Page 70 of It Happened on a Sunday
A bunch of our order comes before I can say anything else, and we spend the next few minutes eating some of the best damn street tacos I’ve ever had.
When we finally come up for air—somewhere around taco number four for Sloane and number six for me—I say, “You never told me your favorite.”
“Favorite what?” She looks startled.
It’s my turn to lift my brows. “Cookie.”
“Oh, right. It seems boring to follow ‘battles have been won and lost’ with chocolate chip, but…” She shrugs.
“The classics are never boring.” My gaze holds hers. “Dark ormilk chocolate chips?”
“Both,” she tells me. “Obviously.”
“Obviously,” I agree, just so I can see her smile.
“My turn.” She pops the last chip in her mouth. “Why football?”
“I’m from a small town in Texas,” I answer with a shrug.
“Really? That’s the best you’ve got?” She doesn’t sound impressed.
I stiffen despite myself—not because of what she said but because the answer isn’t typical first date material.
Then again, nothing about this is a typical first date. So I tell her what I don’t tell most people when they ask—the truth. “I started playing football because of my dad. He loved the sport, loved the Austin Twisters, loved the feel of the ball in his hands. He never got to play as a kid because he had osteosarcoma, and even after he went into remission the doctors cautioned against it. But that didn’t stop him from tossing a ball with my abuelo in the back yard, and it didn’t stop him from doing the same with me.
“I loved to run, so we used to pretend I was a wide receiver—at least until he put me in peewee football when I was six. Turns out I’m better at throwing the ball than I am at catching it.”
“Not to mention sneaking up the field while the others aren’t looking. Isn’t that where your abuela said your nickname came from?”
“You remembered.” I can’t help the grin that takes over my face.
She looks away like she’s embarrassed.
I reach for her hand. “I’m sorry. I was just—”
She shakes her head, talks over my apology. “Your dad must be so proud.”
And there it is. The part I’ve been dreading. I swallow the lump that still hasn’t gone away after seventeen years. “He died whenI was ten. Couldn’t beat the shit a third time.”
Sloane’s face falls. “Oh, Mateo—” She squeezes my hand.
“It’s okay. It was a long time ago.”
She snorts. “Time doesn’t mean shit when you lose someone you love.”
“No, it doesn’t,” I agree. “But I was holding a ball when he died, and every time I hold one—even now—for one fleeting second, it feels like he’s right there with me.”
Sloane doesn’t speak, but she doesn’t have to. The way she looks at me—like sheknowsthat ache and lives with it, too—is enough. A mirror to my own pain, clear and quiet.
We sit in silence after that. Not the kind that weighs heavy, but the kind that’s a conversation in and of itself. That saysI see you. I’m still here.
Eventually, though, Sloane stands up.
“Ready to go?” I ask, starting to gather trash.
“More like ready to get another drink,” she answers.
“I can get it,” I tell her as I stand, too.
