“Ah, impressing the Germans with your timeliness.” Papa shoots me a glance. “Excellent boyfriend.”
“I know.” My voice goes up in a manner that doesn’t exactly say twenty-four-year-old professional athlete well out of puberty. I hurry toward Mateo.
His throat tightens like he’s nervous.
Maybe he regrets that last night I was completely nakedand he was doing exceedingly intimate things to me. Maybe he’ll think I expect those things all the time, that I won’t take it as the incredible gift it was.
I stop in front of him. “Hi, Mateo.”
“Hi, Florian.” His voice is hoarse, and I remember that I never asked him about the pharmacy.
What kind of fake boyfriend am I? That was completely on my list of things to ask him about yesterday, and then I get distracted by my memory returning.
“Hi, everyone,” Mateo says, turning to my family.
His voice trembles.
He seems nervous, which is all wrong. I want to take his hand in mine, but maybe that’s exactly what he does not want. All I want to do is to see him happy.
“Let’s go inside,” I say.
The restaurant is as nice as it was when Mateo and I were here last time, even though I feel silly for thinking that it was the place where we had our first date.
I glance at Mateo. Maybe he felt silly inventing meals of what we ate together.
It occurs to me that if we were actually dating, that restaurant would still be the place of our first date.
But that’s not correct, because Mateo and I are not dating. I am not that person to Mateo.
I give my name to the host, then we’re ushered to a large table. This time I don’t sit across from Mateo, wondering at the beauty of his skin and cheekbones as they flicker under the golden candlelight. This time I sit right beside him, and his salty scent, a testament to his day of physical labor untangling the knots and pains of athletes pretending they’re not in pain, wafts around me.
I want to pull him firmly against me, but that is something for real boyfriends, not fake ones.
The waiter brings tables for Annika and Mama’s purses, and they look suitablyimpressed.
“Thank you for coming,” I tell Mateo when the others are busy looking at the menu.
“It was nothing!” Mateo says too quickly in a manner that says maybe it was something after all.
“You are very kind,” I tell him, and his shoulders relax somewhat.
Mateo gives everyone massages, but who is supposed to massage him?
“How was the doctor?” he asks.
“I am cleared to play in six weeks if I continue to progress.”
“I’m so happy for you,” Mateo says.
He shifts his attention to the menu. I’m pretty sure that he’s eyeing the price list, which is ridiculous. I am here to pay.
I lean in close to him. “Order whatever you want.”
“But—”
“You liked the oyster appetizer last time,” I say. “Shall we get that again?”
He glances around, probably to make sure that my family is sufficiently engaged in the food selection process of the evening. “I, uh, might have been over the top with my choices. Oysters are romantic.”
