Nothing ever comes.
Harper stays at her mom’s until Sunday evening. I stay in Mateo’s hoodie for more of the weekend than late summer should allow. She starts her first year of high school on Monday. I start a dozen texts I don’t send but wish I could.
The unsent messages have nothing to do with regret or cold feet or questions or anxiety or concern. I’m still waiting for all of those things. No, I’ve only deleted those texts to give Mateo more time to deal with whatever busyness he’d warned me about.
I’ll give him close to forever if he needs it. And then we can meet for beer and wings.
“So, like, it sucks to be back at school because—school? And we’re just stupid freshmen, so whatever. But also, only one of my classes fully blows, and it’s good to see people I didn’t hang with all summer, and I still sorta can’t believe that Mr. Z is exactly as awesome as everyone said he is, but that alone will make this year pretty bangin’.”
“Mr. Z?” I ask, leaning against the kitchen counter that Wednesday afternoon and looking up from another message I probably won’t send.
Harper rolls her eyes just before she opens the fridge. “And you thinkIdon’t listen toyou?”
“That’s true often enough for you to forgive me now.” I set my phone aside and give her my undivided attention. “Mr. Z. He’s one of your teachers, right?”
“Gee, fantastic powers of deduction, dad. Glad you never got checked hard enough to forget that two plus two equals four.”
“Argument made. Tell me—again—about Mr. Z.”
She closes the refrigerator door with her shoulder and hops onto the island, her legs swinging while she tears into the first of five string cheese wrappers. I bend forward to steal one and wink when she triesto glare.
“He teaches freshman honors English, though rumor has it he might take over the AP English classes once Schneider retires, and hopefully that happens by the time I’m a senior, but I guess it doesn’t matter for now? Anyway, Lizzie’s older sister said Mr. Z’s really strict but also really cool and nice and funny, and I don’t care about the strict thing because English is my best subject and I don’t really get into trouble, right? But yeah, I don’t have to worry about some terrible teacher making my favorite subject suck. And on top of all of that—”
“There’s more?” I laugh.
“Um, yeah? Of course. He’s also the soccer coach—for the girls, not the boys, obviously—so if I can make varsity as a freshman, then he won’t make that suck either, and I’m okay with the strict thing there, too.”
She pauses long enough to shove too much cheese into her mouth, and I narrow my eyes. “You don’t have a crush on Mr. Z, do you? Because that would be really bad. You know that would be really, really bad, right?”
“Oh, so I’m not allowed to like boys?”
“You’re allowed to likeboys, yes. You are not allowed to like teachers and coaches.”
Harper bursts into the same easy laughter I’ve lost over the past several years. “Oh my god, seriously? I don’t have a crush on him, I promise. I’m sure some people do because heisobjectively hot for a guy in his 30s or 40s or whatever, but Lizzie’s sister says he’s gay and, I dunno. I can see it, I guess? So, it wouldn’t even matter because he’s definitely not gonna look twice at me, and if I’m gonna drool over an old man, I’ll pick one of your teammates and drive you super crazy.”
“So, everyone loves this guy and nobody cares that he’s gay?” I ask, missing several other points.
“I mean, I’m suresomebodycares that he’s gay,” she says. “Probably all the girls whodohave a stupid crush on him and the boys they ignore because of it. But yeah, no. He’s way popular. And being gay isn’t a big deal to anyone at school, as long as they don’t have their head up their—”
“Hey now.”
With another quick laugh, Harper jumps back down from the island and throws her handful of wrappers into the trash. “I’m gonna go to Kate’s. I’ll be back before dinner.”
“And homework?”
“I’ll do it later.”
She’s already halfway gone, but I call after her anyway. “Hey, don’t think I missed that crack about people in their 30s being old. Or that bit about my teammates.”
“Bye, dad. Love you, dad.”
“Bye, pixie.”
I don’t pick up my phone until I hear the front door slam. Then I distract myself from a few things by finally sending Mateo a text.
Definitely not bothering you while you’re busy. Definitely not thinking about tacos or sunrises or kisses either
There’s no response right away, and whatever I’d hoped, I honestly didn’t expect one. Or I don’t knowwhatI expected. Hookups with men have never required chitchat. I've only needed an app or DM or help from a handful of people who’ve looked the other way afterward. Longer flings with women have been entirely public and predictable things requiring less effort than that.