“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.”
“It appears college didn’t make you any more mature,” Pa says.
“Oh, believe me, Diego, I’ve been plenty mature at college.”
The other cashier, Donny, accidentally scans a shampoo bottle multiple times while eavesdropping on Dylan’s insanity.
Pa bags up Dylan’s book. “Please leave.”
“You’ll be seeing more of me soon,” Dylan says, throwing the bag over his shoulder and walking toward the exit.
“Why did that come off as a threat?” Pa asks.
I shrug. “See you, Pa.”
“Te quiero, mijo.”
“Love you too, Pa.”
Pa coughs.
I sigh. “Te quiero, Pa.”
In our family, we always say that we love each other before we leave home, go to bed, hang up the phone. My parents have always made it clear that we might have some economic challenges from time to time, but we’ll always be rich in love. And I get it—but if love was cash, I wouldn’t want to spend it all in the same place. Maybe I want to invest in a cute guy with the name of a cartoon plumber.
I leave Duane Reade and Dylan is waiting outside for me. The block is always crowded with people because it’s right next to a couple subway stops and right across the street from Union Square, where people are playing chess, walking their dogs, reading, and riding skateboards. It’s one of my favorite parts of the city—was one of my favorite parts of the city. Even Union Square is losing its shine because of how often I see it now. A couple weeks ago, I was meeting up with Mario around here and I unintentionally walked straight into work, making it all the way into the break room before I realized what I was doing. I was on total autopilot because this is my life now.
“What should we do?” I ask.