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  @ben-jamin liked your photo.

  It’s the first time Ben’s liked one of my photos in months.

  My heart leaps into my throat. I’ve been trying not to let the Instagram thing bother me. It’s normal for people to drift, right? Especially when it’s your ex-boyfriend.

  I just didn’t think it would happen to us. To Ben and me. I kind of thought we were indestructible.

  And in the beginning, we were.

  I’ll never forget that first week back home after leaving New York. Ben and I talked every single night until our phone batteries died. And for the rest of senior year, we never went more than a day without texting. I used to walk around the house on FaceTime so often, my parents started shouting, “Hi, Ben,” whenever they saw my phone. Then sometimes Diego and Isabel would shout back, and the four of them would be off and running with some side conversation. Ben and I complained about it constantly, but I think we both secretly loved that our parents were lowkey obsessed with each other.

  I mean, I liked to think Ben and I were lowkey obsessed with each other, too.

  And I thought college would be the same. Or better. Definitely better, because at least I wouldn’t have to deal with my mom’s knowing looks every time I stepped out of my bedroom. For the record, that’s a barrel of laughs: trying not to be in love with your ex-boyfriend when he rants adorably about story structure over FaceTime and having your parents see right through every single denial. All the boyfriend-related parental teasing without the actual boyfriend.

  So. Privacy was good. And Wesleyan’s proximity to New York was even better. Just over three hours by train—two if I left my car at Bubbe’s house and took the train from New Haven. It’s not that I expected our relationship to pick right up where we left off—not necessarily. But Ben seemed really happy I was moving closer. He brought it up constantly for months.

  Of course, once I was actually in Connecticut, things got weird really fast.

  We still talked all the time, and Ben was always saying he missed me. Or I’d wake up to rambling remember when texts. But when I mentioned train schedules, he’d change the subject so fast it made my head spin.

  Once he sent me a screenshot of my own Instagram selfie, followed by a single heart-eye emoji. Which led to two hours on FaceTime with Ethan and Jessie, trying to pinpoint the most casual-yet-effective way to say, Um, I think you’re joke-flirting, but in case you’re also real-flirting, might I remind you that I have a single dorm room.

  It was bewildering and infuriating, and I was a Ben-addled mess all over again. I thought about blocking his number. I thought about showing up on his doorstep. I was surrounded by cute boys with loud opinions who liked kissing, so I tried that. But I always ended up alone in my dorm room, poring over Ben’s texts.

  Until Mikey.

  @ben-jamin liked your photo.

  I can’t stop staring at the notification. Of course, it doesn’t say which photo he liked. Could have been my packing-day post, sure. But it could have also been the Stacey Abrams quote graphic I reposted last night, or Sunday’s throwback photo for Mother’s Day, or anything, really. I want to click into the app so badly my fingers are twitching, but I can’t do that in front of Mikey.

  That little heart icon.

  I wish I knew what it meant.

  Probably nothing. Maybe his finger slipped while scrolling. Maybe he doesn’t even know he liked it. I wonder if he’ll unlike it as soon as he realizes. I don’t know if that would make the notification go away or if I’ll get a new notification or—

  I realize with a start that Mikey just spoke. And I didn’t hear a word of it.

  “Wait, sorry.” I swallow guiltily. “What did you say?”

  Mikey looks at me. “I said if you want to see him, you should see him.”

  “Mikey, I haven’t even talked to him since—”

  “February. I know.” He’s blinking a lot. “You said that. A few times.”

  I blush. “Well, it’s true.”

  February 12th, to be exact.

  And I hate it. I hate how far I have to scroll to find Ben’s texts. I hate not knowing if he finished his last TWWW revision, or whether his parents followed through and made him get a job like they threatened. I hate not knowing what he had for breakfast this morning.

  I hate that it’s my fault. I’m the one who made it weird. I guess it started when Mikey and I got back together, on New Year’s. But I can’t blame Mikey—it’s not like he asked me not to be friends with Ben. He just always got kind of prickly and distant when Ben’s name came up.

