Chapter 24
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FOUR
Florian
I am already regretting not having Mateo join me, when I meet my family outside my apartment.
“Hi, Florian! How was your first day back at work?” Papa asks.
“It wasn’t really work. I just exercised. And watched the others practice.”
My family members exchange glances. They probably knew all that already.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“Where is Mateo?” Mama asks.
I stiffen. “He had a long day of work.”
“Oh.” My family exchange glances again.
“How unfortunate,” Mama says. “He’s such a nice young man.”
“Yes.”
“And handsome,” Mama continues.
I want to nod, but instead my cheeks heat.
I agree with Mama though. Mateo is so handsome. He is so beautiful. I could look at his cheekbones and long lashes and lips for hours.
Well, not really.
But that’s only because I would want to talk to him too.
I miss his energy. I miss him. Clearly, my family misses him too.
How am I going to explain that we are not together?
“We could have met later,” Mama says. “Maybe you want to text him? So he can join us?”
“Well—” My pulse races.
Mama wants to see Mateo that badly?
“Mateo doesn’t have to join,” Annika says.
“But—” Mama frowns.
“Let’s go,” Annika says.
I follow my family to the restaurant they chose.
Boston is beautiful. Not in a German way at all. But I like the glass buildings and the red brick buildings in between.
I like it.
It is October, and the trees are changing colors.
We stand in front of the restaurant.
The world turns yellow, and I look to see a paparazzo.
“Where’s your boyfriend?” the paparazzo shouts.
I go rigid. “Please leave us alone. I am having a family dinner.”
“Why are you alone? Where is Mateo?” the paparazzo asks, as if I could have possibly forgotten Mateo.
“He is working.”
The paparazzo’s eyebrows lift, and I remember that it is evening and there is no Blizzards game tonight. There is no reason for Mateo to not be here.
He is not here because we are not a couple.
We are fake.
A dream.
One I thought was real.
Dummkopf, Dummkopf, Dummkopf.
A hand tugs at me, and when I glance down, my sister Annika is pulling me inside the restaurant. Her eyes are round and worried, and I hate it.
Does she know?
“It’s okay,” she murmurs, and maybe she does know.
I clench and unclench my fists.
Mateo
I am on the bus, heading back to Somerville, watching a video of Florian being bombarded by a paparazzo outside a restaurant. Well, now I know where he’s going to dinner.
I should be there.
I never should have let Florian go to dinner by himself. I shouldn’t have.
Florian might be assertive on the ice, but he’s a defenseman. He protects others. He knows that’s his role, and he’s incredible at it. I know how impressed Coach and the others are with how well he performed after he joined.
But Florian liked it when I was beside him. He said so repeatedly. And though part of it was that he thought we were in a romantic relationship, I’m not sure he would have asked me to come to the restaurant with him, even if he wanted me there.
Florian looked lost and sad and overwhelmed in the video. He looked nothing like the proud, composed man I’ve come to know and appreciate.
I press the button to stop the bus at the next stop before I can second-guess myself, and when the bus stops one block later, I hurry off.
The doors slam close behind me.
I’m somewhere in Cambridge, and I take out my phone to figure out the best way to get to the North End.
I wish I’d insisted on coming. Florian is polite and old-fashioned, like he’s come from the nineteenth-century court and not just Germany.
He is sweet and wonderful, and I have made his life so difficult.
And though I have his forgiveness, though there was no argument, though I never really expected there would be after I got to know him, I don’t want him to feel alone.
Fortunately, there’s a T stop nearby, and I get on at Central Square, then zoom across the river into Boston.
I jog through Beacon Hill, ignoring the startled glances of designer-clad men and women walking puffy designer dogs in bright designer dog socks.
I find the restaurant, then enter it. The place is crowded, because of course Florian and his family have good taste, and would only pick good places.
I can change my mind. Maybe this is ridiculous. Florian told me not to come. I should be following his wishes, right?
But maybe Florian needs to be rescued. Maybe people in towers don’t always ask for what they need.
Maybe he’s already told his family how little we are to each other, and I am going to mortify myself in front of Florian’s nice family, a family that treated me like I was their own child, a family like…
Well, it doesn’t matter. My mother passed away years ago, and my father… well, I can always reach out to him for an awkward conversation. It’s just… we don’t have many of those.
I’m not grabbing hold of random nice German families as a replacement. No, I’m not.
I push further into the restaurant, past two annoyed waiters who both look like they’re contemplating having a stern talk to me about why I should stay by the hostess stand.
And then I see them: Florian, Annika, Florian’s parents.
