I pat him dry, since Florian likes to be clean. His cock is softer now, and I scramble up when he is dry. I don’t want him to wake up at night embarrassed and scrubbing his stomach as I so could imagine him doing.
I open his chest of drawers since I know his bedroom, and I find him underwear and fresh pajamas. He is quiet and staring at me, and I move as quickly as I can. I am sure he wants to be alone. I am sure he doesn’t want me to be in his apartment anymore. I hand him his new briefs, and he blinks again, then thanks me in that solemn way of his, as if I’ve handed him a million dollars.
Though Florian makes multiple millions of dollars each year, so no doubt that wouldn’t count as life changing.
I help him into his flannel plaid pajama pants, the kind he will probably wear in his seventies, when he has some man beside him who deserves to be there, someone tall and impressive and rich, who can fly him to the most incredible places in the world, because Florian deserves to be around beauty. I then start to slide his matching flannel plaid pajama top on, and he chuckles and slides it on himself.
Right.
Florian knows how to put on pajamas.
“Sorry.” I step back, nearly colliding against the wall. “Sorry.”
He stares at me, and my heartbeat quickens, like a watch being wound faster and faster against its will.
Finally, he nods. “Thank you, Mateo.”
I nod back. “You’re, uh, welcome.”
The air is tense and awkward.
“I should go.”
“Very well.”
I blink multiple times.
Why do I feel sad? I shouldn’t feel sad.
But my heart is doing crazy things. I want to burrow against Florian’s broad chest. I want to feel his long muscular arms around me. I want him to tell me everything is wonderful and to whisper all his perfect boyfriend words.
He used to do that. But that was before he knew I was a man who pretended to be his boyfriend andwho was responsible for him outing himself, even though I know professional sports well enough to know that is not the primary goal of deeply closeted professional athletes who have been careful enough in life to remain virgins at age twenty-four despite their overwhelming handsomeness and sweetness.
“I’ll see you tomorrow. If you’re going to the arena tomorrow?”
Florian shakes his head. “I have a doctor’s appointment.”
“Oh.” I brighten. “That’s good! Because of your memory!”
He flinches, then nods. “I was lucky to get an appointment for tomorrow. If it goes well, I can begin the six-week countdown clock to play again.”
“Excellent!” I nod multiple times.
It occurs to me that it will be very, very awkward when he goes to the massage room for normal massages. He will always wonder how unprofessional I am.
Since he is out, will he start to date Boston’s magnificent gay men? The ones who don’t want to date me, but who would be beyond themselves with excitement to date him?
No. Not yet.
Right now, I am fake dating Florian.
But at some point, he won’t need me even for that.
At some point he will realize it is not embarrassing to say he doesn’t love me and that he doesn’t want to be with me.
At some point he will wonder why he thought it was embarrassing in the first place.
“I’ll—” I bite my lip. I won’t tell him I’ll miss him. That would be ridiculous. “I’ll see you later.”