  So I stopped bringing his name up.

  And I guess that made Ben feel like a thing I was hiding.

  “Mikey, Ben liking one Instagram post doesn’t mean we’re suddenly best friends again,” I say, aiming for the space between casual and jovial. But even I can hear the defensive edge in my voice.

  I glance sideways, and Mikey’s doing this tic he has sometimes, where he pinches the bridge of his nose behind his glasses. He used to do it a lot first semester. I don’t think it even hit me until now that he’d stopped. He shuts his eyes for a moment. “Can I be really honest with you?”

  “Of course.” I scoot an inch closer.

  The music’s stopped, and the silence feels boundless and thick. When Mikey speaks at last, his voice is flat. “I know you haven’t talked to him. And even if you did, I trust you, Arthur. You’d never cheat. I know that. I’m just scared.”

  I press my thigh against his. “Of what?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I feel a little threatened by him. He was your first love. Your big Broadway love story.”

  “Two years ago. And I haven’t seen him since then. You know that.”

  He nods quickly. “It’s just, what happens when you do see him again?”

  “But why would I? I don’t even think he thinks we’re friends at this point.”

  Mikey looks at me strangely. “Do you think you’re friends?”

  My cheeks go warm. “I mean, we were? I don’t know. He’s my ex. We dated for a few weeks, a million years ago. But I’m with you now. And, Mikey, I really, really like you. I really like us.”

  And I do. I really like him. I like Mikey’s face and his voice and his weird nerdy brain, and there are times when I find him so endearing I almost can’t stand it. And we’re so good together. We barely fight. Yeah, he’s been a little moody about New York, but I know we’ll work through that. We always work through stuff. Because we’re mature grown-ups in a mature grown-up relationship, and everything’s good and chill and solid. And I’m happy.

  “I like us, too,” Mikey says.

  I take his hand again and squeeze it.

  Here’s the thing. Ben was my big Broadway love story. But I was sixteen. That’s just what falling in love at sixteen feels like. Just because it’s different now doesn’t make it less real.

  I study Mikey’s face for a moment. “Okay, I want to show you something. I was going to wait to surprise you in New York, but . . .”

  I stand, stretch, and quickly tug my shirt down, winning a fleeting smile from Mikey. My messenger bag’s propped against the edge of my bookcase, packed and ready. I grab it and bring it back to the bed, unzipping the smaller front pouch.

  Mikey watches me curiously.

  “Wait for it . . .” I root around until I find a short stack of paper, folded in thirds. Then I pass it straight to Mikey, who hesitates. I nudge him. “Open it.”

  He does, and then pulls the papers closer to read, his eyes going huge behind his glasses. “Wait, for real?”

  “Two weeks from tomorrow. It’s the matinee. But the seats are terrible, just so you know.”

  Mikey stares at me, dumbfounded. “We’re seeing Six?”

  “We’re seeing Six!”

  “Arthur, that’s—it’s too expensive. You didn’t have to do that.”

  “I wanted to say sorry for ruining our summer—”

  “You didn’t ruin it.”

  “I did.” I lean my head on his shoulder. “And I wanted to do something special, you know? For us.”

  “Arthur.” His voice sounds choked.

  “And it wasn’t expensive,” I say quickly, lifting my head to meet his eyes. “I mean, it was, but I get a discount. Internship perk.”

  “Why don’t they skip the discount and raise your stipend?”

  “Doesn’t work like that.” I kiss his cheek. “Sorry, you’re just going to have to suck it up and see the best show on Broadway with me. And you know what?”

  His lips tug up. “What?”

  “You were right. I do need a tie. Chad from corporate is going to Broadway.” I stand again, scanning the room. “Now I just have to figure out where I packed them.”

  “Cardboard box by your desk. Label says Arthur: Fancy.”

  My hands fly to my heart. “You made me a fancy box?”

  “I did.” He looks at me for a moment, smiling faintly. Then he stands, grabbing his shirt off the floor. “Okay, how about you finish up? I’ll go drop off my key and grab us some food on the way back?”

