I’ve put Mateo into this situation. And though we’ve been acting like everything is real… And though sometimes it feels like it’s real…
I know the truth: Mateo and I are not together. We’re not.
Not the way people truly sometimes are boyfriends. The relationships that start with someone asking someone on a date. Ice cream or coffee or dinner.
“Of course,” Mateo says, bright smile pasted onto his pretty face.
“Really?” the reporter looks astonished.
“Yes,” Mateo says, jaw out slightly. “I will accompany Florian to Nashville.”
The cameras flash, and I force my lips into a smile, the American kind that shows all my teeth, as if it will distract the reporters from the fear in my eyes.
It’s better this way, I decide. The headlines won’t say that hockey defenseman Florian Richter broke up with his boyfriend because he was traded. That can come in a later announcement. Maybe they can put something about the Nashville weather or something. Or the long distance. Or the fact Mateo doesn’t have a job in Nashville, that he worked hard to get his job in Boston, that he would have to abandon his sister, his career to follow me.
I feel sick.
Mateo’s arm around me tightens. “Are you okay?”
I give a curt nod, because saying I feel like I’m about to throw up isn’t exactly the sort of thing you say in front of cameras. The goal of every press meeting is to be as boring as possible. Getting amnesia and coming out as gay have so far not conformed to that principle.
I feel Mateo’s eyes on me, and I’m not entirely surprised when he leads me away. I relax against his frame. How did I manage without him? How could I have thought the first time I saw him that there wasn’t a world where we weren’t together? I should have gone straight to the florist and started ordering him weekly bundles of red roses to his home and workplace. I should have wooed him.
“It was very nice of you to tell the reporters that you will accompany me to Nashville,” I say.
“Oh.” Mateo’s throat moves. “I wasn’t sure what to tell them.”
“I am sorry that was a stressful situation,” I say.
“You don’t have to apologize for that.”
I smile, because the man is silly. He wouldn’t be embroiled in any of this if not for me.
“Did I say the right thing?” he asks, his voice soft.
He trembles slightly, and I frown.
Maybe he’s catching a cold. Perhaps we can pick up some chicken noodle soup on the way home. Maybe I can tell my mother to gift him some woolen sweaters. I have never spent a winter in Boston, and now I never shall, but I have seen the pictures of Boston in the winter. It involves snow. And ice in the Boston Commons where there should be a lake. It involves many things I do not desire to ponder.
“You always say the right thing,” I say.
I wait for Mateo’s pleased, proud smile to come but it doesn’t arrive.
I have the feeling that I’ve said the wrong thing, but I’m not sure where I went wrong.
“I have to pack,” I say.
“I know.” He hesitates. “Most of the men use professional movers. I think Daniela probably has some contacts. It was in the handbook.”
I nod. My memory might be back, but I can’t remember all the details. The doctor might say that I’m fine, but I’ll always need to be alert for possible warning signs. If one can avoid getting hit on the head, one should definitely avoid it. Not that I would trade the weeks I’ve had with Mateo for anything, despite all the artifice and awkwardness.
It is a selfish instinct, but fortunately Mateo says he feels the same.
We return to my apartment.
Mateo helps me pack. He’s even more quiet than before, and his language has devolved into what I want to put in my suitcase before the movers handle the rest.
It’s… Well, it’s not great, but I’ll take any version of Mateo over being without him.
