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I slid into the chair across from him, dropping my container of leftoverlo meinonto the table.
“Tell me that’s not from Golden Dragon,” Mateo said, eyeing my lunch with suspicion as he cracked open his own plastic container of dumplings.
“It’s from Golden Dragon,” I confessed.
Mateo grimaced. “Man, I love you, but your standards for Chinese food are a crime against humanity.”
I waved a pair of wooden chopsticks at him. “Look, it’s two blocks from my house, they give you enough food to feed a village, and I don’t have to cook. I consider it a win.”
“Just saying, you could do better,” he muttered, stuffing some unidentifiable hunk of meat into his mouth.
I took a bite of mylo meinand chewed thoughtfully. “Speaking of doing better, Jamie paid me another post-class visit today.”
Mateo’s brows lifted as he set down his fork. “Oh? He okay?”
“I think so. He’s a lot tougher than he looks.” I hesitated for a second, debating how to start. “It’s his dad, mostly,” I said, twirling a noodle around my chopsticks. “Poor kid told me how his dad doesn’t really talk to him anymore. It’s been rough.”
“That kid, man.” He sighed and shook his head. “He’s got a good sense of humor, but you can tell he’s carrying a lot on his little shoulders. Did something happen?”
I recounted the conversation, keeping it as close to Jamie’s words as I could: the way his mom overcompensated, how his dad barely spoke to him, how the house felt like it belonged to someone else—how he joked about it, sharp and deflecting, but hurting underneath it all.
“Jesus, that sucks,” he muttered, then leaned back in his chair. His usual smirk had faded, replaced by something quieter, something that made the room feel smaller, more intimate.
“I get where Jamie’s coming from,” he said, voice lower now. “More than I let on.”
I set down my fork. “Yeah?”
He nodded, staring at a water stain on the table like it held the past he was about to walk me through.
“My dad and I don’t talk about it,” he said after a moment. “Not really. Not in any way that matters.”
I frowned. “You told me about him, but I thought—”
Mateo let out a humorless chuckle. “Yeah, I thought, too. I mean, he didn’t kick me out or scream or tell me I was dead to him or anything. But the silence? That’s its own kind of rejection. It’s just as loud as shouts, maybe louder.”
I stayed quiet, giving him space to continue.
“It was my senior year of high school when I told him,” he said. “I had a boyfriend back then—first real one. Nothing serious, just high school stuff, but I felt like I owed it to him, you know? To stop sneaking around like we were doing something wrong.”
I nodded. “I get that.”
“So, I sit my parents down at the kitchen table where everything important in an Italian home happens.” Mateo exhaled sharply through his nose. “My mom doesn’t even blink—she just reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. My dad? He was a whole different story.”
His fidgeting fingers stilled.
“He just stared at me,” Mateo said. “Didn’t say a word. Not one. And then, after what felt like an hour, he gets up, walks to the fridge, grabs a beer, and goes outside.”
I winced. “Damn.”
“Yeah.” Mateo smirked, but it was a tired, worn-down kind of smirk, the kind that came with years of learned indifference. “I couldn’t believe he didn’t say anything. I mean . . . he just left me sitting there with my mom, wondering if I’d made the biggest mistake of my life by being honest with my own parents.”
I let that settle, the weight of it pressing against the silence between us.
“Did he ever bring it up?” I asked.
Mateo shook his head. “Not once. Not after that night. Not when I went to prom with my boyfriend. Not when I left for college. Not even when I brought someone home for Christmas three years ago.”
I felt my stomach tighten. “What did he do?”