CHAPTER 27
MATEO
THERE'S SOMETHING UNIQUELY terrifying about your own reflection when you're about to come out to your family.
I've been staring at myself in the bathroom mirror for ten minutes now, rehearsing words that keep dissolving before they fully form. My hair's still damp from the shower, curling at the edges in a way that makes me look younger than I am.
Which is fitting, I guess, since I feel about twelve years old right now—scared and uncertain and desperately hoping for approval.
"You can do this," I tell my reflection. "You're a grown-ass man. You've had a man's tongue in your ass, for Christ's sake. This should be easy by comparison."
Okay, so maybe that's not the best pep talk to give yourself before a family video call.
I splash cold water on my face one more time and head back to my bedroom. My laptop sits open on the desk, Zoom already loaded, waiting for me to click the "join meeting" button that will connect me to my family gathered around my parents' ancient desktop computer in Florida.
Carlos pokes his head in the door. "You good? Need moral support? Shot of tequila? Defibrillator?"
"I'm fine," I lie, wiping sweaty palms on my jeans.
"Uh-huh." He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. "That's why you've been pacing for an hour and muttering to yourself."
"It's just... a lot." I drop into my desk chair, running a hand through my hair. "They've seen the news reports, the social media stuff. They know something's up. But we haven't actually talked about it."
Carlos nods. "Your dad?"
"He's old-school. Traditional." I pick at a loose thread on my sleeve. "But not... not hateful, I don't think. I just don't know how he'll react to his only son suddenly announcing he's dating a man."
"Not suddenly," Carlos corrects. "You've been figuring this out for months."
"They don't know that."
"So tell them." He pushes off the doorframe. "I'll be in the living room if you need me. But you've got this."
After he leaves, I take a deep breath and click the button. The familiar connecting sound plays, my anxiety ratcheting up with each electronic chime. Then the screen fills with my family's faces, slightly pixelated but unmistakable.
My mother's warm smile, crow's feet deepening as she leans too close to the camera.
My father beside her, expression neutral but eyes alert behind reading glasses.
My sister Elena, home from college for the weekend, waving enthusiastically.
"Mateo!" Mom exclaims, voice tinny through my laptop speakers. "How are you, honey? Are you eating enough? You look thin."
"I'm eating fine, mom," I say, warmth spreading through my chest despite my nerves. Some things never change. "How's everyone?"
"Good, good," she says, while simultaneously adjusting the computer angle and fussing with her hair. "Your father's back is better, Elena got an A on her psychology paper, and I'm repainting the kitchen. That yellow was giving me migraines."
Dad grunts in agreement, a man of few words as always.
"And how's school?" Mom continues. "Are you getting enough sleep? You look tired."
"School's good. Busy with finals coming up." I swallow, fingers drumming nervously against my thigh where they can't see. "Actually, I, uh, wanted to talk to you all about something."
The atmosphere shifts immediately. Mom's smile falters, Dad sits up straighter, and Elena leans forward with interest.
"Are you in trouble?" Mom asks immediately. "Do you need money? Your father just got his bonus—"
"No, no, nothing like that." I take a deep breath. "It's about... well, you've probably seen some stuff online. About me. And, um, a hockey player."
Silence falls over the video call. My mother and father exchange a glance I can't quite interpret. Elena's face splits into a grin she quickly tries to suppress.
"We have seen some things," Mom says carefully. "Pictures. Articles."
"They say you're dating someone," Dad adds, his first full sentence of the call. "A man."
The way he says it—flat, uninfected—makes my stomach clench. I can't read him at all.
"Yes," I say, forcing myself to meet his eyes through the screen. "His name is Ansel Williams. Groover, they call him. He plays for the Chicago Wolves."
More silence. I rush to fill it.
"It started as... well, it's complicated. But we've been seeing each other for a while now, and I wanted to tell you myself, officially, that I'm... bisexual." The word feels strange on my tongue, new but right. "I like women, but I also like men. Or, well, this man specifically, right now."
I'm rambling. I clamp my mouth shut, waiting for the response that will either break or mend something essential between us.
