Page 135 of The Lineman

I reached over and scratched his head, earning a flurry of licks and barely contained whines. “Missed you, too, little guy.”

Matty grinned. “We told him you were coming home, and he lost his damn mind. He’s been pacing at the door for an hour.”

Mrs. H scoffed. “Aye, and he’s not the only one. You’d think this lot had been waiting for Christmas morning the way they’ve been hovering.”

“First of all,” Omar said, raising a hand, “Christmas is a big deal.”

“And second,” Matty added, “shut up. We have no respect for the elderly. We will chuck you out the window and feel no remorse.”

“This is Mateo. He’s the basketball coach at school I told you about, the one who’s helping create the ally group at school.” Mike gripped my arm and pointed at the newcomer. “He insisted on being here to, and I quote, ‘determine if you are real.’”

I wasn’t sure how to take that, so I inclined my head toward Mateo and said, “Hey,” offering a half wave.

Mateo gave me a ’sup head nod, then said something in Italian that sounded like melting butter on a hot roll.

Mrs. H, still fixated on being threatened by our resident screaming queen, rolled her eyes, flicked Matty a bird, then turned to me with a sharp look. “Now, we’ve all met. Are you hungry, or do I need to force-feed you?”

I blinked. “Uh—”

Matty and Omar exchanged the smuggest grins I’d ever seen.

I frowned. “What?”

Omar smirked, crossing his arms. “You will see.”

Mrs. H dragged me toward the kitchen.

The smell hit me first.

Rich, cheesy, familiar.

My stomach clenched, but this time not from pain or exhaustion—from hunger. Real, deep, solid hunger. And there, in the middle of my kitchen table, fresh out of the oven, was a massive,perfectpan of lasagna.

I froze.

Matty let out a cackle. “Told you he’d have a reaction.”

Mrs. H put her hands on her hips, looking so damn pleased with herself. “Well? Aren’t you going to thank me, lad?”

I gawked.

“You madelasagna?”

She sniffed, like she was offended I had to ask. “Of course I did.”

“Is there suet in there? Maybe a liver or blood or something else utterly nauseating?” I kept staring, trying to divine the joke or trick. “You never make anything but Scottish food.”

“Well,” she said, waving a hand, “I figured I’d give your weak American stomachs a break. Besides, Mike needed to see what a proper, unburnt, definitely-not-doused-with-an-extinguisher lasagna looks like.”

Matty snorted. “More like she felt bad for giving Mike so much shit about burning one.”

“Watch your damn mouth, boy.” Mrs. H whirled on him. “Mike’s shit was deserved. Who sets a fucking lasagna on fire?”

Omar wheedled. “You feel bad, don’t you?”

“I do not,” she snapped, but the way her lips twitched betrayed her.

Mike stepped up beside me, his voice low, teasing. “You okay? You look like you might cry.”

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