Luca (Chicago Blaze 2)

When we get to the front of the line, Emerson and I get our muffins—blueberry for me and chocolate chip for her—and find a spot at a lunch table. It’s been a hot minute since I ate at one of these long tables, and it brings back memories of grade school.

I was a pretty well-behaved kid. Mostly quiet. Matt was always the bolder, braver and smarter one. He made it easy to look up to him.

“I’ll go get us some drinks,” I tell Emerson.

She looks across the cafeteria and says, “I have to go get something, too.”

I’m in line to get orange juice for Emerson when someone taps me on the shoulder. When I turn, hoping it’s not Stephanie or Giada, I see a clean-cut man grinning at me.

“Hi there.” He extends a hand. “Henry Maxwell.”

“Hi, I’m Luca Campbell.”

“We’re big Blaze fans,” he says.

“Thanks man, appreciate it.”

“I just wanted to let you know you’re not the only guy here. My husband and I brought our son and daughter.”

“Hey, that’s great.”

He points to a blond man sitting with two kids at a table nearby. “That’s John and our kids Shelby and Aiden.”

“You guys have a nice looking family.”

“Thanks. So do you. We saw you guys at Meet the Teacher Night, but it was so busy I never got a chance to introduce myself.”

“I’m glad you did today.”

He pats his pocket, seeming to look for something as I reach the front of the line.

“Damn, I don’t have any cards on me, but I’m an attorney. You can reach me at my office if you ever want to get the kids together or something. Aiden’s in kindergarten too.”

“I’ll do that.” I pick up two cups, one with coffee and the other with orange juice. “And you can reach me through the team’s front office if you ever want to.”

“Great.” Henry fills a tray with four drinks. “We’re always up for getting together.”

“Yeah, we’d love that. I don’t know many people at the kids’ schools yet, since this is their first year here.”

Henry nods. “We’d love to have you over for dinner sometime. And I promise we won’t make you talk hockey the whole time.”

“No worries, man. I don’t mind.”

“I’ll let you get back.” His expression turns serious. “And I hope you know you’re doing a great job with the kids, Luca.”

“I am?”

How would this guy know what kind of job I’m doing?

Henry’s smile makes the corners of his eyes crinkle. “Yeah. These things can make a person compare themselves to the other parents. At least they do for John and I. I mean, we’re gay, so our kids will never have a mom. It was tough that first year, with Giada Sutton offering us advice on girls’ clothes and stuff.”

“That’s not just me, then?”

He laughs. “Not just you. And John used to work for Chanel, so it’s not like we need fashion advice. Two queens may not know everything about raising a little girl, but the clothes? We’ve got that covered.”

I like Henry. I can see the kids and I hanging out with him and his family.

“I’m glad to know I’m not alone,” I say, and I’m not just talking about Giada offering advice.

“You love those kids, that’s obvious.” John looks over at Emerson, who’s taking a delicate little bite from the top of her muffin. “You’re enough, just in case you needed to hear that today.”

“I actually did need to hear that today. Thanks, man.”

John nods and turns toward his table. “Hope we can meet up soon.”

“Definitely. I’ll give your office a call.”

I feel lighter on the walk back to the table. Even though the counselor I went to when Danielle was sick told me I’d likely struggle with feelings of inadequacy, I didn’t know how shitty it would be.

I’d walk into traffic for those kids. When they’re hurting, my first thought is that I wish I could hurt instead of them. It doesn’t matter if it’s a skinned knee or a broken heart, I hate seeing them in any kind of pain.

I can’t absorb it for them, though. The kids and I have spent the past year figuring out how to feel the hurt instead of shoving it down. Our counselors have helped us get to this new normal, and I think we’d all still be a mess without them.

When I get back to the table and set our cups down, Emerson pushes a paper across the table toward me.

“I made it,” she says.

This must be what she picked up from the other side of the cafeteria. When I sit down and look at the paper, my heart cracks and warms simultaneously.

The white paper has a border of flowers Emerson neatly colored with crayons. The first pre-printed line says ‘My mom is good at…’

The word ‘mom’ is crossed out with pencil in every line, and in its place, Emerson wrote ‘uncle’ on top of it.