Mom speaks first. "Are you happy?"
The question catches me off guard. Not are you sure or how could you do this or any of the dozen reactions I'd braced for.
"Yes," I say, surprised by the certainty in my voice. "I really am."
She nods, as if that settles everything. "Then we're happy too."
I look to my father, whose expression remains unreadable. "Dad?"
He takes off his glasses, cleaning them methodically with the hem of his shirt—a habit I know means he's thinking carefully about his words.
"When you were born," he finally says, "the doctor put you in my arms and said 'Congratulations, you have a son.' And I thought I knew what that meant." He puts his glasses back on, looking directly at me. "I thought it meant you would be just like me. Same interests, same path, same kind of life."
My heart sinks. Here it comes.
"But you were always your own person, Mateo. From the day you could talk, always asking questions I didn't have answers for. Always seeing the world differently than I did." A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "It used to frustrate me. Now it's what I'm most proud of—that you think for yourself, make your own path."
I blink rapidly, fighting back unexpected tears.
"So this?" He gestures vaguely. "This is just one more way you're finding your own answers. As long as you're safe, as long as you're happy... that's what matters to me."
"I knew it!" Elena bursts out, unable to contain herself any longer. "I told Mom months ago! The way you talked about that player in your texts—you were totally crushing!"
"Elena!" Mom scolds, but she's laughing.
"What? I have excellent gaydar. Or bi-dar, whatever." Elena's smile is smug. "When do we get to meet him? Is he hot in person? The pictures online are pretty damn fine—"
"Elena Maria Rossi!" Mom interjects, scandalized.
"What? I'm just saying what we're all thinking. The man looks like he was carved from marble."
I can't help laughing, relief making me light-headed. "He's... yeah. He's pretty great."
"We'd like to meet him," Dad says quietly. "When you're ready."
"I'd like that too," I say, meaning it.
The conversation shifts then, moving to safer topics—Elena's summer internship plans, Mom's ongoing battle with the neighborhood association over her garden gnomes, Dad's fishing trip with his buddies. But something has changed, a tension I didn't fully recognize until it was gone.
By the time we say goodbye, with promises to call again soon, I feel like I'm floating. I close my laptop and lean back in my chair, exhaling a breath I feel like I've been holding for months.
Carlos appears in the doorway with two beers. "Judging by the lack of crying or shouting, I'm guessing it went okay?"
I accept the beer, clinking the bottle against his. "Better than okay. They were... amazing."
"Told you." He drops onto my bed, kicking his feet up. "Turns out the people who love you still love you when they know more about you. Shocking concept."
I throw a pillow at his head, which he dodges easily. "When did you get so wise?"
"I've always been wise. You've just been too busy having sexual epiphanies to notice."
My phone buzzes before I can respond with an appropriately devastating comeback. Groover's name lights up the screen, and just seeing it sends a wave of warmth through me.
"Speaking of sexual epiphanies," Carlos says, waggling his eyebrows. "I'll leave you to it."
I wait until he's gone before answering. "Hey."
"Hey yourself," Groover says, his voice sending another ripple of warmth through me. "How'd it go?"
"Good. Really good, actually." I take a pull from my beer. "They want to meet you."
"Yeah?" I can hear the smile in his voice. "I'd like that."
"How was practice?"
"Brutal. Coach is freaking out about playoffs." There's a pause, the sound of a door closing. "But speaking of parents. My mom just called."
"Oh?" I sit up straighter, suddenly alert.
"She wants us to come to dinner. Tonight."
My stomach drops. "Tonight? As in, hours from now tonight?"
"Yeah." He sounds apologetic. "I told her we might have plans, but she insisted. Something about having already bought ingredients for her famous lasagna, which is actually just regular lasagna with extra cheese."
"Your mom wants to meet me." The words feel surreal coming out of my mouth.
"If it's too much pressure—"
"No, no, I want to," I interrupt, surprised to find I mean it. "I'm just... nervous."
"Don't be.” His voice softens. “She already kind of loves you."
The simple statement hits me square in the chest. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." There's a smile in his voice. "So, dinner’s at seven. I'll pick you up at six-thirty?"
