Page 166 of The Lineman

“How do you say, ‘Fuck off,’ in Italian?” I rolled my eyes. “Come on. Let’s make dinner before Elliot dies of starvation and blames me.”

“Like a lesbian.”

“Shut it, Pasta Boy.”

Dinner was surprisingly calm after the Great Homer Incident, as Elliot came to call it. He took his usual place at the head of the table, while Mateo and I sat across from each other. The guys raised their beers, while I, the only civilized one among us, lifted a wine glass with a slender stem filled with ruby liquid.

Mateo took a bite of food before clearing his throat and casually tossing out, “So, our principal approved the group.”

“What?” I nearly choked on my bite of pasta. “Wait. You’re serious?”

Mateo nodded, grinning. “Green light. It’s happening.”

I set my fork down, my heart pounding. “Holy shit.”

Mateo leaned back in his chair, his beer bottle resting between his fingers, but his usual relaxed smirk was nowhere in sight. Instead, his expression was steady, serious, determined, like when he coached his team.

“This is really happening, Mike.”

I nodded, my stomach twisting with a mix of excitement and something heavier.

Because this wasn’t just a casual conversation.

This wasn’t just an idea anymore.

It was real.

We were going to have an official, school-sanctioned space for kids like Jamie—a space we hadn’t had when we were in high school, a space so many of us had needed.

I exhaled, my grip tightening around my fork. “Jamie’s going to freak out when he hears.”

Mateo grinned. “In a good way, though.”

“Yeah,” I murmured, heart squeezing. “In the best way ever.”

I couldseehis reaction already—the way his whole face would light up, the way his shoulders would relax just a little, like the weight he’d been carrying was suddenly a little less.

I wanted that for him.

Jamie had been the reason this all started.

Jamie, who had sat in my classroom with those tired eyes, with that fake, forced smile, trying so damn hard to hold himself together.

Jamie, who had come to me in quiet moments, lingering after class, pretending to need help on an assignment just so he could talk to someone—to anyone—who might understand him—and not judge.

He had been careful at first. Testing me. Feeling out whether I was safe.

I had seen the caution in his expression, the way his words were measured, the way he was so afraid to say too much.

But then, little by little, he let his guard down.

And I learned everything.

That his father wouldn’t understand, wouldn’t accept him, and didn’t even have the backbone to say that much to his face. He was just quiet, utterly silent, blocking out his son like clouds blocked the sun.

That his mom was supportive but would never stand up to his father.

That his sister—his best friend—had told him he should “just keep quiet about it” so he wouldn’t make his life harder.

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