already telling the waiter to bring us two orders of tiramisu. He smiles at me and says, “I know better than to try to make you share.”
Dad loudly laughs at that comment, and my mom half-heartedly shushes him as she stifles a giggle. “Now I’m convinced that you really do know my daughter!” my dad says, still chuckling.
Over dessert, Mateo gives my parents a rundown of the team they’ll face in tomorrow’s match and their chances of repeating their championship performance in the DII tournament. None of my siblings wound up playing soccer, so I can tell my dad is loving the chance to talk about it again. He’d always been so supportive of me playing, and I don’t think I realized that when I cut soccer out of my life so abruptly, I was also cutting it out of his. Once again, I’m grateful to Mateo for helping me pull that box out of mental storage.
My mom makes the first move to wind the conversation down when our dessert plates are wiped clean. “It’s getting late, and I’m sure you need to get home and rest up before your big match tomorrow. Wouldn’t want you losing to a big rival because we kept you out.”
My dad pays the bill, and we exit the restaurant into the crisp evening air. My parents and Mateo compete to see who can be more grateful to have met each other. We’re parked in opposite directions, so I walk a few paces with Mateo to say goodnight.
He thanks me again for inviting him to meet my parents. “I really enjoyed talking with them.” He tucks my hair behind my ear and twirls his fingers through the lengths. “I always enjoy anything with you. I’ll miss seeing you tomorrow.”
I frown and say, “I know, I’m really sorry I can’t come to the match. If it weren’t for this AOPi stuff I would totally drive there since it’s not far away.”
Mateo cuts in, “No, you need to be here this weekend. It’s more important for you to spend the time with your parents and your sorority sisters. There will be other soccer matches.”
I lean in to give Mateo a hug and tell him, “I’ll still expect a full report after the match. And thanks again for coming tonight—I know it meant a lot to my parents to get to meet you for themselves and see how amazing you are.” Mateo squeezes me tighter before releasing me to part ways for the night.
Smiling, I walk back over to my parents, who are animatedly recapping our conversation and not being the least bit quiet about their admiration for Mateo. As I approach, my mom whirls around with a grin and exclaims, “So! When can I start planning the wedding?”
“MOM!” I gasp. My dad says, “Now Alexis, I think it’s a little too soon to be adding that pressure.”
Mom looks indignant. “What? Mateo’s future path is compatible with Lana’s, and he’s clearly over the moon about her.” She turns to me. “I know you liked that other boy for so long, but he always made you feel so uncertain of yourself, and I never liked that. It wasn’t healthy.”
Narrowing my eyes, I tell her, “Mom, you could have said something before if you had concerns. Why’d you let me keep feeding my crush if you thought it wasn’t healthy?”
She rolls her eyes. “Please, like any college-aged girl is going to listen to her mom try to convince her not to like a boy.”
Touchè .
My dad shrugs his shoulders in silent agreement, and Mom continues. “Mateo likes you for who you are, and he brings out the very best in you. You’re the happiest and most light-hearted I’ve seen you in years. It’s like he gave you permission to enjoy your passions, to enjoy life. Why wouldn’t I want that for my daughter?”
Considering she’s making valid points, I surrender the fight.