He nods, and I hate that I made him feel uncertain.
“It will probably take a few days, the doctor said.”
He smiles. “And then I will remember you!”
“Uh-huh.” I try to nod, but my heart is sinking to the glossy marble floor.
Florian lives in Seaport, like most of his teammates. I told him about Seaport when we first met—well, the time we had any sort of conversation, since after that, encounters between us seemed to involve him giving me awkward waves and then rushing away from me as fast as he could, as if my presence was some part of his fitness protocol.
“What are you thinking?” Florian asks.
I hesitate. I won’t tell him that he’s going to hate me when he remembers, and that I’m pondering precisely how much hatred he will feel.
“I told you about Seaport when we first met,” I say instead. “I was wondering if that impacted your decision to move here.”
He shrugs. “It probably did.”
My eyes dart this way and that. Where is the elevator? If I’m supposed to be Florian’s boyfriend, I must have been here before.
Thankfully, I find it, and I lead him and his family there.
His family’s footsteps sound behind us.
The elevator is on the small side, at least for five people, four of them giants, and three suitcases. I squeeze beside Florian, and he pulls me in front of him, draping his arms over me, so my back is against his chest.
My heart does its racing thing again as if this is real.
I’m relieved when the elevator stops, and it’s time for us to exit.
The hallway looks absolutely nothing like the third story walk up in Somerville that I share with my sister, the one that is not on the T, so I need to take a bus whenever I want to go to Boston. That place has painted floorboards to hide the poor floors, and the style is shabby and not the least bit chic.
It’s fine. I love Boston. And Somerville is cool too.
But this is a different way to live. This is the way to live if you’re a top NHL player, where you help fill arenas.
Florian and I are still holding hands which is pleasant. It feels right, even though it shouldn’t. His thumb moves over my hand, as if he wants to remind me of his presence.
He doesn’t have to worry.
I open the door with the key that the arena gave me from his locker, then we’re inside.
“Welcome back,” I say.
Florian steps into the apartment. He looks around slowly at furniture he doesn’t remember buying and a life he doesn’t remember having.
“It’s nice,” Florian says finally, like a guest complimenting a stranger’s home.
His sister catches my eye, and I look away quickly, hoping she can’t tell that my nerves are zinging this way and that, and it’s all I can do to stay upright.
CHAPTER
NINE
Florian
Gray light floods the modern apartment with its shiny gray stone countertops and matching gray stone floor. A gray sofa sits beside floor-to-ceiling windows that reveal a skyline of matching gray buildings.
“Wunderbar!” My mother claps her hands together.
