Here's to Us Read online

  I’m frozen in my tracks.

  I think I know the bride . . .

  Back when I met Arthur at the post office, that flash mob was actually a proposal for the teller who was helping me send my first ex, Hudson, a box of his things. It was too pricey, and this woman wasn’t sympathetic to me. But she’s glowing now with a black silk wrap around the shoulders of her simple white dress, smiling with a big lip ring.

  First Belvedere Castle and now this woman. It’s like the universe is flashing Arthur Seuss’s name in Broadway neon lights.

  I haven’t spoken to Arthur in months, but I have to tell him.

  I record a quick video of the bride walking toward the groom on my phone. Dylan and Samantha snuggle together as they watch. I open my chat with Arthur—the last text I got from him was on my birthday, April 7. I didn’t respond because, well . . . yeah. I didn’t have it in me then because everything was going so well for him with his new boyfriend, and I wasn’t trying to pretend my birthday was a happy one. I should’ve said something, though, because now I feel weird saying anything.

  It’s like we don’t know each other anymore.

  I go on Instagram, where I’ve had his profile muted for my own sanity. It hurt too much to go online and find pictures of Happy Arthur and Happy Mikey being Happy Arthur-and-Mikey. I needed to create some space for myself; life was stressful enough with school and feeling cramped at home and lonely without Dylan or a boyfriend of my own.

  Going to Arthur’s profile is like ripping off a Band-Aid.

  His blue eyes are piercing as ever in his circular profile picture. The most recent pictures on his feed include one of a box in his dorm room, then a Stacey Abrams quote (“No matter where we end up, we’ve grown from where we began”), a throwback of young Arthur with his mom, and Arthur and Mikey holding up a Playbill in their college’s theater—which sends blood rushing into my head. Then my chest tightens when I see a selfie of Arthur holding up the postcard of Central Park that I gave him when we said goodbye two summers ago; written on the back is a sexual scene between our The Wicked Wizard War characters, Ben-Jamin and King Arturo, for his eyes only.

  Why is he taking a picture with that?

  I read the post:

  Arthur Seuss’s upcoming tour stop—New York City! May 17

  He’s coming back.

  Tomorrow.

  He used a postcard from our past to announce his future.

  There’s a lot of love in the comments from Mikey and his best friend, Jessie, and his former colleague Namrata. I’m the only asshole in New York who hasn’t shown any excitement. I feel weird liking it now. Though what if this is the best first step to reconnecting? Knowing our luck, we’re bound to bump into each other at some point. The only time New York kept us apart was when I was here and he wasn’t.

  I like the post. And even though I’m standing still, my heart is racing like I’m running.

  Before I can leave a comment, Dylan snatches my phone. “Love is happening, Ben!”

  “We can’t even hear them—”

  “Feel the love, Ben, feel the love.”

  “I actually saw this proposal happen.”

  “Really?” Samantha asks.

  “The day I met Arthur. Remember that flash mob I told you about? It was all for these two.”

  During the chaos of that moment, I left. My breakup with Hudson was really fresh, and even though I had a fun debate about the universe with Arthur, I wasn’t expecting anything to come out of that. Not once did I think I was going to fall in love with the boy wearing a hot dog tie.

  “That’s some luck stumbling into their wedding,” Samantha says.

  More like the universe at work.

  “They’re so young,” I say. “What are they, early twenties?”

  “Engaged for two summers,” Samantha whispers, like she’s trying to hear the vows. “Must be real.”

  “My parents got married young,” Dylan says. “That all worked out.”

  “Your mother hates your father,” Samantha says.

  “She hates that he chews with his mouth open, never replaces the toilet paper roll, lies about his taxes, and wakes her up in the middle of the night to talk about his dreams before he forgets them. But she doesn’t hate him.”

  I know his parents—there’s a little hate going on there.

  I can’t believe I’m witnessing the Post Office Woman’s wedding. When they exchange their first kiss as married people, we cheer for them like they’re old friends, even though she was really rude to me. I never thought this would be the first wedding I’d attend. Maybe I can use this in a story one day.

