Chapter 18
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
Mateo
I visit Florian straight after work. He’s grinning, which means he probably hasn’t remembered everything.
“We’re going to the pool,” he announces, picking up a straw tote bag.
“Okay.”
We take the elevator up to the top of the building.
I’m curious to see the pool. This building is fancy.
A pool is an excess in Boston where so much of the time the city is buried in feet of snow and ice.
It is a good day when Bostonians can venture out of their townhouses and triple-deckers and apartment buildings without being completely soaked and having their hair be destroyed.
It’s early October, and no one is in the pool. Some people are barbecuing, and a couple is in the hot tub. I glance around eagerly. It is beautiful. There is no roof deck on the top of my triple-decker in Somerville.
Trees are potted around the roof deck. Beyond is the Boston Harbor in all its glory. Tour boats float in the water below, and tourists walk around the harbor, tiny from our viewpoint on the fifteenth floor.
But I like it.
“It’s pretty,” I say. “This was a good idea.”
Florian looks around. His hopeful look droops, and I hate it. I hate that he is trying to find memories here. I hate that I am responsible for making him think we were here in the past.
Perhaps this is Florian’s first time on the rooftop.
“It’s beautiful,” I say.
“Yes,” Florian says, but he looks around absentmindedly.
Then his eyes dart open, and he grins. He’s looking at an electrical outlet which is… weird.
The conversation with Gina returns to me.
No.
He wouldn’t.
But, of course, he would. Florian thinks we used to do this all the time. Florian removes some speakers from his bag and plugs them in. He does something on his phone, then Frank Sinatra starts playing.
A few people outside give us curious glances. Probably most people our age do not put on Frank Sinatra. That’s fine. Florian is romantic.
Then Florian bows.
“We don’t have to do this,” I say. “It’s fine.”
He gives me a solemn look. “It will be nice. Like old times.”
In the next moment, he takes my arm then twirls me around. I gasp.
Florian grins.
He moves me around the pool. People stare up from pool chairs, and I send them an awkward smile.
Florian dips me. His arm is steady under my back, and the skyscraper-filled sky tilts, and I can no longer think about my embarrassment, no longer think about the people staring at us, no longer think about anything except him.
My heart beats faster than is appropriate for mild aerobic activity. I stare into his eyes, then he smirks, and spins me around and around and around. The music continues to play. Boston’s buildings whirl around us, tall glinting skyscrapers.
Murmurs sound. Everyone is watching. But Florian is fine with that. His hand is warm against mine, and I stumble over my feet as Florian maneuvers me this way and that.
The song ends, and people clap.
“Kiss!” someone shouts.
Then more people shout.
Florian’s cheeks redden. He’s thinking about the fact that I told him that we couldn’t kiss.
But maybe…
I don’t like the way pink stains his skin now.
“We could,” I whisper.
He smiles.
I move my lips toward him, then I capture his lips with my own. He gives a delighted gasp, and then we are kissing.
This isn’t my first kiss. I know my way around an app. But this is a good first kiss. His lips move uncertainly around my own, and I am reminded of the fact this man has never kissed another man before.
Guilt moves through me, and I start to step away, but he whines. His grip on the back of my t-shirt tightens, and I narrow the distance between us again.
This time I move my tongue against his own.
More clapping sounds, and it occurs to me that perhaps we don’t want to dance around the pool, then make out in public. Florian must have the same idea, because we break away at the same time.
His eyes are soft as they regard me.
I shouldn’t have let him kiss me. I shouldn’t have.
Some day he will want to kiss someone for real. Someday he will be standing across from an investment banker or a brain surgeon or a rocket scientist and he’ll want to kiss him. I’ll have stolen his first kiss.
“Are you okay?” Florian asks.
His voice is worried, and I hate it.
I’ve stolen a first from him, and he’s making sure that my well-being is okay.
He is kind and considerate. He is a gentleman, the kind found in old movies and the sort of bars that play Sinatra.
He should be with a tuxedoed man. They can adjust each other’s bowties and help each other put on platinum cufflinks.
Florian shouldn’t be with a man wearing a bright t-shirt and sweatpants.
His forehead furrows. “Did I do it wrong?”
My eyes widen. He must be thinking about the kiss, because his dance was amazing. And his kiss for that matter was also amazing.
“It was wonderful,” I tell him.
He glances at me uncertainly.
“You take my breath away,” I admit.
“Oh.” He sighs. “It must be strange to be with someone who doesn’t remember our past.”
I hesitate, then give a short nod.
He takes my hand. “The others are staring at us.”
“They always do that,” I lie. “But perhaps we should go back to the apartment.”
We ride the elevator down. I can still taste him.
Florian’s thumb traces hearts on the back of my hand. “I made reservations at that restaurant your sister said we used to eat at.”