There is absolutely no reason for him to have been in a room filled with mops and sponges and cleaning detergents. None.
I saw him do it. He saw me see him do it.
The awkwardness between us has only escalated.
I consider pretending that I left something in the massage room and need to return. Florian pulls that move all the time. He is always seeing me, then marching in the opposite direction or engaging the closest person to him in conversation, even though Florian rarely speaks to anyone and his sudden conversation partners always look exceedingly startled.
Troy looks up as I approach. “Hi, Mateo!”
Florian’s entire body goes rigid, like a malfunctioning humanoid. His shoulders climb toward his ears, his jaw tightens, and he takes a step backward, slamming against the wall.
“Hi, Troy! Hi, Florian!” I say.
Florian tries to act like someone who has not just walked into a wall.
Troy glances between us and his brow furrows. “Florian has been doing amazing.”
“That’s great.” I give Florian my best professionalsmile. “Is your shoulder feeling okay?”
Florian stiffens, and I instantly regret my attempt at conversation.
“Since you were, um, pushed into the boards last game?” My fingers flutter, and I remove my phone from my pocket, like that’s the reason for all their extra energy.
Florian scowls.
Why did I bring up that he was pushed? But I watch every game.
His gaze meets mine, and he looks panicked. In the next moment, he has his normal icy expression, and I wonder if I imagined the panic after all.
“I am fine. I do not require a massage.”
“I—” I hesitate. “I didn’t mean to imply that you needed a massage.”
Troy frowns again. Troy loves massages.
“I must go. Have a nice day.” Then Florian marches away. His pace quickens and quickens, his footsteps echoing in the corridor.
“Did something happen between you two?” Troy asks.
“No.”
Which technically is true. He came for one massage, left in the middle of it like a man fleeing a torture chamber, and has avoided me ever since.
Maybe German massages are different from American massages. Maybe it’s me.
I make a note to google it when I get home tonight, but apparently, Germans have normal massages.
He shouldn’t have an issue.
I complain to Gina at dinner after she makes the mistake of asking how my day was. The benefit of living with one’s twin is that I can complain about these things. We sit at the too-large dining table a prior tenant put in the kitchen, one that takes up too much space and reminds us that we’re alone. The fake daisies stuffed into a vase between us are an insufficient distraction from that fact.
“He said ‘I do not require a massage’ like I was offering him insects.” I stab my fork into my broccoli. “I was just making conversation.”
“Some people are awkward.”
“He can’t stand me.”
“Everyone likes you, Mateo. That’s nonsense.”
