He’s another white-passing Puerto Rican like me, but his parents actually raised him bilingual, unlike mine. He incorporated a lot of Spanish into his film script and said he hoped that no studio would force him to translate it for people; he wanted others to put in the work that his parents had to do themselves growing up. It really inspired me to do the damn work myself—and I practically screamed “？Sí, por favor!” when he offered to be my personal teacher.
I’m pretty pumped to see him.
Today’s hangout with Dylan and Samantha is going to be a bit of a juggling act since Mario will also be joining us. He’s not my boyfriend, but he’s also more than a friend. Things get really tricky in that space. Like when I wake up thinking about him and want to say good morning just because, but that can sometimes feel too intimate. Or when I’m wondering what’s the best way to introduce him to my friends even though they know the gist of our relationship. Or even how words like “relationship” can feel too strong, sort of unearned when you compare them with actual relationships.
I don’t know. That’s a problem for One-Hour-in-the-Future Ben.
But I have to get Mario’s beautiful face out of my head, because I’m about to miss my train stop. I jump out of my seat and cross to the platform right as the doors are closing. I’ve got to make sure I’m not late. I’m putting those days behind me. In our creative writing class, Mrs. García would call this “character growth.”
I leave the station and walk down to the Central Park West entrance on Seventy-Second. It doesn’t take me long to spot Dylan and Samantha. They’re on a park bench, playing that game where you have to stare into each other’s eyes and slap the other person’s hands before they can retract them.
Samantha slaps Dylan’s hands. “Gotcha! Four–one. You suck.”
“Hey,” I say as I walk around the bench. “Can I get in on this?”
Dylan smiles. “There’s always room for you in our bed.”
“I didn’t say anything about your bed. I—”
Dylan shushes me as he stands and pulls me into a hug, patting the top of my head. “Missed you, buddy.”
“Missed you, too. Exhausted by you already.”
Dylan’s hair has grown to the point where he’s finally been able to master that man bun he’s been working on, which looks really great on him—and if you ask him, he’s the only person pulling it off. He’s rocking a new Kool Koffee shirt and blue jeans. “There’s a cute little café in the park. Get ready to drink all the espresso shots, my little coffee bean. Coffee Ben? Ben Bean?”
“I vote none of the above,” Samantha says. Her blue-green eyes wow me as much today as when I first met her behind that counter at Kool Koffee. Her dark hair is braided into a Pinterest-ready crown that I should include in my book. She’s wearing a navy shirt tucked into white shorts, and she’s got a silver key hanging from her neck. “Hi, Ben,” she says as she pulls me into a hug.
I’m relieved Dylan hasn’t converted her into someone who aggressively nicknames me.
“Welcome back, guys.”
Samantha’s eyes widen at my shirt. “Oh my Greek goddesses, I love it!”
Dylan grins when he notices. “Those wicked wizards are going to wizard so hard one day.”
There’ve been a lot of changes since Dylan read the book last summer, pre-college, but his support never really died down. Every now and again I’ll get a text from him asking what’s up with Duke Dill, the character I based on him. Dylan has been cheering me on to get a literary agent already, but I’ve become a bit of a perfectionist lately.
I don’t want to let anyone down.
This love is the kind of pressure that gets to me.
“I want a shirt, too,” Samantha says, feeling my sleeve. “Did you make that?”
“Mario did,” I say.
“Super Mario!” Dylan says. “I hope he’s not tired of people calling him that because you know I have to do it.”
“He actually loves it.”
It’s the kind of thing I would find annoying after some time, but not Mario. The closest I’ve seen him to getting upset was when our classmate Spikey gave Mario some harsh critiques on his script, but Mario ultimately shrugged it off because Spikey was just out for blood after Mrs. García called his Civil War short story “historically impossible” and everyone laughed.
“So when is Super Mario popping out of a sewer pipe?” Dylan asks.