“I-I love you too.”
I grin and then walk around to my side of the bed. I slide under the covers and turn out the light.
Tomorrow I will ask Mateo to tell me the story of how we met. I want to know everything: the place, the words, the moment he knew. I want to remember.
I cannot wait for tomorrow.
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
Mateo
I visit Florian straight after work. He’s grinning, which means he probably hasn’t remembered everything.
“We’re going to the pool,” he announces, picking up a straw tote bag.
“Okay.”
We take the elevator up to the top of the building. I’m curious to see the pool. This building is fancy. A pool is an excess in Boston where so much of the time the city is buried in feet of snow and ice. It is a good day when Bostonians can venture out of their townhouses and triple-deckers and apartment buildings without being completely soaked and having their hair be destroyed.
It’s early October, and no one is in the pool. Some people are barbecuing, and a couple is in the hot tub. I glance around eagerly. It is beautiful. There is no roof deck on the top of my triple-decker in Somerville.
Trees are potted around the roof deck. Beyond is the Boston Harbor in all its glory. Tour boats float in the waterbelow, and tourists walk around the harbor, tiny from our viewpoint on the fifteenth floor.
But I like it.
“It’s pretty,” I say. “This was a good idea.”
Florian looks around. His hopeful look droops, and I hate it. I hate that he is trying to find memories here. I hate that I am responsible for making him think we were here in the past.
Perhaps this is Florian’s first time on the rooftop.
“It’s beautiful,” I say.
“Yes,” Florian says, but he looks around absentmindedly.
Then his eyes dart open, and he grins. He’s looking at an electrical outlet which is… weird.
The conversation with Gina returns to me.
No.
He wouldn’t.
But, of course, he would. Florian thinks we used to do this all the time. Florian removes some speakers from his bag and plugs them in. He does something on his phone, then Frank Sinatra starts playing.
A few people outside give us curious glances. Probably most people our age do not put on Frank Sinatra. That’s fine. Florian is romantic.
Then Florian bows.
“We don’t have to do this,” I say. “It’s fine.”
He gives me a solemn look. “It will be nice. Like old times.”
In the next moment, he takes my arm then twirls me around. I gasp.
Florian grins.
