Page 21 of Love and Other Goals

Gosh, this man is so intuitive. Or maybe it’s only me he reads like a book?

“Fine, fine, you’re right,” I say, raising my hands in surrender again. “My dad plays the cello. He’s always taught cello and piano lessons—he’s the one who taught me to play piano—and he’s the reason we moved to Kansas City. He grew up there, and he got a position playing with the Kansas City Symphony. We were living in El Paso at the time, but one of his high school buddies plays for the symphony and told him to come audition for the opening. It was huge for him to get offered the spot.”

Mateo nods, subtly encouraging me to keep sharing.

“I grew up hearing him play, and it always relaxed me,” I continue. “When I was in high school and got decent at the piano, we even started playing duets sometimes. My mom would come home from a long day at work and ask us to play. She’d just sit there with her eyes closed, listening. I think it helped ground her after hard days advocating for clients,” I share.

“Which must be why you like Piano Guys music so much,” Mateo guesses.

“Nailed it,” I laugh, and Mateo gives a fake bow. “So, I guess cello music grounds me too. And it makes me feel close to my parents when I’m away, like it transports me back into our living room with them,” I finish, suddenly feeling a little emotional thinking about all those days with my parents.

“And, it’s a pretty-sounding instrument,” I say with a wry grin and nudge Mateo’s leg with my foot. He glances down at the contact and then smiles back up at me.

“My turn,” I declare, hardly pausing before asking, “How did your parents wind up in Michigan? Feel free to take your time because I know that question came out of left field.”

Mateo chuckles and says, “That one’s easy, although again, it could be a long answer.”

I gesture for him to continue. He smiles. “Short version, my parents originally came to the US as asylum seekers.”

My face turns serious, because I know that means there’s a solemnity to his family’s history. Mateo isn’t fazed though and continues. “They were granted permanent residence and recently received citizenship, but when they first arrived, they made connections with people who were migrant farmworkers. So, for the first couple of years here, they traveled around the country harvesting crops.

“They were in Hart, Michigan, for the asparagus harvest, and my mom was about twelve weeks pregnant with their first child. One day out in the fields, she started having terrible cramps, and she wound up miscarrying the baby. All these years later, she still gets really sad on the days surrounding the anniversary,” Mateo pauses as emotion catches in his voice. I wait patiently for him to continue.

“Miscarriages are unfortunately so common, so it probably had nothing to do with my mom working in the fields. But my dad was convinced that the physical labor was to blame, so he wouldn’t let her harvest anymore. She needed something to do so she wasn’t alone and grieving all day long, so she started cooking meals to sell to the migrant workers. She’s an incredible cook.”

Mateo has a wide smile now, clearly proud of his mom. “Pretty soon, locals were wanting to buy her food as well as the workers. One thing led to another, and they opened a restaurant and never left Hart. They’re an integral part of the community now—literally everyone in town knows my parents,” he finishes with a laugh. “And no one ever goes hungry.”

I smile back at him, feeling his love for his family radiating off him. I appreciate how openly Mateo expresses his affection for them, how he wears his emotions on his sleeve. A glance at my watch shows it’s already 9:15 p.m. I look over at Mateo and ask, “What time do you have to be on the bus for the match tomorrow? Should we head back so you can get some rest?”

He waves me off and says, “I’m pretty sure I won’t be sleeping much tonight regardless of what time I go to bed. You’re just trying to get out of answering your final question.”

I look down at my hands with a blush at his honesty. It’s starting to look like I may not sleep much tonight either.

“Last question: why UC Davis?” Mateo asks. “You live in Kansas, and there are great law schools all over the country, so why California?”

“Well, that’s an easy one for me,” I tell him. “It’s my mom’s alma mater. She’s originally from southern California, and my grandparents still live there. UC Davis has a great immigration law program. It’s always been my dream to go through the same program where my mom got her training; follow in her footsteps, I guess you could say.”

Mateo nods. “Your parents sound like great people.”

I smile. “They really are. I love them a lot.”

“I can tell,” Mateo says, smiling back at me. “Alright, final question goes to you.”

I pause to mull things over. Talking about going to law school in California has made me wonder where Mateo plans to wind up after college. I’m trying to think of a way to fish for information about his future when I decide to just go the direct route.

“What are you planning to do after you finish at Townsend?”

“I’m not quite so ambitious to be going after a law degree,” Mateo says self-deprecatingly. “But I do hope to get my master’s degree and become a licensed therapist.”

I raise my eyebrows in surprise. “I have to admit I would not have guessed that.”

Mateo laughs. “I know, I know, not what you’d expect from a college soccer player, and it wasn’t my original major as a freshman. But I’ve observed the impact that a therapist can have on someone who’s struggling, and I’ve seen the number of kids—especially of immigrant families—who could really benefit from having a professional to talk to.”

“Makes sense,” I encourage him.

“I haven’t decided whether to get a master’s in counseling or psychology yet, or where exactly I’m going to apply. I’ve been fortunate to be here at Townsend on an athletic scholarship, but I don’t want to go deep into debt getting my master’s. So, I’m hoping to maybe coach soccer somewhere and slowly take online classes toward my degree as I can afford them,” Mateo says, looking pointedly at me.

I can practically hear his heart communicating to mine. I can pursue my next step anywhere. Even California.

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