Chapter 25
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FIVE
Florian
Mateo is here.
He shouldn’t be here. I told him not to join us.
But he is all the same.
I should not feel as relieved as I do. Mateo is speaking about massages.
Mama asks Mateo about how he came to Boston, and I listen as Mateo explains that he moved here a year ago when Gina got into her PhD program. He’d been working at a hotel on Mount Wachusett, near Worcester, before then, and had enjoyed working with the skiers and other athletes.
“Massage therapists can work anywhere,” he explains.
“Well, that will come in useful,” Papa says, looking at me.
I take a large sip of water.
“Professors don’t have that same freedom,” Papa explains.
“You like Munich,” I remind him.
“I do,” Papa admits. “I mean, I could have been placed in Braunschweig. What would have happened then?”
Mama squeals, then elbows him.
Papa elbows her back, then he kisses her cheek. “I’m sorry, Schatz.”
Mama draws back. “I am from Braunschweig,” she explains to Mateo.
“Is it awful?”
“No, it is not.” She frowns. “But it is not as nice as Munich.”
“I was lucky to get a job in a nice place,” Papa says. “So were you, Florian. Boston is beautiful.”
I beam. “It is. And my teammates are all nice.”
“Ah, you met new ones today,” Papa says. “How was that?”
“Well, they weren’t really new,” I say. “I got my memory back today.”
“Florian!” Mama and Papa and Annika clap in delight.
“How could you not mention that first?” Mama asks. “You are a terrible son!”
“I am sorry.”
Mateo puts his hand on my thigh. I gaze at him, startled.
His cheeks turn a rosy color, and he starts to lift it. I pull his hand back and rest it back on my thigh.
He gives a pleased exhale, like he wants his hand to be there.
I link my hand with his, and our fingers tangle together.
He continues to eat. Every so often he turns to me, then he blushes, and takes another bite of chicken piccata.
He is so adorable.
“So?” Mama asks. “You can’t just say you got your memory back and stop.”
“I can’t?”
“No!” she exclaims. “You were wondering how you and Mateo first met.”
“We met at work,” I say. “Mateo already told you.”
“Yes—but now I want to get your perspective,” Mama says. “I want to know how my shy son got himself a boyfriend! And at work. That’s sort of risqué these days.”
I stiffen.
I didn’t get a boyfriend.
She’s right.
I ran away from Mateo.
I was rude to him.
I know I was. I remember.
I remember all the times he would look worried and embarrassed when he saw me. All the times he would grimace when he encountered me, bracing for me to turn and run around.
He didn’t like me. I made his life difficult.
I definitely did not make him my boyfriend.
When Mateo gets a boyfriend, it will be someone braver than me. Someone better. Someone—
“It happened like I said it did,” Mateo says. “We met at work, then he asked me for dinner at the nicest restaurant in Boston. That’s when I knew he liked me.”
“I did like you,” I assure Mateo.
His beautiful dark eyes widen, and his beautiful black lashes slide up. He looks surprised, then he smiles.
“How was the restaurant last night?” Annika asks, and I grin at her gratefully until I remember that that is the sort of behavior that might make her suspicious.
“It was wonderful,” Mateo says. “Like the first time.”
We exchange smiles.
It was wonderful.
Mateo is right.
“Well,” Mama says, “that is not as much detail as I would have liked, but I’ve learned not to expect it from Florian. I shouldn’t be surprised he found a man who doesn’t pay attention to details either.”
“It is not my strength,” I tell her.
“I have my imagination,” she says.
“We could go there tomorrow night,” Mateo suggests.
Then Mateo does some sort of gasping thing, and he looks at me apologetically.
I smile. “That is a wonderful idea, Mateo.”
I am glad that I will see Mateo tomorrow. I used to see Mateo every day, but we usually never spoke, and when we did, my heart was beating too quickly to make the conversation pleasant.
“Perfect!” Mama exclaims.
Papa gets the check, and Mateo takes out his wallet.
Papa looks alarmed, and I laugh and slide Mateo’s wallet back into his pocket.
“You are Florian’s boyfriend,” Papa says.
