CHAPTER 15
MATEO
IF HELL EXISTS, it probably looks like the third floor of the Murray Library during midterms week. Sleep-deprived students hunched over laptops, the air thick with desperation and Red Bull fumes, and me—buried under a mountain of ethnographic field notes I'm supposed to be transforming into coherent arguments about cultural relativism in urban spaces.
I've been camped at the same table for six hours straight. My ass has forgotten what it feels like to not be numb. My coffee went cold two hours ago, and I'm pretty sure the guy three tables over hasn't blinked in at least forty-five minutes. We're all zombies in the academic apocalypse.
I'm highlighting a passage about the cultural significance of community gardens when my vision starts to blur. Great. My brain is officially staging a coup against further knowledge absorption. I drop my head onto my open textbook with a quiet thump, contemplating whether Dr. Winters would accept "temporary insanity" as an excuse for an extension.
"I'm guessing that's either a new study technique or you've finally snapped."
The familiar voice jerks me upright so fast I nearly give myself whiplash. Standing beside my table, looking absurdly out of place among the scholarly squalor, is Groover. He's holding two to-go cups from the fancy coffee place three blocks from campus and a large paper bag that smells suspiciously like heaven.
"What are you doing here?" I whisper-hiss, acutely aware of the death glares from nearby students who take the library's silence policy more seriously than their own hygiene.
"Bringing sustenance to the academically besieged," he says, setting down the coffee and bag. "You mentioned you'd be here all day, so..."
My heart does an embarrassing little somersault. We've been texting since getting back from the road trip three days ago, but I didn't expect him to actually show up. Especially not bearing gifts.
"You remembered I was studying?" It comes out more touched than I intended.
"Hard to forget when every text for the past two days has included the words 'I'm dying' and 'Dr. Winters is Satan in sensible shoes.'" He pulls out the chair across from me and sits down, completely ignoring the raised eyebrows from the table of English majors to our right.
I peek into the bag and find an assortment of pastries from Cafe Laurent, the ridiculously expensive bakery that usually has a line out the door. "How did you get these? There's always a forty-minute wait."
"The perks of being a local celebrity," he says with a self-deprecating smile that makes the gap between his front teeth visible. "The owner's kid plays hockey. Apparently, I signed his jersey last season."
I take a cautious sip of the coffee, which is exactly how I like it—medium roast with a splash of oat milk and way too much sugar. "You remembered my coffee order?"
"I pay attention," he says simply, and something warm unfurls in my chest that has nothing to do with the caffeine.
I glance around at the other students, several of whom are now openly staring. "Not that I'm not grateful for the caffeine intervention, but you know this isn't exactly a low-profile location, right?"
"Would you rather I didn't come?" There's genuine uncertainty in his voice, and I rush to correct him.
"No! No, that's not—I just meant you're kind of conspicuous." I gesture vaguely at him, at the broad shoulders and athletic build that scream 'I don't belong among these academic gremlins.' "People are staring."
"Let them," he shrugs, completely unbothered. "I'm just a guy bringing his boyfriend study snacks. Very wholesome content."
Right. Boyfriend. For show. The reminder is like a splash of cold water. This is just Groover playing the part, making sure we're seen together in public spaces beyond hockey events. Perfectly on script for our arrangement.
Except he didn't text Sophia to let her know about this "appearance." And there's no media here to capture the moment. And the way he's looking at me right now, like I'm the only person in this crowded library worth seeing, feels a lot more real than pretend.
"So," he says, nodding at my scattered notes. "What are we studying?"
"Cultural relativism in urban spaces," I say automatically. "I'm analyzing how community-created spaces reflect and resist dominant cultural narratives."
Groover blinks. "I understood approximately three of those words."
I laugh, then quickly cover my mouth as the English majors shush me aggressively. "Sorry," I stage-whisper to Groover. "Basically, I'm looking at how people turn empty lots and abandoned spaces into gardens and gathering spots, and what that says about their cultural values."
"Like people taking pictures of interesting things others throw away?" he asks, referencing a quirk he'd teased me about before.
"Exactly," I say, surprised and touched that he remembered. "It's all connected to how communities assert identity through spatial reclamation."