  Then, suddenly, everything goes dark as hands cover my eyes, and a familiar voice says, “Guess who, Ben Hugo Alejo.”

  “Someone very super,” I say.

  Mario removes his hands. “Don’t you forget it.”

  I spin and take him in. This is one of those days where I’m kind of breathless at how effortlessly beautiful he is. He’s not just photogenic, he’s beautiful IRL, too. His hazel eyes are so pretty, even if they didn’t instantly catch my attention like Arthur’s blue eyes. But the closer Mario and I have gotten the past month, the more they strike me. Some attractions take more time to grow and aren’t any less great because of it.

  “The Mario to Ben’s Luigi,” Dylan says.

  “The Duke Dill to Ben’s Ben-Jamin,” Mario says, going straight in for a hug like he and Dylan already know each other. We’ve talked about how our Puerto Rican parents have raised us to be very affectionate, even with strangers, something we’re trying to be more mindful about out of respect for other people’s personal boundaries. Though these two seem magnetized to each other. Mario turns to Samantha. “And you, world-renowned book cover designer.”

  Samantha smiles. “That’s me.”

  Dylan stares. “Thank God you’re not blushing. But also, my love, how dare you? Look at this beautiful man. Blush for him! Don’t let this beauty go unblushed for.”

  Mario turns to me. “He’s everything you described him to be.”

  “I have a way with words.”

  “Indeed you do.”

  How can he make three words ignite me?

  I want to be so close to him right now. The kind of close that’s not allowed in a public park. Now all I can think about is how I didn’t even get a kiss from Mario when he arrived. Or a hug. It’s this little reminder that we’re not boyfriends where that stuff feels a lot more automatic. I want to be with someone who can’t keep his lips off me or whose hand always finds mine as if they were never supposed to be apart. But with Mario I can’t always tell if he even wants to be kissing me and holding my hand. Sometimes he points out cute guys on the street like he’s encouraging me to go for it. Like it wouldn’t bother him. I would totally be uncomfortable if he flirted with someone else in front of me.

  Then there are the times where the energy shifts between us. These moments where we can forget that we don’t need to be boyfriends to enjoy each other.

  “What’s up with the wedding?” Mario asks. “Friends of yours?”

  “A friend of Ben’s,” Dylan says.

  “Really?”

  “Long story,” I say.

  “Tell me later?”

  “Tell you later.”

  “Estupendo.” Mario claps. “I brought presents. But none for the bride and groom.” He reaches into his backpack and pulls out two The Wicked Wizard War shirts.

  Samantha’s jaw drops. “You’re the best!” She puts the shirt on over her own.

  “I had to get you one so you don’t sue me.” Mario turns to Dylan. “And I didn’t want you to think I wasn’t thinking of you.” He winks, but it’s kind of awkward. It’s more like he has something in his eye. And somehow it charms me even more than a perfect wink.

  Dylan puts on his shirt. “Oh my God, I’m blushing. Look!” His cheeks are red as he breaks into a laugh. “Mario, there’s something really incredible about someone who looks like you making clothe
s when you should be naked every day.”

  “Now you’re trying to make me blush!” Mario says.

  “Oh boy,” Samantha says. “I think we’ve lost them, Ben.”

  “Think so.”

  Mario pulls out his phone. “I got to get a picture of you three in your shirts.”

  “Only if you’re in it with us,” Dylan says.

  “Yes!” Samantha says.

  “You got it,” Mario says.

  I wrap my arm around his side as Dylan and Samantha cuddle up with us. I really like holding him, and even after he takes the selfie, I hang on to Mario for a little bit longer. We all look at the picture together and the sunlight is working in everyone’s favor like the world’s most generous filter.

  Everyone looks so happy, and I hope this is the first of many documented memories this summer. And maybe the more I share my world with him, the more he’ll want to be part of mine and let me into his.

  This is every relationship. You start with nothing and maybe end with everything.

  Chapter Two

  Arthur

  Saturday, May 16

  My clothes are on the floor, and Mikey’s in my bed. Well, he’s on my bed. He’s propped against my pillow pile, wearing flannel pajama pants and his glasses and nothing on top, with a full face of finals-week stubble. Not that I’m complaining. Scruffy Mikey is my favorite Mikey.