"I'll be ready."
After we hang up, I stare at my closet with mounting panic. What the hell do you wear to meet your fake-turned-maybe-real boyfriend's mother for the first time?
***
MRS. WILLIAMS' HOUSE is exactly what I expected and nothing like I imagined all at once.
It's a modest two-story in a quiet suburb, with neatly trimmed hedges and a basketball hoop over the garage. The kind of solidly middle-class home where you raise kids and host barbecues and accumulate Christmas decorations that get more elaborate each year.
What I didn't expect was the rainbow welcome mat at the front door.
"Mom's subtle way of showing support," Groover explains when he catches me staring. "She ordered it the day after I came out."
"That's... really sweet."
"Wait until you see the inside. She's been collecting PFLAG pamphlets like they're going out of style."
Before I can respond, the front door swings open to reveal a woman who could only be Groover's mother—same warm eyes, same slight gap between her front teeth when she smiles. She's shorter than I expected, barely reaching her son's shoulder when she pulls him into a fierce hug.
"It's about time you brought him over!" She releases Groover and turns to me, arms already opening. "You must be Mateo. Come here, honey."
I find myself enveloped in a hug that smells like lasagna and fabric softener. Mrs. Williams holds me at arm's length after, studying my face with unabashed interest.
"Well, aren't you handsome! And those eyes—Ansel, you didn't tell me he had such beautiful eyes."
"Mom," Groover groans, but he's smiling. "Can we at least get inside before you start embarrassing everyone?"
"Oh hush. I'm just being friendly." She ushers us in, one arm linked through mine like we're old friends. "Mateo, I hope you're hungry. I may have gone a little overboard. Maya's already here—she couldn't wait to meet you."
The inside of the house is warm and lived-in, family photos covering nearly every surface. I spot a gangly teenage Groover in hockey gear, a gap-toothed child version holding a trophy, a family vacation shot on some beach.
In the living room, a young woman who must be Maya is curled up on the couch with a book. She looks up when we enter, and the family resemblance is striking—same eyes, same smile, though her hair is longer and lighter than Groover's.
"The famous Mateo," she says, marking her place in the book before standing. "I was starting to think he made you up."
"Still might have," I joke, shaking her offered hand. "I could be an elaborate hologram."
She laughs, a sound surprisingly similar to her brother's. "I like this one, Ansel. Much better than Julian."
"Maya," Mrs. Williams scolds, though there's no heat in it. "Be nice."
"What? It's a compliment." She links her arm through mine, mirroring her mother on my other side. "Come on. I'll show you all the embarrassing baby photos Ansel doesn't want you to see."
"I hate both of you," Groover mutters, trailing behind as they lead me to a bookshelf laden with photo albums.
The next hour passes in a blur of childhood stories, family photos, and gentle teasing. Maya shows me Groover's awkward middle school years ("The braces and acne phase—we all went through it, but some suffered more than others"). Mrs. Williams brings out his first pair of skates, tiny and worn, preserved like a religious relic.
By the time we sit down to dinner, I feel like I've gained a decade of insight into the man sitting across from me, who alternates between groaning in embarrassment and adding his own self-deprecating commentary to the stories.
"Enough about Ansel," Mrs. Williams says as she serves enormous portions of lasagna. "Tell us about you, Mateo. Ansel says you're studying anthropology?"
"Yes, ma'am. Cultural anthropology with a focus on urban spaces and community identities."
"Please, call me Helen. 'Ma'am' makes me feel ancient." She passes the garlic bread. "And what does that mean exactly, your focus?"
I launch into an explanation of my thesis research, expecting eyes to glaze over the way they usually do when I talk about academic subjects. Instead, both Helen and Maya ask thoughtful questions, seeming genuinely interested.
"That sounds fascinating," Maya says. "I'm studying comparative literature, and there's a lot of overlap with cultural analysis."
"Maya's the smart one," Groover interjects with obvious pride. "Full ride to Northwestern."
"Says the man who got drafted to the NHL at nineteen," Maya retorts, rolling her eyes. "Just because your intelligence is on ice doesn't make it less impressive."