"Spatial reclamation," he repeats carefully, like he's testing out the words. "Is that like when Becker steals my spot on the bench?"
I snort-laugh again, earning another round of glares. "Not exactly, but I appreciate the effort."
"I aim to please," he says, with that crooked smile that does stupid things to my insides. "Can I help? Quiz you or something?"
I consider saying no—the thought of Groover attempting to pronounce anthropological terminology is both hilarious and potentially disastrous—but the hopeful look on his face breaks my resolve.
"Sure," I say, sliding a stack of flashcards toward him. "These are key concepts I need to remember. Just read the term and I'll define it."
He picks up the cards, squinting slightly at my cramped handwriting. "Let's start with... 'hem-en-u-tics'?"
"Hermeneutics," I correct gently.
"That's what I said. Herm-eh-new-tics."
"Close enough. It's the theory and methodology of interpretation, especially of texts."
Groover nods seriously, like I've just imparted profound wisdom. "Right. Text interpretation. Got it." He flips to the next card, his forehead creasing in concentration. "Fen-oh-men-ology?"
"Phenomenology. The philosophical study of structures of experience and consciousness."
"So... thinking about thinking?"
I grin. "That's actually not a terrible simplification."
"I'll take 'not terrible' as high praise from an academic." He shuffles through the cards, then pulls one out with a triumphant expression. "Here's one I might actually be able to pronounce. 'Liminality.'"
"The quality of ambiguity or disorientation that occurs in the middle stage of a rite of passage or transition."
Groover gives me a blank look. "English, please?"
"It's like..." I search for an analogy he'll understand. "It's like being in the neutral zone in hockey. You're between defined spaces, neither here nor there."
"Ah," he says, understanding dawning. "Like being neither fully straight nor fully gay?"
The question hangs in the air between us, loaded with meaning. Our eyes lock, and for a moment, the busy library fades away.
"Yeah," I say quietly. "Like that."
He holds my gaze for a beat longer than necessary, then clears his throat and returns to the cards. "How about 'Cultural hegemony'?"
"The dominance of one cultural group over others, often maintained through social norms and ideas rather than force."
"So when everyone assumes hockey players are dumb jocks, that's cultural hegemony in action?"
I laugh, genuinely surprised. "That's... actually a perfect example. You're better at this than you're letting on."
He shrugs, but I can tell he's pleased. "I read sometimes. Don't tell the team—it would ruin my reputation."
For the next hour, Groover continues quizzing me, mangling anthropological terms in increasingly creative ways that have me stifling laughter behind my hand. "Ethnomethodology" becomes "ethno-method-ology," "categorical imperative" transforms into "cat-egret-ical imperative," and his attempt at "phenomenological reduction" is so butchered I actually snort coffee through my nose.
It's the most I've laughed during midterms week. The stress that's been a constant companion for days gradually loosens its grip, replaced by something warmer, lighter. Even the English majors have given up on shushing us, retreating to a different corner of the library in academic disgust.
As Groover attempts to pronounce "autoethnography" for the third time, my phone buzzes with an incoming notification. I glance down to see a banking alert. Deposit Received: $3,333.33 from CHICAGO WOLVES LLC .
The second contract payment.
I quickly dismiss the notification, a cold knot forming in my stomach, replacing the warmth that had been building. The reminder of our arrangement—of the fact that I'm being paid to sit here and laugh with him—feels like a bucket of ice water dumped over my head.
"Everything okay?" Groover asks, noticing my sudden shift in mood.
"Yeah, fine," I say too quickly. "Just Carlos asking about dinner plans."
Groover glances at my phone, and for a terrifying moment, I wonder if he saw the notification before I dismissed it. But he just nods and returns to the flashcards, though something in his expression has changed, become more guarded.
"We should probably take a break from the quiz show," he suggests. "How much more studying do you need to do today?"
I look at my notes, then at my watch. It's nearly nine, and my brain feels like it's been put through a blender. "I should probably call it a night. I've reached that point where nothing else is going to stick."
"Let me walk you home," he offers, already gathering up my scattered papers and organizing them into a neat stack. "It's late."
