Page 46 of The Lineman

We ended up at a little hole-in-the-wall Mexican place, tucked into a strip mall that looked one strong breeze away from falling apart. Inside, though, it was warm, loud, and smelled like heaven. Nothing made me happier than a good chicken chimichanga slathered in ooey-gooey cheese and topped with guacamole. And when the cheese found its way into the rice, clouds parted and angels sang.

Mateo ordered three steak tacos and a beer. I got my chimi, because I had taste.

Halfway through our meal, I found myself staring into my drink, rolling the glass between my hands, debating whether to say anything.

Mateo, because he was annoyingly perceptive, picked up on it immediately.

He set his beer down. “All right, Albert. Spit it out.”

“What?”

Mateo rolled his eyes. “You came to my practice and barely watched. Then you said you’d had a rough day. You look like someone just shot your dog, but you’re not saying anything. I don’t need my degree in psychology to know something’s bothering you, and it’s a hell of a lot deeper than Jessica flashing you a little too much leg.”

I sighed and tried not to laugh. Mateo was such an asshole, reading me like the book my students avoided. But he was good at it—and he was right.

“I had a student come out to me today.”

Mateo sat up a little. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” I said, exhaling. “One of my ninth graders.”

“Let me guess.” Mateo frowned. “Jamie, the quiet one?”

“Wow. Good guess.” I picked at my napkin. “He . . . he was terrified. Like, visibly shaking when he told me. All he could think about was how his mom would react, how the other kids would treat him differently. You know, all the same bullshit.”

Mateo exhaled. “Crap.”

“Yeah.”

We sat with that for a moment, the weight of it settling between us.

Mateo leaned forward. “What’d you say?”

“I told him he didn’t have to rush or tell anyone until he was ready. That he didn’t owe anyone a timeline.”

Mateo nodded. “That’s good.”

“I don’t know,” I muttered. “I mean, I think it was the right thing to say, but he’s so young . . . and I know that feeling, that constant fear of what’s gonna happen when you say the words out loud.”

Mateo was quiet for a beat. Then: “How old were you?”

I blinked. “When I came out?”

He nodded.

I huffed a quiet laugh. “Sixteen. My sisters cornered me and wouldn’t let me leave the room until I admitted it.”

Mateo smirked. “Brutal.”

“They acted like it was a surprise,” I said, shaking my head. “Like, sorry, Lila, I’ve been watchingThe Mummysolely for Brendan Fraser and Oded Fehr for years now. Keep up.”

Mateo laughed into his beer. “And your parents?”

“They were . . . fine.” I hesitated. “It was weird at first. My mom cried, but only because she was worried life would be harder for me. My dad just kinda nodded and went back to whatever he was doing, never mentioned it again. Classic dad move.”

Mateo chuckled. “Yeah. Sounds about right.”

I tilted my head. “What about you?”

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