Chapter Five Jamie #3
If he finds a way to yell at me for talking to Melanie, that would be okay, too. Mateo doesn't pick that fight, and I don't know how I'd defend myself if he tried. I'd just be happy to hear his voice.
In the coming weeks, the mildly cool weather turns mildly warm.
Los Angeles is making a playoff run. I've spent hours in my pool because it's the clearest overlap of what I should do and what I want to do.
The only drinking I've done has been with Kai.
I've got coffee in my hand now, and I'm in my backyard just to stare at the ocean I've seen a million times before.
"Dad, will you drive Lizzie and me to the carnival?"
I turn my back on the Pacific and look at Harper, just barely out of bed on her first morning of spring break, her eyes half open and ready for adventure.
Danielle is taking her for a spa retreat in a few days, but she's all mine now.
Well, except for wanting to ditch me for some thrill rides and junk food.
I take a sip and smile. "The one at her church?"
"That's the one," she says. "Her sister can pick us up later tonight, but if you could just drop us off—"
"What if I want to eat my weight in deep-fried Oreos and be flipped upside down while listening to Metallica from beneath a questionable harness?"
"Then you'll have to bring one of your friends. I'm a bratty teenager, remember? Way too cool to be seen with my dad."
"You know, about ten years ago, I was way too cool to be seen with you. It didn't stop the paparazzi from getting decent pictures of the time I won you a giant stuffed polar bear at the Orange County Fair."
She laughs. "And then when I tried to share my cotton candy with it, I added sticky pink streaks to the white fur."
"You sure you don't want me to win you another bear today?"
"I think the ride'll be fine, thanks."
It's a few hours before she's ready to go anywhere, so I work out and shower and mess around on my phone and make myself lunch.
When I get dressed, I grab an old t-shirt, old briefs, and my favorite jeans, my service as a chauffeur requiring nothing fancier than that.
Harper, of course, has made an effort, and I don't torture myself with the possible reasons why.
She's a good kid with a good head on her shoulders, and she talks to me without much of a filter.
Will she screw up a few times? Almost definitely.
But I don't expect a crisis at a church carnival.
She does make a face at my clothes. "Are you ever gonna throw that shirt away, or are you waiting for it to disintegrate while you're actively wearing it?"
"It's comfortable and clean, and it won't disintegrate today," I argue, adding a worn baseball cap for good measure.
Harper shakes her head, but I don't think I'm embarrassing enough for her to find a different way to the carnival.
We pick Lizzie up on the way, and I make the quick drive to the Catholic church that's hosted these carnivals for years, even if I was too busy to slow down for one until recently.
The parking lot is expectedly full, and I'm not interested in being the asshole who blocks traffic.
I mumble something about parking long enough to be out of the way and—
"Oh, hey, we're right next to Mr. Z," Harper says. "Hi, Mr. Z!"
I cut the engine and look through Harper's open passenger-side window because, yeah, we're right fucking next to him. Mateo's just getting out of his car, and I have no doubt he recognizes Harper's voice. Then he turns with the teenage-friendly smile he's usually paid to wear.
"Hi, Harper. Hi, Lizzie," he replies, his smile shifting into something calmly adult when he ducks his head and finds me. "Hi, Jamie. Do I even want to ask which of you three is the biggest thrill-seeker of the bunch?"
"Oh, it's not dad, that's for sure. He'll barf. But Lizzie and I will try everything. We don't care." Harper pauses for a breath. Barely. "But what about you? Are you gonna hit all the rides?"
She's already moving, opening her door enough for Mateo to back against his car while she tumbles out. Lizzie does the same from the back seat before she waves shyly and fixes her tank top. I stay where I am, and think it's probably polite to keep my eyes on Mateo until he answers.
"I'm actually here to help with one of the church booths," he says. "I might sneak in a ride or two, but I'll be working more than playing."
"Teacher, coach, and saintlike volunteer," I nod. "You're far more disciplined than I'll ever be."
"Oh, I don't know about that. I've been known to stay out past my bedtime when the mood strikes."
"Ah, of course. Does the mood strike often?" I ask.
"The mood? Yes," Mateo answers. "The opportunity? Not so much."
Harper bounces on the balls of her feet. "Okay, well, Lizzie and I are gonna go do some upside-down things. Bye, Mr. Z. Dad, I don't know what time I'll be home, but I'll text you later? And you should see if Mr. Z needs some help. Nobody will accuse you of being a hotshot athlete here."
"I'm not exactly dressed to hang out at a carnival, remember?"
"Oh, it's fine. Your shirt won't disintegrate today," she giggles, running off with her best friend without caring what I do next.
I sigh. "Sorry about that. She just—says things sometimes."
Mateo sighs too, and I catch it when he steps closer and rests his folded arms against the window opening.
His t-shirt is nicer than mine, and his hair is pulled into a messy bun that never had a chance to contain the strands hanging around his face.
I want to sweep them away, but my hands are curled around the bottom of the steering wheel.
Even without being on a ride, I need to hold on when he smiles again.
"She says a lot of things, yeah. But we could use the help if you're up for it. And if you are worried about being recognized, I’ll remind you your hat's done a pretty good job of hiding you in the past."
"I want you to remind me of so many things," I admit. "I'm just not sure whether a church fair is the place for it."
"Does that mean you're going home?"
"No."
Mateo takes a deep breath and glances around the parking lot. "You know, if you drive away now, there's a chance we won't have to do this until soccer season returns. You could go home. You don't have to help, and I don't have to remind you of a damn thing."
"No."
"Okay, let's go," he says, slowly peeling himself away from the passenger door. "You're plenty familiar with tacos and tortilla chips."
I don't understand what he means until we've snaked our way past the crowd of young families and excited teenagers and no small number of couples on dates.
We're not any of those, so we don't stop until we're at the carnival's food court.
Church volunteers are selling hot dogs, chicken fingers, popcorn, shaved ice—and apparently, nachos and tacos.
Stepping behind the cheap plastic table covered by a cheaper plastic tablecloth, I feel Mateo's fingertips against my back as he introduces me to the volunteers we're relieving.
"Jamie, this is Barbara, Eileen, and Rosa. They've all known me since I was a skinny little altar boy. Everyone, this is my friend, Jamie. He's offered to help me out, so all of you are off the hook."
"He says that like we weren't prepared to arm wrestle for the chance to spend the afternoon next to him," one of them mutters with an endearing wink. "But it's very nice to meet you, Jamie."
We all sort of nod and smile and rearrange ourselves, then Mateo and I say goodbye to the ladies, and I look around.
We've got meats, cheeses, onions, and jalapenos, and so much of it is familiar to me, albeit from the other side.
There are stacks of small paper trays we'll fill quickly.
Nachos and tacos get assembled and handed to people who won't stick around long enough for more than a thank you.
Our setup is no different from a food truck, but even as my stomach growls and Mateo nudges me with a grin, none of it's the same as the carne asada and guacamole down the street from my house.
It’s better that way.
It's better if today is nothing like that night.