Chapter Eight Mateo
(I Listened to His Confession)
My grandfather dies six weeks after I said goodbye to Jamie on another oceanside morning.
I have complicated feelings about everything I experienced during the summer away from him, but mostly I mourn with the rest of my family in deference to their loss.
My grandmother leans on me—physically as much as anything—my parents handle the Catholic rituals and splendor, and my sisters cry.
People I've known forever surround us with prayers and food.
And a man I've known for two years keeps his head down at the funeral, but makes sure I know he's within reach.
The school year starts before I'm fully ready for it, too much time away from my apartment leaving me unsettled in a way I hate.
Sophie helps as much as she can, in the classroom and over plenty of margaritas, and she encourages me to see Jamie and forget as much of everything else as I can.
I want to see him, obviously. He wants to see me, too.
We talk all the time and make time for one quick lunch, an outing milestone we acknowledge with cautious grins.
The restaurant is surrounded by office buildings, and is pretty damn empty this early on a Saturday, but Jamie has his back to the room just in case.
Beneath the table, he and I steady each other, our sneakers pressed together where nobody else will see.
It’s the only contact we need here.
“It doesn’t feel as fragile now,” I say.
Jamie looks up from his menu. “What doesn’t?”
“Our self-control. This is more like those first few hours at the fair. Or the start of that hike.”
“Before we had our hands all over each other,” he says with a smirk. “But what happens at the end of this lunch? It won’t break then?”
“No. I spent the night with you, and if we had that once, we can have it again. We can touch each other again.”
“And we don’t have to touch each other today.”
A smile spills over when I tap the side of his sneaker with mine. “Not at all.”
In November, soccer season starts without fanfare, and it's great to see Harper in action again. She’s been contacted by a couple of Division I schools already, and I'm looking forward to helping her through the recruitment process.
For now, it's only her junior year, and Jamie makes it—as always—to every game.
I kick a ball around with him after a couple of wins, and we act like I'm only smiling because I'm delighted to have the parent of one of my best players around.
Harper doesn't seem to care that her dad and I are getting along. I get along with a lot of people.
On Christmas Eve, my family goes to midnight Mass, and I listen to stories about my grandfather I've heard several times. I wake up at Crissy’s house when my nieces and nephews squeal about Santa, and it's a while before I check my phone.
Merry Christmas. No more pretending. I miss you
And I miss you. No pretending.
It's a ridiculous exchange, and maybe that was true the first year, too.
We're still in the middle of soccer season, so Jamie and I saw each other in the days leading up to the holiday, and we will again days after.
I'm grateful for the text though, and then I feel abruptly guilty when I receive one from someone else.
Hope you and the family are doing okay. Miss seeing you around the neighborhood
Shit.
Logan.
I'd never stopped thinking about Jamie over the summer, but he and I had been two hours apart from each other and two years away from everything else. I’d ached, so damn lonely and tired, and Logan had been right there.
I've spent the past few months ignoring the few weeks I let myself get close to the man living across the street from my grandparents—or across from my grandmother now.
Returning home had meant leaving him behind, but now I need the memories to stay there too, and a sincere Christmas greeting does nothing to help.
I can't miss anyone else.
We're doing well. And I hope you have a wonderful Christmas.
At first, Logan and I had only exchanged pleasantries between one driveway and another.
He’d been curious about who'd moved in with his older neighbors, and I’d been curious about the awkward young man whose suit and tie were always a little bit askew.
Then we’d run into each other at the pharmacy, and I’d straightened his collar, and I’d felt fully in control and wildly out of it when I asked him if he wanted to keep me company for a few other errands.
He did. And when it happened again a week later, we had dinner together, too.
Living with my grandparents all those weeks had been difficult, but when it became increasingly clear my grandfather wouldn't survive to see the end of the year—if he'd even see another month—they’d needed time alone, and I slipped away. On those nights, in an unfamiliar place, I hadn’t known where to go.
The house across the street made as much sense as anything, and my knock was answered with a shy smile.
