“Congrats,” I say, wishing I’d at least managed to come in second place. But at least third place is better than sixth like Dylan’s. And yes, better than twelfth like Arthur, but there’s something adorable about that.
“Group selfie, guy gang,” Mario says, stretching his arm out and leaning close to me.
For the picture, Dylan holds his mouth open like he’s roaring. Mario beams with the kind of smile you have when you’re your dentist’s favorite patient. Arthur moves closer to fit into the picture and he leans his arm on my shoulder.
And I smile, feeling my cheeks go warm at his touch.
Chapter Ten
Arthur
Friday, May 22
It’s too much. Beyond too much, all of it: the laser beeps and synth music, the blinking neon lights. The fact that this entire night feels like one big inside joke I’m not a part of.
I don’t know why I thought this would be fine. I was even kind of looking forward to it—just a couple of chill, casual friends having a chill, casual evening, and I’d be one of those mature, friends-with-my-exes kind of guys. Plus, if things somehow went south, I could always just disappear into the Midway with Jessie. Basically foolproof, right?
Wrong. Jessie ran off with Samantha an hour ago, Ben and Dylan are ten levels into an alien invasion, and my ex-boyfriend’s new boyfriend may or may not be planning to murder me with the sheer force of his charm.
“I was there for a week after Christmas,” Mario’s saying. “High sixties and sunny the whole time. Fucking incredible. Ben didn’t even—”
“FUCK!” Dylan slams his palms down.
“Suck it,” says Ben. “Suck. It.”
“—until I showed him the pictures.”
I tune out, because I don’t need to hear about Mario’s sexy California pics. Nor do I need to bear further witness to the good news of Mario’s biceps. We get it, Mario, you work out. It just sucks, because I was kind of liking my face today. Even my outfit felt right: rolled-up sleeves, light sweater vest, and my brand-new blue floral tie. Taj said I looked like the manic pixie dream child of Joseph Gordon-Levitt and Zooey Deschanel in an alternate-universe sequel of （500） Days of Summer, and I guess my brain just kind of took that and ran with it. All day, I’ve felt like I was living in a movie, like there was something gold-filtered and poignant about me. I’d scratch my head, and it would feel like I’d choreographed it. You could almost hear the Smiths playing in the background.
Until Mario walked in. Biggest record scratch of my life.
Indie dream boy? Nope! Just an eighteen-year-old dumbass from Georgia with a farmer’s tan and a bold new zit on my jawline. And those two-dozen flickering LED TV screens aren’t exactly serving me the flattering mood lighting I’d hoped for. But I bet they hit like golden hour sunlight when you’re Mario’s height.
Can I just teleport to Boston? That’s all I want. A regular couch night with Mikey. He’ll reel in animated sharks on Animal Crossing, I’ll watch Broadway Miscast videos on YouTube, and then we’ll brush our teeth and turn the lights out and definitely not have sex, since Mikey won’t even masturbate when his sister’s home.
But who cares? I just want to wake up beside him.
I could call him. I could hide inside some racing game or sneak out to the lobby, and maybe that’s all I’d need to feel centered. My boyfriend’s sweet, dependable face.
But what would I even say to him? How would I explain tonight to Mikey? I don’t mean Dave & Buster’s, or even the fact that I’m here with Ben. Mikey knows about that, and he’s fine with all of it. I guess Ben’s not such a threatening concept when there’s someone like Mario in the picture.
Now Mario’s winding into some anecdote about their writing class and Ben’s manuscript and something Ben said once during peer critiques, and I swear, every other word out of his mouth is Ben’s name. And he keeps touching Ben’s arm. Which is fine, I guess, though I’m not sure why he thinks distracting Ben midgame is going to end well. This is a boy who, as legend has it, once turned down a blow job in favor of beating Dylan’s high score on Candy Crush.
A blow job from Hudson, for the record. Ben’s never turned down a blow job from me. Not that he ever had much of a chance to.
But none of this is relevant. Blow jobs definitely aren’t relevant. That’s not even a concept that applies to us now, because Ben has a boyfriend, and I have a boyfriend, and everyone’s settled. And happy. I’m happy! I’m just a little off my game today, but so what? It’s not like Mario’s stopped talking long enough to notice.