Page 47 of The Lineman

“My parents still live in Treia, a little town in central Italy. It’s a pretty conservative place, still looks more medieval than modern—and that’s the people, not the architecture.” Mateo sighed, rolling his beer between his palms before setting it down. “I was seventeen when I told them. My mom was . . . well. She was Mom.”

I tilted my head. “Meaning?”

“She already knew,” he said, one corner of his mouth lifting a little. “I started saying the words, and before I could even finish, she just sighed and said, ‘Finalmente! I was waiting for you to figure it out.’”

I grinned. “Good for you, Mom.”

“Right.” Mateo chuckled. “Then she grabbed my face, kissed both my cheeks, and started rattling off the names of every single guy she knew under thirty that she suddenly felt compelled to set me up with.”

I snorted into my beer. “So you came out, and she immediately started matchmaking?”

“Oh, aggressively,” he said, laughing. “Apparently, there was a nice boy who worked at the café down the street, another one who helped his uncle in the market, and some kid she met once at church who she was sure had a ‘kind face.’”

I laughed. “So she just had a secret list of eligible men ready to go?”

“Mike.” He leaned forward. “Italian mothers arebuiltfor matchmaking.”

I shook my head. “Amazing.”

Mateo smiled tightly, but it faded a little as he picked at the corner of his napkin.

I watched him for a beat. “And your dad?”

He exhaled. “Yeah. That one was . . . harder.”

I stayed quiet, letting him take his time.

Mateo leaned back, staring at his beer, swirling the bottle like a wine drinker doing the taste test thing before approving the bottle. “He’s . . . pretty old-school.”

I nodded, understanding immediately. “Catholic?”

He sighed. “Oh yeah. Big time. Church every Sunday, confession every week, crosses on the walls, Pope framed in the living room—you get the picture.”

I winced. “Shit.”

Mateo rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah. So, I didn’t know how it was gonna go, but, you know, he’s my dad. He always taught me to be honest, to be strong, to stand by who I am. So I figured . . . how could I do all that while lying to him?”

I nodded. “Makes sense.”

“So, I told him,” he said, exhaling. “And he just . . . sat there. He didn’t say a word.”

I frowned. “Not even a reaction?”

“Oh, there was a reaction,” Mateo muttered. “He looked like I’d punched him in the stomach.”

I stayed quiet, letting him sort through it.

Mateo sighed, still swirling his beer. “For a while, he just . . . couldn’t talk about it. I don’t think he knew how. I know it’s not like he stopped loving me—he still called every Sunday, still asked about my life—but it was like there was this . . . gap between us. Something he was actively avoiding.”

I swallowed, already knowing where this was going. “And now?”

Mateo hesitated. “It’s better,” he said finally. “Not perfect. Not what I wish it was. But . . . better.”

I raised an eyebrow. “How so?”

Mateo smiled, but there was something bittersweet about it. “He still doesn’t say the word. Ever. Like uttering ‘gay’ might make him burst into flames or get struck by lightning. But last Christmas, he did ask if I was seeing anyone.”

I blinked.

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