Annika’s eyebrows jolt upward. She glances at Florian, concerned.
She’s not supposed to look concerned.
She’s supposed to look… neutral. Maybe she’s supposed to be happy I’m there.
My stomach twists.
Maybe Florian already told her everything.
Florian’s parents though wave to me happily, and I wave back, forcing a smile on my face, even as my chest tightens.
And then Florian looks at me.
His eyes round. At first, I think I see relief, maybe even wonder, but then his shoulders slump, as if in embarrassment.
“Hi, Florian,” I say.
I wind my way around the table.
Florian’s father hops off his chair. “Sit down, Mateo. Florian missed you.”
Florian’s cheeks redden, and he looks down at his plate.
“I thought I would be busy,” I say, unsure what to say now that I am finally here.
Florian’s parents only smile.
“I’ll get a new chair,” Florian’s father says, and I sit beside Florian.
I lean closer and whisper in his ear. “I hope this is okay.”
Florian nods.
And then because I am so near Florian, since I have just been speaking to Florian’s ear, I kiss his cheek.
Florian was always kissing my cheek, and I never kissed his. I couldn’t.
But now Florian knows that I am not his boyfriend, that this is pretend.
Now there is no secret.
Florian inhales when I kiss him, and when he glances at me, his eyes have softened.
Then he leans next to my ear. “You didn’t need to do that.”
I shrug.
And though he absolutely doesn’t say anything, I know he’s telling me that he’s happy that I came.
I smile.
He smiles.
A waiter comes with a menu for me. He deposits the menu into my hands, then sets up a new place setting for Florian’s father at the head of the table.
He doesn’t seem pleased. American friendliness doesn’t always extend to Boston, a city which considers itself practically European and considers brusqueness a valuable trait, so that people in restaurants can imagine they’re on the Right Bank in Paris and are being glared at by a tall, slender Frenchman who eyes their bright American clothes with sufficient contempt that they are compelled to give extra-large tips in order to convince him of their superior salary.
“What would you like to eat?” The waiter asks, his eyes flashing, his voice haughty. “Do you want to eat?”
I’ve never been to Europe.
This is terrifying.
“Of course he will eat,” Florian says. Then he leans closer to me. “I enjoyed the salmon, and Mama enjoyed the chicken piccata.”
“It is excellent,” Florian’s mother assures me, brightening.
“I’ll have the chicken piccata,” I say, even though I hate that Florian will probably insist on paying. I don’t like that I’ve made this more expensive for him. That wasn’t my intention at all.
“Florian looks much happier now,” Florian’s mother says.
Florian tenses and he widens the distance between us. “I am fine, Mama. Just stiff.”
“Oh, that explains why you were acting so strange! You’ve been in pain. I’m sorry, Florian.”
Of course, Florian has been in pain. He fell onto the ice.
Why didn’t I think of asking him about that?
“It is not too much pain,” Florian says.
“You were acting very strange.” Florian’s mother glances at her husband. “Don’t you think?”
“Very strange,” Florian’s father agrees.
“Isn’t it wonderful that your boyfriend is a massage therapist?” Florian’s mother continues.
Florian’s cheeks redden. He looks down at his plate.
I am exceedingly grateful when the waiter plops down the chicken piccata in front of me, even if I’ve suddenly lost my appetite.
I force myself to take a bite anyway. It’s delicious.
“This is excellent,” I say.
Florian’s mother nods absent-mindedly. “You must massage Florian tonight.”
“Well—” Florian looks down. “He doesn’t need to do that. He spent a day massaging people. He should rest.”
Florian’s mother’s eyebrows draw together.
“I am happy to massage you,” I say.
“It is your free time,” Florian says.
“I am sure Mateo will have plenty of time to relax,” Florian’s mother says. “I imagine he doesn’t want you to be in pain.”
“That’s true,” I say quickly.
Florian pouts. He leans back in his chair.
“Mateo is coming with you tonight anyway,” Florian’s mother says.
Florian stiffens.
Maybe I shouldn’t have come. Fuck. I shouldn’t have come. Obviously.
“Right, Mateo?” his mother asks me.
I hesitate.
I glance at Florian.
What does he want me to say? I want to say exactly what will make him most happy.
He gives me a look that says, ‘you started this by coming,’ and I smile and give him a look back that says ‘fine.’
His face pales. I touch his thigh. “Of course I am coming back. Florian needs a massage. He never wants me to give one.”
“I don’t want to make my boyfriend work.”
I shrug. “You can put the dishes away.”
He snorts. “Very well.”
I attack my chicken piccata with pleasure.