“He is,” I lie, and I shoot Mateo a look that says ‘you know you can’t contradict me’ and he smiles and looks down.
My family walks me back to my apartment since their hotel is nearby, and there is no way for Mateo to slip away.
There is still no way for him to slip away when my family decide to come back to my apartment with me, and when I suggest that he leave after my family says goodnight and we are alone in my apartment, he shakes his head and says that I am in pain and they will ask why he did not massage me.
That’s how we find ourselves in my bedroom.
Mateo
“You do not need to give me a massage,” Florian says sternly.
“You need a massage. You’re in pain.”
“I am a hockey player. I am always in pain.”
I stop and stare at him. “That’s terrible, Florian.”
He looks down. “Maybe I exaggerated. Yes, I exaggerated. I am fine.”
I frown. I’m pretty sure that Florian was telling me the truth.
I go to the bed and remove the comforters and put them on the armchair in the corner.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m turning your bed into a massage table.”
I go into his bathroom and open the bathroom cabinet door.
Florian follows me. “You don’t—”
I see the enema kit.
I freeze.
Florian freezes.
I yank three towels from the cabinet and pretend I didn’t see the enema kit.
I walk past Florian and pretend that I am not the least bit affected by his super amazing presence and I pretend that I am not affected by his super amazing scent.
Of course it doesn’t work.
I lay one towel on the bed, then another.
“This is silly,” Florian says.
“Your pain is not silly,” I say. “I can make you feel better. Please let me. It is my job.”
His fingers clench into fists.
He is not pleased with me.
I sigh. “Florian. Why didn’t you want me to give you a massage when we first met?”
His face reddens. “It is not important.”
“Your health is important.”
“You are always asking to give me a massage. Massage, massage, massage.”
My eyes widen.
His eyes widen.
He sighs. “I am sorry. It is embarrassing. I do not like being embarrassed.” He assesses me. “Lately I am always embarrassed.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It is not your fault. It is mine.” He chews his bottom lip. He looks hunched and defeated.
I shouldn’t press him.
I shouldn’t.
And I’m just about to tell him that, when he says, “I did not leave because I was... disgusted. I left because I was—my body was—”
He stares at the floor, his jaw tight.
Oh.
Oh.
I think back over that day. He was rigid. He was face-down the whole time, and when I asked him to turn around—
“Oh my God,” I say.
His eyes slam shut.
“Florian,” I say. “That is a normal bodily reaction. You are a healthy man.”
“I did not get aroused in Mannheim,” he says.
“It’s fine,” I say. “You can get aroused.”
“What if I—?”
“Then we use your tissues.” I elbow him. “It’s fine.” I raise my eyes. “You know, I’m a gay man too. Not—” I hesitate. “Not that I’m thinking about that when I—” I swallow hard.
Okay.
It’s not necessarily ideal to be a gay massage therapist. I was surprised when the Blizzards hired me, even though it was my dream job, and even though I was qualified.
“I mean—” I chew on my bottom lip. “When I give a massage, I’m thinking about muscles and how they connect. I’m thinking about tension and how to best release it. It’s like a giant human puzzle cube. I’m not thinking about… sex.”
A pulse throbs in his neck.
Florian is a virgin, and I’m talking to him about sex.
“Sorry,” I say.
Florian looks confused.
“I just mean that I get it, you know? I can imagine being in your position. It’s okay. It’s fine. I don’t care.”
Florian looks uncertain.
“Undress,” I say.
His eyes flare, before he looks away.
Then he removes his t-shirt.
He removes his socks.
He removes his trousers.
His boxer briefs remain on.
I pick up a towel. “I’ll massage around this. Like last time. Get on the bed.”
He does so.
He’s lying flat on his bed. The same bed where we slept side by side.
My hands steady. I know how to give a massage.
I refuse to be sad about the fact that Florian regained his memory. Florian is wonderful. He deserves his memory. He deserves to be able to play again.
But I still miss the before-times, when Florian probably would be comforting me.
I smile, because Florian is so sweet.
I put on some peaceful music, because maybe Florian needs something to concentrate on.
Then I walk to the side of Florian’s bed.