I’d still been tired after that, but a little less lonely. I'm not sure how I'd describe myself today, but Logan has nothing else to say, and I don’t have to try.
Merry Christmas to me.
A few days later, during the most liminal week of the year, we have an all-day soccer tournament about an hour away, and the first game is almost unfairly early for anyone's holiday break.
Most of the kids have carpooled, only a handful of parents planning to hang out from beginning to end.
I've been at the field for a few minutes when a hot cup of coffee is pressed into my hand.
Jamie smiles. "I really, really didn't want to get out of bed this morning, but it was worth it to see that look on your face."
"Can everyone else see the look on my face?" I ask, my eyes still on his.
"There aren't enough people here yet, and it was my very loud and very kind daughter's idea that I bring you something hot and caffeinated."
"Is this where I point out that you're hot and caffeinated?"
"That's such a terrible line, and I hate how much it's working on me," Jamie laughs, his eyes surprisingly bright this close to sunrise.
I look around at where the girls are already starting warmups, my coaching important, but unnecessary for another minute or two. Another look has me gauging the interest of any other early arrivals, but Jamie and I aren't doing anything wrong, and I take a long sip from the coffee he brought.
"Wait, how'd you know what I like?"
Jamie stares, another smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. "Sometimes friends notice things. And sometimes they remember them for later."
One of my co-captains shouts for me then, and he and I have run out of the time we've got today. We're still chasing the time left ahead, and I hate how much it frustrates me to wait.
After the new year, weeks pass quickly and slowly, and I self-soothe with a rotation of homemade broccoli cheese soup, baked ziti, tomato bisque, and white chicken chili.
Sophie and I aren't spending as much time together because she's on a hot dating streak and spares me the sordid details. I only hear from Logan once, but I see Jamie at Kai’s a couple of times because those barstools are almost as safe as the bench.
Harper has better things to do than hang out at the church fair over spring break, and Jamie doesn't owe me another afternoon on a date that isn't really that. We’re brave enough to meet for brunch once instead, and we tell ourselves it's the same thing.
He and I are less shy about what we want when we talk, but we haven't made it back to his giant sofa again, and I want that to be okay. I once chose him in an alley and outside a taco truck and in a backyard I didn’t know was his.
I'm still choosing him, and will for as long as it takes to make wishes come true.
It's why I don't expect the jolt of betrayal that hits in May of that year. On prom night.
Or actually, it's a couple of days after that, when I find out what happened the night I was in a nearby ballroom, chaperoning hundreds of dance-happy juniors and seniors, including Harper Sinclair.
It's dumb luck—or a curse of some kind—that I'm in a position to overhear anything.
A case of being in the right place at the worst possible time.
But it's the Monday after prom, and I have to stop by the front office to speak to one of the guidance counselors, and it means walking past a cluster of parents to do it.
Presumably, they're on their way to a meeting to discuss graduation preparations, but I've been working here long enough to understand that Vicki Gallagher will open her mouth wherever it suits her best. And today, an audience of one handsome gay English teacher will do just fine.
"She finally did it. Melanie Bishop finally got Jameson Sinclair."
I look up and scream at myself not to care, but I'm not sure my forced incredulity gets me far. I move past Vicki and her minions at the pace of someone nightmare-crawling through molasses, and she keeps talking while her smirk is aimed in my direction.
"There's been plenty of flirting before, of course. But with both of their daughters dancing the night away at prom, I guess they took advantage of an empty house and a big bed."
"What did she say afterward?" one of the other moms hisses. "I mean, was he as good as we've all imagined?"
I'm down the hall now, but the guidance counselor is finishing a phone call, and I'm trapped while I wait, Vicki's voice carrying as well as it always has. I'd guess the smirk is still in place, but I do myself one small favor and don't turn to look.
"I was a little worried that the old rumor about him might be true, but Melanie says no way. Apparently, he was very, very good. Attentive, if you know what I mean. And that was a bit of a surprise, given his well-established ego, but isn't she a lucky little thing?"
"So, she'll be seeing him again?"