Right.
Was I supposed to leave the room and leave them by themselves? So they can continue to do their rapid-fire chatter?
Do they know Florian has amnesia? Did someone tell them on their way in?
But they look far too happy. But then Florian would remember them. He just doesn’t rememberhis US life.
Even if for some strange reason Florian had not run away when he saw me, if he’d stayed for the massage, if he’d asked me out on a date instead, and told me that he wanted to discover Boston with me, that there was no one else he wanted to be by his side, even then, Florian would have forgotten me.
There is no scenario in which Florian remembers me.
Not after what that New York player did to him.
My hands tighten, and I feel another spurt of rage that Florian was hit.
Amnesia. He has a serious head injury.
And though the doctor seems confident that he’ll remember everything eventually, he wasn’t absolutely certain, because those aren’t the type of things that people normally come into the hospital for.
A hospital is a place for injuries and illness, but even the doctor, in all his expertise, after all his courses in hallowed institutions—and yes, I know which ones, because I know precisely how particular Bostonians are about the acquisition of Latin phrases after their names, the kind that is abbreviated as A.B. instead of B.A., because that is cooler, and that is the Latin way, and even though the Roman Empire collapsed 1500 years ago, it is still going strong on New England registrars.
I hope he’ll be okay.
I hope it so much.
Florian asked me before his family arrived whether they knew, and it must have been about us. He knows there is a reason for us not to be together, even in his foggy, damaged mind.
A part of him knows.
Because we are not.
“I work for the Blizzards,” I explain.
Florian frowns.
“We at the Blizzards are very happy to see that he is awake,” I say, imparting my best formality, even though I’ve never been to a board meeting in my life.
“Oh.” His mother blinks. “Thank you for checking on him.”
She turns back to Florian, obviously correctly deducing that I am of little relevance to her happiness, merely a man who should have slipped out of a hospital room two minutes ago, a faux-pas that is inconvenient, but unworthy of remark.
I stand, my cheeks hot.
Florian’s face darkens.
“It was nice meeting you all,” I say, backing away, even though technically speaking I don’t know if I’m addressing Florian’s sister or his maybe girlfriend.
“Mateo,” Florian says.
“Uh-huh?”
“Come here.”
I approach him. Of course I do. Even if my body is warm and prickly, and I feel three pairs of eyes scrutinize me. Are they tracking my eyeliner? The blush? The laminated brows and the hair that I carefully pomade each morning?
I’m not un-strong, a massage therapist needs to be strong to be helpful, but I’m shorter than the other players, and shorter, I realize, than everyone in this room.
Florian reaches for my hand.
