The skepticism seemed directed at Nick’s version of the meeting, but there was no note of disapproval. I tried, but utterly failed, to imagine how my mother would have reacted had I told her a similar story when I was Nick’s age. And as for my father—I again had to bring myself back into the present and bit into the taco. The beans were a perfect consistency and had been stewed with onion, garlic, Mexican oregano and cumin.

“This is delicious.”

She shrugged. “It’s just frijoles.”

She sat down between us, pulled a pack of cigarettes out of her apron, and lit one. When Nick reached for her pack, she slapped his hand away.

“I want one,” he whined.

“They’re bad for you.”

“You smoke.”

“Because I didn’t know no better and got hooked. You’re educated.”

The phone rang in the other room and Mrs. Trejo got up to answer it. When she was out of the room, I asked Nick, “Your family knows you’re gay?”

“Uh-huh,” he said.

“And they’re okay with it?”

“With my brothers, it was one more thing to tease the kid brother about,” he said. “But they’d beat the crap out of anyone else who picked on me. My sister never had a problem.”

“Your parents?”

“My dad died before I could tell him, but he wouldn’t have minded. My mom doesn’t care.”

“Your dad’s dead,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I miss him every day.”

I wanted to ask him more about his family’s acceptance, but I reminded myself I was here on business. I took a sip of strong coffee and smiled at him. “The story of how you met Bill, is that all there is to it?”

He eyed me uncertainly. “What do you mean?”

“Nick, I’m gay too, okay?”

His eyes widened. “You are?”

“A card-carrying homosexual, and I have a feeling you left something out about how you met Bill because your mom was in the room.”