Page 11 of Love and Other Goals

I glance around the coffee shop as Mateo orders, and we move to the end of the counter to wait for our drinks. Bookafe is unusually quiet, probably because it’s a Sunday afternoon before a day of no classes. No one is studying today.

“Why don’t you go see if the table by the world corner is open, and I’ll bring our drinks over?” Mateo suggests.

“Sure,” I respond as I head to my favorite spot in my favorite coffee shop. Tucked away from the main seating area, the world corner is literally cornered by two bookcases full of books written by authors from all over the world. I almost majored in English before deciding that social sciences might give me an edge on the immigration law track. Sitting among the words of so many diverse authors has always felt inspiring.

I take a seat and run my finger along the spine of a Salman Rushdie novel. Mateo joins shortly after and hands me my iced latte. I take a sip and instantly feel at home. Something about the horchata flavors takes my mind back to when I was a kid in El Paso, Texas, reveling in all the tastes of Mexico without even realizing how special it was. I close my eyes for a beat as I swallow.

“So, how’s the school year starting off for you?” Mateo asks. He takes a drink of his cortado and waits for my answer.

“Oh, fine so far. Rush week was precisely the special torture that it’s designed to be.” He laughs. “But I think we have a really solid pledge class this year, so the future of AOPi is bright, I suppose.”

“Are you the new member educator again this year?” Mateo asks.

“No, between needing solid grades to keep my scholarship plus law school applications, I decided to lighten my load, so no leadership role for me this year,” I answer. I take another sip of coffee. “How was your first soccer match?”

“Good, we won both of our two pre-season matches,” Mateo says. “Our first division match is this Saturday. We get today off, but we’ll be practicing hard all week to get ready. We have a couple of new guys on the team, and I think we’re going to play really well together this year.”

Mateo quickly turns the conversation back to me, peppering me with one question after another about my plans for the school year, the law school application process, when I’d have to leave to start at UC Davis if (fingers crossed when) I’m accepted.

I’m starting to feel a little thrown off. I sat down expecting to discuss D.C. and the Afghan Adjustment Act, about where the legislation process is and what effective advocacy looks like. All morning, I had been mentally cataloging interesting talking points from my experiences over the summer. I didn’t anticipate so many questions about my personal future steps toward lawyerhood.

He’s taking a drink of his cortado when I ask, “Soooo, why did you want to get coffee today?”

“What?” he replies with confused eyebrows as he sets down his cup.

“Why did you ask me to coffee today? Were you wanting to talk about the Afghan Adjustment Act or other immigration issues, or something else?” I eye him over the rim of my cup as I take a drink of my latte.

“I’m sorry, I thought it would be obvious when I asked you yesterday,” Mateo says. He clears his throat. “I asked you to coffee because I like you, Lana.”

Thankfully, I stop my jaw from dropping to the floor because my mouth is full of a giant gulp of horchata latte, which I promptly start choking on. After an embarrassingly-long coughing fit, I finally sputter out, “I’m sorry, what?”

A smile slowly spreads across Mateo’s face. “I. Like. You. Lana.”

“Like me?”

“Like you.”

Silence.

“Like, LIKE me, like me?”

“Yes.”

I don’t have extreme heat to blame for the current misfiring happening in my brain or the blush creeping across my cheeks. Bookafe is perfectly well air conditioned.

I probably look slightly psychotic as I openly stare at Mateo’s face. He’s still smiling at me with patient eyes. He doesn’t say anything, as though he can sense that my mind needs a minute to realign the gears.

Finally, after a lineup of facial expressions probably broadcasting all the confusing thoughts running through my head (I really need to prioritize poker lessons), I finally land on disbelief. “You aren’t serious, are you?”

“Completely serious,” Mateo says with casual confidence, leaning back in his chair. His eyes stay locked on mine.

“But why?” I ask. “Mateo, this isn’t a huge campus. You’re the number-one star of the number-one athletic program at Townsend. Everyone knows you. And within the smaller social sphere that is Arrow, you’re the most popular guy involved.”

Mateo raises an eyebrow in silent protest.

“I know, I know, popularity in college is different than the unrelenting beast it is in high school, but there are still hierarchies of social status. And you, sir, are at the very top.”

Mateo looks genuinely caught off guard. “Lana, I don’t think?—”

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