"You don't have to do that," I protest weakly. "I'm sure you have better things to do than babysit a sleep-deprived anthropology student."
"Actually, I don't." He hands me my papers with a smile that seems genuine despite my awkward moment. "Besides, I need to make sure you don't wander into traffic while contemplating the cultural significance of crosswalks or whatever."
I should say no. I should maintain some professional distance, especially after that contract payment reminder. But I'm tired, and his company makes me happy in a way I'm not ready to examine too closely.
"Okay," I concede, packing my papers and books into my already overstuffed backpack. "But fair warning, I might babble incoherently about anthropological theory. Sleep deprivation does weird things to me."
"I've seen Wall after a triple-overtime playoff game. Trust me, I can handle incoherent babbling."
Outside, the early spring night is cool but not cold. Campus is quieter than usual, most students either holed up studying or already at the local bars drowning their academic sorrows. We walk side by side, not quite touching but close enough that our hands occasionally brush, sending little jolts of electricity up my arm each time.
"So," Groover says after a comfortable silence, "when's your presentation?"
"Thursday morning," I reply, surprised he remembered that detail. "Dr. Winters scheduled me first, which is either a vote of confidence or punishment for that time I corrected her about Malinowski's fieldwork methods."
"I'd like to come," he says casually, as if he hasn't just suggested voluntarily attending an academic presentation on urban anthropology. "If that's okay with you."
I stop walking, turning to stare at him. "You want to come to my presentation? Voluntarily?"
"Is that so hard to believe?" There's a hint of defensiveness in his voice.
"Kind of, yeah. It's at 8 AM on a Thursday, and it's going to be me nervously rambling about spatial semiotics for twenty minutes while my classmates try not to fall asleep."
"Sounds riveting," he deadpans. "But seriously, I'd like to be there. Support the boyfriend and all that."
There it is again—boyfriend. The reminder that this is all for show. But if that's true, why would he want to come to an academic presentation with no media, no photographers, no PR value whatsoever?
"If you really want to," I say slowly, "I guess that would be... nice."
We resume walking, the silence now charged with something I can't quite name. Our hands brush again, and this time, his pinky catches mine for just a moment before we both pull away.
"Groover?"
"Hmm?"
"Why are you doing this?" The question slips out before I can think better of it.
"Walking you home?" he asks, though I think he knows that's not what I mean.
"All of it," I clarify. "The coffee, the studying, wanting to come to my presentation. It's not like anyone's watching. It doesn't... count for the arrangement."
He's quiet for so long I think he might not answer. When he finally speaks, his voice is careful, measured. "Maybe I just like spending time with you."
"Oh."
"Is that so surprising?"
Yes , I want to say. It's surprising that someone like you—confident, successful, gorgeous—would genuinely enjoy hanging out with a nerdy anthropology student who stress-bakes at 2 AM and takes pictures of discarded furniture .
Instead, I say, "I like spending time with you too."
We reach my apartment building too soon. The walk from campus is only about fifteen minutes, but tonight it felt even shorter. We stop at the bottom of the steps leading to the front door, facing each other in the soft glow of the street lamp.
"Thanks for the study break," I say, suddenly awkward now that we've reached the end of our time together. "And the coffee. And the attempt at pronouncing 'epistemological framework.'"
"Epi-steam-logical frame-working," he says with exaggerated confidence, making me laugh.
"Close enough."
We stand there, neither making a move to leave or go inside. The moment stretches, taut with possibility. His eyes drop to my mouth, just for a second, but long enough that my heart rate doubles.
"Mateo," he says, voice lower than before.
"Yeah?" Mine comes out embarrassingly breathless.
He steps closer, eliminating the careful distance we've maintained all evening. We're standing toe to toe now, close enough that I can smell his aftershave—something earthy and clean that makes me want to bury my face in his neck.
"I've been thinking about kissing you again," he admits quietly. "Pretty much constantly since that day on my couch."
My mouth goes dry. "Oh."
"Is that okay?"
Is it okay? Is it okay that I've been having the same thoughts? That I've replayed our kiss in my mind so many times I could probably write a doctoral dissertation on the exact pressure of his lips against mine, the way his hands felt on my waist, the surprising strength of his body beneath mine?