  Still, he’s a beacon of order and symmetry, and you can tell at a glance which of my boxes he’s packed. They’re the ones lined up evenly against the foot of my bed, filled with neat piles of towels and sheets, each one labeled in Sharpie. Arthur linens. Arthur textbooks. Right now, he’s taking down my photographs, lumping all my blue poster putty into one egg-sized mega-wad.

  I plop down beside him. “You know what this looks like?”

  “Poster putty?”

  “Let me give him an eye hole.” I poke my finger into the putty and look back at him expectantly.

  “Poster putty with an eye hole?”

  “Mikey! It’s the blob guy from Monsters vs. Aliens!”

  “Ah.” He globs another little wad of putty onto its head, like a toupee.

  “Yeah, now he looks like Trump.” I quickly flatten him into a pancake and toss him onto my nightstand. “Much better.”

  “Such activism,” says Mikey.

  “Hush.” I lean in to kiss him. “Guess what.”

  “What?”

  “I’m bored.”

  “Thanks a lot,” he says.

  “Of packing.” I push his bangs off his face and kiss him again.

  “You know, we’re never going to finish if you keep doing that.”

  I just smile, because Mikey’s so thoroughly Mikey. He still gets flustered when I kiss him. Sometimes he’ll clear his throat and say, Well then. Or he’ll check the time or ask whether the door’s locked, and for weeks I thought that meant he was looking for excuses not to kiss me. But now I get it. Mikey’s one of those people who gets what he wants and then panics.

  I rest my head on his shoulder and survey the room: piles of books, scattered papers. All my big hoarder energy. Mikey, of course, packed up his entire room four hours ago.

  “Thanks for being here,” I murmur.

  If he wanted to, he could be in Boston already. But we both know there was never a universe where Mikey didn’t stick around to rescue me.

  I roll up a yellow-striped polo shirt I stole from a box of my dad’s high school heirlooms and shove it into my New York bag—a giant camp duffel bag, already bulging with shirts, jeans, and books. Dragging everything onto the train tomorrow is going to be An Experience, but at this point I’m just hoping I actually make it to New York. Which won’t happen until I clear my thirty metric tons of shit out of this dorm room.

  I nudge a cardboard box aside with my foot, hands in my hair. “What am I forgetting? Chargers, shirts, jeans—”

  “Underwear?” Mikey says.

  “Underwear.”

  “Work clothes? Suit and tie?”

  “Suit and tie? So I can look like Chad from corporate?” I shake my head. “Michael McCowan, this is queer off-Broadway theater! I’ll be laughed off the stage.”

  “Off the stage?” Mikey squints. “You’re an intern to an assistant.”

  “Intern to the director’s assistant. Do you even know how many people interviewed for this job?”

  “Sixty-four.”

  “Exactly. Sixty-four,” I say, feeling just a little sheepish. So maybe I’ve talked Mikey’s ear off about my internship once or twice or possibly a few hundred times. But can you blame me? It’s my ultimate top-tier pie-in-the-sky dream job. I don’t think I’ve even fully processed it yet. Starting in less than a week, I’ll be working for Jacob freaking Demsky, Lambda Award–winning playwright and two-time New York Innovative Theatre Award–winning director. How could I not jump for joy, at least a little?

  I was kind of hoping Mikey would do a little joy jumping, too. Or just, you know, try not to look like Eeyore whenever I mention it.

  I mean, I get it. Of course I get it. We had our whole summer mapped out perfectly: living in Boston, staying in Mikey’s sister’s guest room, working at a day camp. Not exactly a résumé game changer, but I wasn’t in it for my résumé. I was in it for Emack & Bolio’s ice cream, Union Square Donuts, and day trips to Salem and Cape Cod on the weekends. I was in it for Mikey.

  But then Jacob Demsky announced his internship, and I couldn’t get it out of my head.

