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Mateo laughed loudly, nearly choking on his chicken, which, when I thought about it, made me laugh. “You’re evil. I love it.”
“Thank you,” I said solemnly.
“What about outside school?” he asked. “You got hobbies?”
I hesitated. “Uh. I mean, yeah. I read. Run. Hike sometimes. I like pretending I can cook, even though all evidence suggests otherwise.”
Mateo tilted his head. “Wait, pretend you can cook?”
I groaned. “Yeah. About that . . .”
We chatted through our lunches, new friends asking questions, poking fun, and enjoying a moment without teenage angst weighing us down like boat anchors.
And speaking of teenage angst, I hadn’t planned on talking about my date with Elliot, but Mateo asked about my hobbies, and somehow, within minutes, I was spiraling into a full-on Jessica-level confession about Friday night’s disaster.
“So,” I said, leaning forward, “tell me why I thought it was a great idea to cook dinner for this guy?”
Mateo blinked. “Wait. What guy?”
“The hot lineman who lives a few doors down from my new house. Stay with me.”
“Oh, hold up. You had a date?” Mateo’s eyes widened. “And you’re just now mentioning this? Dude, guy code. You have to stick to the code.”
I cocked my head in utter confusion.
“No secrets, especially about dates. It’s a friend thing, and we’re friends, right?”
I had to think about that. We’d only known each other a week; and sure, we worked together, but I didn’t really know Mateo. And he was gay . . . and hot . . . and muscular. What if he had a thing for me? Or thought I had one for him? ThisWhen Harry Met Sallymoment was basically a gay existential crisis dripping with bad cafeteria cheese and old pepperoni.
But, never one to be put off by a good tragedy, I barreled forward.
“It was a disaster.”
“Okay, okay, go back—start over. I need details. My own dating life is basically frozen in time more than the glacial belt, so I need this. Seriously. Speak.”
Mental note: Mateo isn’t dating anyone. I had no idea what to do with that information but somehow knew it was important for the future.
I sighed, dramatically rubbing my face. “I invited him over. Confidently. Like a man who had control over his life. Like a man who knew how to cook.”
Mateo nodded, amused. “And . . . ?”
“And,” I continued, “what I failed to consider is that I’m an idiot who can’t cook shit. Literally, if you gave me shit, I would make it, well, shittier.”
“What happened, exactly? I feel a Lifetime special coming.”
“Disaster,” I said flatly. “Full-scale culinary warfare.”
Mateo leaned forward, fully invested now. “Oh, this is gonna be good.”
“First, I burned the sauce. And not like a little burned, like so burned that my smoke alarm filed a police report.”
Mateo laughed, shaking his head.
“Then I overcooked the pasta until it had the consistency of wet sadness. The garlic bread? Charcoal. The chicken? It was basically clucking and looking for corn to eat.”
Mateo’s eyes widened. “Damn. That’s impressive.”
“Right?” I sighed. “So, obviously, we ordered pizza.”