The easy banter between them, the obvious affection beneath the teasing, makes something in my chest ache with recognition. It reminds me of my own family, of Elena's relentless teasing and unwavering support.
"This lasagna is amazing," I say, hoping to divert attention as emotion threatens to overwhelm me. "I'd love the recipe."
Helen beams. "It was my grandmother's. Do you cook, Mateo?"
"I… try," I say, which is both diplomatic and technically true. "My grandmom taught me a few traditional dishes. Her osso buco is legendary in our family."
"You'll have to make it for us sometime," Helen says, and the casual assumption of future visits makes my heart skip.
"I'd like that," I say, meaning it. "Fair warning though—I once set pasta on fire. Actual flames. My roommate had to use the fire extinguisher."
"How do you set pasta on fire?" Maya asks, fascinated.
"That's the question the fire department also had." I shake my head ruefully. "Apparently, you shouldn't leave empty cardboard pasta boxes on the stove while the burner's on."
Groover laughs. "He's not exaggerating. I've witnessed his kitchen disasters firsthand."
"Hey, I make excellent coffee," I protest. "And I can operate a microwave with minimal supervision."
"Such talent," he teases, eyes crinkling at the corners.
"I'd love to meet your family sometime too," Helen says, refilling my water glass. "Are they in Chicago?"
"Florida," I reply. "I just talked to them today, actually. Told them about..." I gesture between Groover and myself, suddenly self-conscious. "Us."
Helen's expression softens. "And how did that go, honey?"
"Better than I expected. They want to meet him too."
"That's wonderful," she says, reaching across to squeeze my hand. "It's not always easy, but family is family."
After dinner, Maya insists on showing me her book collection while Helen and Groover clean up. As we browse her impressively organized shelves, she leans in conspiratorially.
"He looks at you different than the others, you know."
I nearly drop the book I'm examining. "What?"
"Ansel. The way he watches you when you're talking—it's different." She selects a volume, handing it to me. "I've seen him with other guys he's dated. It was never like this."
"Like what?" I ask, heart hammering against my ribs.
She considers for a moment. "Like you're a puzzle he's trying to solve, but also a story he already knows by heart." She shrugs. "It's nice. He deserves someone who makes him look like that."
Before I can formulate a response, Groover appears in the doorway. "Ready to head out? Early practice tomorrow."
"Sure," I say, handing the book back to Maya. "Thanks for the recommendation."
"Keep it," she insists. "You can return it next time you visit."
Next time .
Goodbyes are prolonged and affectionate. Helen hugs me twice, pressing leftovers into my hands and extracting a promise to come back soon. Maya slips me her phone number "for book recommendations and embarrassing Ansel stories."
In the car, Groover glances over at me. "So? Verdict?"
"They're amazing," I say honestly. "Your mom is incredible."
"She likes you," he says, reaching over to squeeze my knee. "A lot. I can tell."
"The rainbow flag was nice touch."
He laughs. "Told you she's not subtle. She's probably already ordering wedding venues as we speak."
The casual mention of weddings sends a jolt through me that I carefully ignore. "Maya's cool too."
"Yeah, she is." Pride colors his voice. "Sorry about all the boring stories."
"Are you kidding? Those were the best part." I lean back in the seat, contentment settling over me like a physical weight. "Thanks for taking me."
He glances over, expression soft in the dim light of the dashboard. "Thanks for coming."
We drive in comfortable silence for a while, the city lights blurring past the windows. Eventually, I voice the thought that's been circling my mind all evening.
"Today was big. Coming out to my family. Meeting yours."
Groover nods, eyes on the road. "Too big?"
I consider the question for a moment. "No," I say finally. "Just right."
His hand finds mine in the darkness, fingers intertwining. Neither of us acknowledges the shift, the way this simple touch feels different now.
As we drive through the night, I can't help wondering what Maya meant. How does he look at me? And more importantly, how do I look at him when he can't see me watching?
Like now, in the shadowed privacy of his car, studying his profile and feeling something terrifying and wonderful expanding in my chest.
Something that feels a lot like falling.