  Yeah, the stipend was less than half of what I’d be making as a camp counselor. But I could always save money living in Uncle Milton’s apartment. Missing that time with Mikey would suck, but it’s not like I’d be moving to the moon. And it was just for the summer. Also, there was no point even worrying about the logistics, because Jacob was never going to pick me. Every queer Broadway nerd in the country would be vying for this, and some of them probably had more impressive theater credits than Beauregard and Belvedere in Ethan’s basement.

  Still. I poured every bit of my heart into that email and pressed send.

  Then I mostly tried to put the whole thing out of my mind. I focused on Boston and Mikey and frantically teaching myself how to make yarn looms, because, wow, I was not born with camp-counselor skills. But I was going to be a camp counselor. In Boston. Because Boston was real, and New York was a pointless secret email sent into the abyss.

  Until two weeks ago.

  I’ll never forget the way Mikey froze when I told him I’d been offered a Zoom interview.

  I study him now for a moment. Mikey Phillip McCowan, my pale-shouldered nervous wreck of a boyfriend. He’s sitting with his knees tucked up, hugging them, not looking at me.

  “Mikey Mouse,” I say quickly. “Put on ‘Don’t Lose Ur Head.’”

  If any album can pull a smile out of Mikey, it’s the original cast recording of Six.

  He grabs my phone off the charger, tapping in my password to unlock it. But then his face sort of . . . stalls out. He stares wordlessly at my phone screen.

  He’s definitely not smiling.

  My heart kicks into high gear. “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah. Yes.” He taps the screen a few times, and Anne Boleyn’s voice jumps to my wireless speaker. Normally Mikey sings along under his breath, but now his mouth’s a sullen straight line.

  It’s like the air pressure changed.

  I run my hand down the edge of one of the cardboard boxes marked for storage at my bubbe’s house. “I should probably bring this down to the car.”

  “What if you just . . . don’t go?”

  “To the car?”

  “To New York.”

  I stare at him, and he stares back through his glasses, his eyes plainly serious.

  “Mikey.” I shake my head. “I have a job—”

  “You had one in Boston, too,” he says softly.

  My stomach twists. “I should have told you sooner. Mikey, I’m so—”

  “Stop. You don’t have to
apologize again.” He shakes his head, cheeks flushed. “I’m just not ready for tomorrow.”

  “Me either.” I sink onto the bed beside him.

  “I wish you were still coming to Boston.”

  The song switches—“Heart of Stone.” I take Mikey’s hand, lacing my fingers through his. “Well, luckily it’s just two months.”

  “Ten weeks.”

  “Fine, ten weeks. But it’ll go by so fast, I promise. We won’t even have time to miss each other.”

  He smiles sadly. “I kind of miss you already.”

  I look up at him, so startled I lose my breath for a second. I kind of miss you already.

  I mean, I know Mikey’s into me. I’ve never doubted that. But he’s not usually quite so direct about it.

  “Me too. But at least I get you back in two weeks.” I nudge him sideways. “And I’m taking you to every single one of my favorite places. Central Park, Times Square, Levain Bakery, you name it.”

  Mikey’s brow furrows.

  I narrow my eyes. “What?”

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  “You made an eyebrow face.”

  Mikey disentangles our hands. “It’s just . . .” He pauses, rubbing the back of his neck. “Did you go to those places with Ben?”

  “Oh. Well, yeah.” I feel suddenly flustered. “But that was two years ago. Ben and I haven’t even talked in ages. Since February.”

  Mikey shrugs like he doesn’t quite believe me.

  But it’s true. It’s been months since Ben and I have talked or even texted. I even tried FaceTiming him on his birthday in April, but he didn’t pick up. He didn’t even return the text I sent later.

  Mikey’s looking at me now with his basset-hound eyes. “Are you going to see him?”

  “You mean Ben?”

  “You’ll be in the same city.”

  “Mikey, seriously. I haven’t talked to him since February. He doesn’t even know I’m coming.”

  “I think he knows.”

  There’s something about the way Mikey says it.

  “What do you mean?”

  The song switches again. “I Don’t Need Your Love.” I swear I can hear Mikey’s heartbeat change tempo. He leans sideways, gropes around for my phone, and passes it to me. The Instagram notification pops up the moment I tap the screen.