Florian is woozy. He’s acting like he just finished chugging a keg.
It is upsettingly endearing. It makes things happen to my heart that I don’t want to examine.
This is all pretend. At some point he’ll remember that we are absolutely not together and that he never had a desire to be with me.
But heisgay.
I had no idea.
The nurse pushes Florian through the hospital. I walk beside him, since apparently he wants to make sure that I am always there. He doesn’t know I’m someone he used to avoid at the Blizzards arena, that when we ran into the hallway, his face would go red, and he would head into whatever the nearest room was immediately: the locker room; the gym; the coach’s office; the doctor’s office. Anywhere where I wasn’t was the place he immediately wanted to be.
At some point he will realize this, and he will hate me.
I will explain… and I hope he will forgive me.
But for now, I want to be the best fake boyfriend to amnesiac Florian I can be. I want to do everything I can to make him calm, to help him heal, to help him never think that I wouldn’t possibly know I was incredibly lucky if this were real.
We hurry through the hospital. His family drags suitcases behind them.
I was only supposed to check on Florian.
That was it.
I certainly didn’t plan on… this.
But it’s fine.
Daniela, who works for the Blizzards, sent Florian’s address and apartment number to me. I already have his keys and phone—two things Daniela thought he might want when he wakes up.
Florian’s family will come with me to Florian’s place, and I’ll do my best to pretend I’ve totally been there before.
The nurse stops Florian at the large glass doors, and I help Florian out of the wheelchair.
For someone who didn’t tell his parents he was gay and never introduced them to a significant other, Florian is very affectionate.
He takes my hand as we exit the hospital, and I hate that my heart does a funny little jump like this means something. Our hands remain joined when yellow bursts around us.
Paparazzi surround us. They point cameras at us.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I start to slide my hand from Florian’s, but he only grips it harder.
Of course there are paparazzi.
Why didn’t I consider that?
But then I’m not a celebrity.
Florian is.
If Florian were dating someone, it wouldn’t be his team’smassage therapist he met at work. He would date someone special. Someone who would think about paparazzi beforehand.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him.
“Florian! How are your injuries?” one person shouts.
“Okay,” Florian says.