  “Mikey Mouse, you’re my hero.” Even after he leaves, I can’t help but smile at the door.

  But a moment later, I reach for my phone.

  @ben-jamin liked your photo.

  Apparently my heart’s going for a jailbreak from my rib cage. Over an Instagram notification. It’s the most ridiculous thing.

  But I tap the notification, and moments later, I’m staring at my official New York announcement post from last week. It’s a selfie where I’m holding a postcard of Central Park, the one Ben gave me the last time we saw each other in person. There’s even a handwritten Ben-Jamin and Arturo scene on the back. But of course, the only person who would possibly recognize the postcard ig
nored the post entirely, like he always does.

  Liked by @ben-jamin and others.

  Until now. The day before I leave for New York.

  Chapter Three

  Ben

  Sunday, May 17

  The best thing about Pa being my boss is that now I get paid when he tells me what to do.

  I’ve been able to put my Duane Reade checks toward what I hope will be my next job—mega-best-selling author of The Wicked Wizard War—by buying a writing program to help me keep all my world-building thoughts organized, and purchasing the domain name for the series website. I’m dreaming big here, but Mario has been an excellent hype-man, saying that my series could be the next big thing. It would be epic to have a franchise of movies, and I can write spin-off comics and play video games set in my world. And of course Pa and Ma won’t have to work anymore if they don’t want to, even though I’d love to boss Pa around at my eventual amusement park.

  But until then, Pa hands me a basket of pregnancy tests and condoms. “Here’s some more for this aisle.”

  “Shouldn’t condoms go elsewhere? Let’s create a Not-Family Planning section.”

  “By all means, go for it. I’m sure corporate wants all their floor plans restructured by their new manager’s nineteen-year-old son.”

  “Nepotism for the win.”

  I still can’t believe my first official job is working for Pa. I thought it would be something like unboxing shipments at a bookstore. But when Pa told me they were hiring, I applied because I was positive all I’d have to do was stock shelves while listening to music. Nope. It’s a lot of memorizing where different items are in the store as quickly as possible because customers hate it when you can’t spit out the answer at Google-search speeds. And it turns out that working the cash register stresses me out. One time I didn’t give a customer his correct change, and he asked to speak with my boss. I stupidly called my father Pa in front of the customer, who snapped at Pa for not doing a better job at teaching me how to count. I blushed and Pa bit his tongue, and we were both upset for the rest of the shift.

  It’s pretty clear why I prefer unboxing things in the back room when given the chance. No customers plus bonus time to think about my worlds—real and imaginary.

  I pull out my phone.

  “No phone while working,” Pa says.

  “I’m just checking the time. Lo siento.”

  “Está bien. You meeting with that boy later?”

  He’s talking about Mario. “Just Dylan,” I say.

  “It’s never ‘just’ Dylan, even when it’s just Dylan. He’s a lot.”

  Pa approves of Dylan way more than he does Mario. He thinks I deserve more commitment, but Mario and I have only been playing around in a romantic space for a little over a month. There’s still so much Mario and I haven’t talked about. Like his own history with past boyfriends or whether he’s even looking for a new relationship. I’m not a fan of Pa judging Mario for not being my official boyfriend.

  Pa taps my shoulder. “If I offer you a penny for your thoughts in Spanish, will you understand that yet?”

  “No,” I say.

  “Was that an English ‘no’ or Spanish ‘no’?”

  I stare at the condom boxes some more.

  Pa snaps his fingers. “Benito, talk to me.”

  “We’re at work.”

  “I’m your father before I’m your boss. Except when you want to leave early or need an unscheduled day off.”

  He doesn’t understand that this is one of the problems. He’s my father and my boss. He might want to have a conversation right now, but I’m pretty burned-out and need to breathe. Everything would’ve been so different if my family had money like Dylan’s so I could’ve gone away for school. I’m not airing out any of this to Pa while we’re wearing our blue Duane Reade vests. Or even at home. I need my space.

  “I’m okay,” I say.

