"Mmmm, well, please tellMateoI'm sorry about his grandma."
Our goodbyes are brief, and I really do have a meeting to get to. I also need to respond to the text staring up at me from the phone still in my hand. Nothing I can cram into a message will matter the way it should, but I have to try.
I'll be here when you're ready to talk. I don't care if it's the middle of the night. I know she loved you so damn much and I'm sorry
Some of it's a lie, but he'll know that. I see no need to remind him I might not be here to talk if I'm still in my meeting. Or tomorrow, when there's a game. Or anytime between when Taylor needs me to take a call he doesn't want to take, or give an interview he doesn't want to give.
Whether it's intentional or not, his next text arrives between the first and second period of our next game.
I just wish you could be here for the funeral.
Between the second and third period, I duck away from the team long enough to text back.
I wish I could be there too
It's not until the morning, after our fourth straight win, that I realize I could be. Probably.
"I need a day off—maybe a day and a half. Personal reasons. Death in the family."
"Anyone I know?" Taylor asks, sympathy a thing he doesn't convey well.
"No, but I need to be at the funeral. In California," I tell him. "I don't know when it'll be yet, but I should be able to catch up with the team in Texas or Colorado."
"Will you draw any media attention?"
"At a funeral? You've gotta be fucking kidding me. The only rumors since I got here have been about me and your sister—none of which are true, by the way."
Taylor laughs, then sobers quickly. "Yeah, I know they're not true. But I also know people are still waiting for you to fuck up. Just don't do it while dealing with a 'personal matter,' okay?"
It would make sense for me to call Mateo then. Ask him for the details about the visitation and Mass and burial. Find out whether it’ll be the same as when his grandfather died three years ago. But I'm just worried enough that something will keep me away at the last minute, and I stay silent for now.
I stay silent while I search online for the information I need.
I stay silent while I book a flight and update Taylor.
I stay silent the morning I put on a charcoal gray suit and slip into the back row of the same Catholic church that hosts a carnival I think I love and hate. Someone hands me a funeral program, and I look at a picture of the woman who welcomed a scared and lonely little boy into her family without reservation. I hadn't been close enough to notice on the day she buried her husband, but now I can see Mateo has her eyes. I'm not sure that's how the nature versus nurture argument works, but I'm distracted by the deep brown kindness in them. That kindness looked down at me once, at a crowded bar that might as well be home. I'd love to believe Mateo’s grandmother is looking down upon me today.
Believing she's looking down upon her family is easy.
Mateo is a pallbearer, his hair pulled back into the tightest ponytail I've seen him wear, and his profile stunningly stoic as it passes meby. He doesn't glance my way, nor did I expect him to. I'm trying to keep my head down as much as possible because I've never wanted to be recognized less than I do now.
I haven’t attended Mass since the last time I was here. From the corner of my eye, I admire the stained glass and statues surrounding me. My parents certainly didn't make time in my schedule for religion—or anywhere I wouldn't have had the opportunity to shine—but former teammates and coaches have married and died, so the rituals aren't wholly foreign. There are a lot of people here, evidence of a life well-lived, I suppose. The Zavalas are far away, and I won't have to worry about being hugged by people who might love me before they find reasons not to. I spot Sophie a couple of rows behind the family, but she hasn't seen me.
There's a single eulogy, delivered by Mateo and his sisters. I don't fight the tears demanding to be shed. The music has been beautiful all along, but "Amazing Grace" nearly ruins me. I want to laugh at how many people would be surprised to see me like this, dressed up and weeping over a hymn. I'm so far away from being Jameson Sinclair right now.
I'm just Jamie. I onlywantto be Jamie.
When Mass is over, I blend in with the crowd and read the back page of the program still in my hand. She’ll be buried next to her husband, with a reception at someone's house following. I know how to get where I’m going without the help of the small map. In my car—one I left behind when I moved across the country—I check my reflection in the rearview mirror and pretend I don't look fucking exhausted. Things are better for me than for almost anyone I'll see today. I shake my head before I drive.
As soon as I'm parked again, another look in the mirror confirms nothing has changed. A look toward the burial plot confirms far fewer people are expected here. There are a few rows of foldingchairs, some mourners settling there while others hover nearby, but all of it's too intimate for me. I find a large oak tree some distance away and lean against the trunk. Then I close my eyes when I can't quite make out any of what's being said.
I daydream or I grieve, but time passes quickly either way. When I hear the crowd stir, a dozen conversations kept to a respectful buzz, I open my eyes and search for the Zavala family. They've separated some, all greeting different guests with the expected smiles and tears. It's no surprise that I only have eyes for Mateo, but when I watch him leave Sophie's side and wind past a handful of others to greet someone new, I'm close to looking away.
This man doesn't resemble the Zavalas enough for me to assume he's related to them. With Sophie heading in a different direction, I doubt he's another coworker. He could be anyone else—a former student or a college friend or someone at the apartment complex who doesn't slow dance in his living room—but the way they touch makes me feel hot and cold at once.
Mateo's fingertips are playing with this other man's tie. The other man's hand has slipped past Mateo's open suit jacket. They have a conversation with plenty of eye contact until they step further into each other and hug tightly. The other man presses a kiss to Mateo's temple.
I let my eyes fall shut again and daydream or grieve until I havea reason to stop, his footsteps muffled by the grass, but my goosebumps quick to warn me I’m no longer alone.