"Yes," I whisper, because apparently my brain-to-mouth filter has completely malfunctioned.
He lifts his hand, gently brushing a strand of hair from my forehead. The simple touch makes me shiver. His fingers trail down, feather-light, to cup my jaw. I lean into the touch instinctively, like a plant turning toward the sun.
He leans in, our foreheads nearly touching. I can feel his breath on my lips, so close, just a fraction of an inch separating us. My eyes flutter closed in anticipation.
And then the front door of my apartment building flies open with the worst timing in the history of the universe.
"Mateo! There you are!" Carlos stands in the doorway, completely oblivious to the moment he's just shattered. "I've been calling you for like an hour. Did you forget we need to finish the lease renewal tonight? The office needs it by—" He finally registers the scene before him, his eyes widening. "Oh. Did I interrupt something?"
I could kill him. I could actually commit homicide right here on the steps of our apartment building, and I bet even the strictest judge would rule it justifiable once they heard the circumstances.
"No," Groover says, stepping back, his hand falling away from my face. "I was just saying goodnight."
The loss of his touch is physically painful. I want to grab his hand and put it back, to pull him close and finish what we started, Carlos be damned.
But the moment is gone, reality rushing back in like a cold tide.
Carlos, at least, has the decency to look apologetic. "Sorry, man. I can give you guys a minute..."
"It's fine," Groover says, though his tight smile suggests otherwise. "I should head out anyway. Early practice tomorrow."
I want to argue, to ask him to stay, but what would be the point? To kiss him? And then what? Continue pretending this is just part of our arrangement? Or admit that whatever is happening between us is becoming dangerously real?
"I'll text you about Thursday," Groover says, already backing down the sidewalk. "8 AM, right?"
"Right," I confirm, trying to keep the disappointment from my voice. "Room 305 in the Humanities building."
"I'll be there," he promises. With a final nod to Carlos and a lingering look at me, he turns and walks away, the distance between us growing with each step.
"Dude," Carlos says once Groover is out of earshot. "Please tell me you were about to kiss Hockey Boy, and then tell me you'll forgive me for cockblocking you with lease paperwork."
"I hate you," I mutter, pushing past him into the building. "So much."
"That's fair," he concedes, following me inside. "But in my defense, the office really does need the renewal tonight, and you weren't answering your phone."
I pull out my phone and see four missed calls from Carlos. I'd silenced it during studying and forgotten to check. "Fine. You're marginally less culpable."
"So..." Carlos drags out the word as we climb the stairs to our apartment. "You and Groover, huh? Making progress on the whole 'am I bi' question?"
"We didn't actually kiss," I point out, ignoring the way my heart clenches at the near-miss.
"But you wanted to," Carlos presses. "And he clearly wanted to. And you would have if I hadn't pulled a classic rom-com interruption move."
"Can we just drop it and do the lease thing?" I fumble with my keys, unable to look at him because he's right. I did want to kiss Groover. Desperately. And not for authenticity or for show or for any reason other than I'm incredibly, stupidly attracted to him.
Carlos raises his hands in surrender. "Fine, dropped. But just so you know, I'm Team Groover. That's boyfriend material right there, fake or not."
I finally get the door open and head straight for my bedroom, unwilling to continue this conversation. As I dump my backpack on the floor, my phone buzzes with a text.
Groover : Sorry about the abrupt exit. Rain check?
I stare at the message, a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth despite everything. Rain check. As in, he still wants to kiss me. As in, this wasn't just a one-time impulse quickly forgotten.
Me : Rain check accepted. And sorry about Carlos. His timing is supernaturally bad .
Groover : At least now I know to check for roommates before attempting to kiss you again.
Again. The word sends a shiver of anticipation through me.
Me : I'll make sure he's locked in his room next time .
Groover : Sounds like a plan. Get some sleep, anthropology genius. Dream of hermenutics .
Me : Hermeneutics *
Groover : That's what I said .
I fall back on my bed, phone clutched to my chest like a lovesick teenager, grinning at the ceiling.
Rain check.
Next time.