"Mateo!" I throw a pillow at him, but he just laughs and catches it effortlessly, holding it against his chest like I've given him a gift.
Then, as though he hadn't just derailed the conversation with talk of handcuffs and sex on my kitchen table, he sits up straighter, tapping his pen against the open page of his notebook.
"Anyway," he says, with a mock-seriousness that's almost comical. "They'd never believe us without proof. We'd need something solid, something undeniable." He sighs dramatically, collapsing back against the chair like a man carrying the weight of the entire world. For someone who constantly accuses me of being dramatic, Mateo Quesada is single-handedly auditioning for a telenovela.