  Pa sighs. “If you say so. Wrap it up with the wrap-it-ups and you can clock out early.”

  “Thanks.”

  Pa does his exaggerated cough to get me to speak in Spanish. He’s been pushing for more out of me ever since I turned Mario into my personal Duolingo. That’s the other reason Pa gets weird about Mario, though he’d never admit it. He had the chance to teach me himself. Now I’m turning to someone else.

  “No one needs Spanish lessons to say gracias.”

  “Every little bit counts.”

  “Gracias, Pa.”

  He squeezes my shoulder. “Ese es mi hijo.” Static rasps from his walkie-talkie before Alfredo’s voice asks for Pa for assistance at the cash register. “Don’t forget to say bye before you leave.”

  “Don’t you mean adiós?”

  Pa bows slightly in gratitude and heads to the front of the store.

  I have this instinct to apologize for closing myself off, but I shouldn’t have to. I should get some time to figure out my feelings in peace.

  I shelve the condom boxes, thinking about another consequence of still living with my parents. Last month Pa was doing laundry and found a condom sleeve in my jeans pocket. It led to this big conversation where he asked if I was sexually active or not. He was shocked when I told him that I’d had sex with Hudson, Arthur, and Mario. Pa got really fidgety because I don’t think any of the articles he read about how to talk to his son about sex could’ve prepared him for what to say when you find out your nineteen-year-old son has had sex with more people than you. All he could really say was how he was relieved condoms were always involved, and that he would tell Ma for me if I wanted. I didn’t mind her knowing, but I still couldn’t look either of them in the eye for the rest of the night.

  I’m about to turn my attention away from the condoms and to the pregnancy tests when I hear my best friend.

  “Aha! I should’ve known I’d find you here,” Dylan says.

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because you must be stocking up for more sex marathons with your boyfriend.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend.” And right as Dylan opens his mouth, I add, “And we don’t have sex marathons.”

  “How are you not bumping butts with that perfect creation every chance you get? I told Samantha that I bet Mario was created in a lab by some horny Dr. Frankenstein, and she did not disagree.” Dylan lets out a low whistle.

  “Yes, he’s beautiful,” I say while stacking more pregnancy tests, which unlike the condoms did need restocking; the math here speaks for itself.

  “Hot,” Dylan says.

  “It’s more than just sex for us,” I say while carrying the extra condoms to the back room.

  “I know, Big Ben. I saw you guys together. You’re definitely going to be the Luigi to his Mario, just jumping down each other’s pipes and”—Dylan stops talking as a customer with a child passes us in the aisle—“just—”

  “No need to finish that sentence,” I say.

  I go into the back room, clock out, and change out of my khaki pants and white polo to jeans and a blue V-neck that reminds me of the shade of nail polish Mario sometimes wears. When I come out from the back, Dylan is reading the blurb of a mass-market romance novel. I pause in front of him, thinking that will get his attention, but he keeps reading, muttering the summary about a schoolteacher and a marine falling for each other.

  “Am I gay if I buy this?” Dylan asks.

  “What do you think?”

  Dylan pauses. “No?”

  “Correct.”

  “Awesome. What’s your employee discount? Fifty percent?”

  “No.”

  “Seventy?”

  I’m truly shocked we’re on line buying this book, but it works out in his favor when Pa calls us up to the cash register he’s working.

  “Dylan, welcome back,” Pa says.

  “It’s an honor to be welcomed back, Diego.” Dylan salutes.

  Pa’s polite smile reminds me of whenever he’s exhausted by customers but has to hide it. He turns to me. “You didn’t have to get in line to say bye.”

  “I didn’t.”

  Dylan steps up to the counter and sets down the romance novel.

  “This for Samantha?” Pa asks.

  Dylan shakes his head. “Diego, Diego. Surely you’re more progressive than that.”

  “You’re the one who asked if buying the book meant you were gay,” I say.

  “I am the reader of romances,” Dylan continues. “This is what makes me so wonderful with the ladies”—he wraps his arm around my shoulders—“and your son.”