“Otra vez,” Mario says.
I’m searching my mind for the translation. “I got nada.”
“Again,” Mario says.
I kiss Mario—otra vez!
“Your chariot still awaits,” Mario says.
I step into the cart, squeezing my knees against the metal. It’s totally uncomfortable, especially as Mario breaks into a sprint. We’re laughing and I’m sure that we’re going to flip over and break our faces against the sidewalk, but Mario is being careful with me.
Once he stops to catch his breath, I text Arthur.
hey good “bumping” into you. you guys want to hang out with me and Mario on Friday night?
I hit send, not trying to spend forever on a message to Arthur. I want to enjoy every minute I have with Mario.
Chapter Eight
Arthur
Tuesday, May 19
“Mikey Mouse, why am I awake?” It’s barely six in the morning, but of course my early-bird boyfriend is a freshly-showered ray of sunshine.
He perches on the foot of his bed, smiling. “Did you sleep at all?”
“My front-facing camera says no,” I say, peering closer. “Though my pillow creases say yes? Oof—” I stop short. “Wow, okay, your screen just did a big murdery camcorder lurch. Are you—”
“Murdered?” He pops back into frame. “No, I was putting on a sock.”
He’s so cute, it’s almost unbearable. It just hits me out of nowhere sometimes. Mikey, who once wrote a fifteen-page essay on Cold War American opera, but can’t hold a phone and put on a sock simultaneously.
“Okay, I need first-day outfit advice. I’m leaning toward the suit-and-tie thing—”
Mikey raises his eyebrows. “Chad from corporate, is that you?”
“Hush. I’m just talking about the first day. First impression. I’m thinking—”
“Jeremy Jordan Supergirl vibes,” he says with me, and I laugh.
“Exactly.” I pause. “And you’re sure—”
“It’s not going to make you look like a baby tax accountant.”
I bite back a smile. “You think you can read my mind now?”
“Am I wrong?”
His deadpan expression makes me gooey inside. Maybe it’s just the fact that Mikey never used to tease me. Now he’s the world’s gentlest shit-talker, and I honestly can’t get enough of it.
“So what’s on the camp agenda today?” I ask. “Scuba diving? Archery?”
“You realize these kids are in preschool, right?”
“I did scuba diving in preschool!”
“Arthur, you’re literally scared of fish.”
“Because I was scarred for life from scuba diving.” I pause. “Wait, it might have been snorkeling. Anyway, I should go get dressed!”
“Call me when you get home? Can’t wait to hear how it goes.”
“I’ll give you the full minute-by-minute summary. You, Mikey Mouse, are going to know more about Jacob Demsky than his own husband.”
“I definitely already do.”
I laugh. “Miss you.”
“You too,” he says softly.
There’s this pause, which is a thing that’s been happening more and more lately, and I never quite know what to make of it. I guess it’s the part of the conversation where you’re supposed to say I love you, but Mikey and I haven’t really gotten there yet. I’m not opposed to it, exactly. I guess it just feels kind of soon. Though in a way, that pause makes it feel like it’s already out there. Like it’s a placeholder for an “I love you” that’s pretty much a foregone conclusion.
We hang up, and I drift through my morning routine—shower, teeth, shirt buttons. And the tie, because at the end of the day, I’d rather be Chad from corporate than a “snappy casual” bar mitzvah boy. At least it gives me a chance to show off my half-Windsor skills—born from hours of YouTube tutorials, culminating in flawless senior prom looks for me, Ben, and Dylan: my greatest high school accomplishment, hands down. Of course, now I’m stuck with the memory of Senior Year Ben’s eyes lighting up my phone screen the moment he tugged that last loop and realized he’d nailed it.
Kind of like how he lit up when he saw me in the post office yesterday.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to force the image out of my head. It’s unnerving how often Ben’s been haunting my brain lately. I’ll be sitting here minding my own business, mooning over my actual boyfriend, and then Ben just pops in out of nowhere, in a million different disguises. There are Bens on every hundred-dollar bill, every postcard of London. Even the mayor of my college town is named—what else?—Ben. He’s just perpetually there, and I don’t know how he does it. He’s like a volcano, always just an earthquake away from erupting.