There. I’ve put it out into the universe and now I wait to see—
Arthur has texted back already: Do-over hangout!
Chapter Twelve
Arthur
Monday, May 25
The line outside the diner’s already halfway down the block, but it barely even feels like I’m waiting. The weather’s mild and sunny, I’ve got the whole day off work, and I’m on literal Broadway—the street and the district. Plus, the Winter Garden Theatre is practically within spitting distance, and I’m not even going to try to be cool about it. If I have to crouch to get that perfect low-angle shot of the marquee, so be it.
Which is exactly how Ben finds me: popping a squat on the sidewalk. He peers down at me with an expression that’s half amused and half disturbed, and I jump up so quickly, I almost conk his chin with my skull. “Sorry! Hi!”
“Hi! Yikes. Am I really late?” He surveys the line, looking vaguely distressed.
“Not at all. It’s not even open yet.”
“But why are there so many people here?”
“Because it’s Eileen’s Galaxy Diner. Ben, it’s a landmark! Have you never been here?”
His face falls. “Have you?”
“No,” I say quickly. “I mean, maybe once? Years ago, though. I don’t even really remember it.”
Ben looks at me like he’s never seen someone so full of shit in his entire life.
“Fine, it was two years ago and I remember everything, but so what? It’s amazing! The waiters sing. It’s like a full Broadway performance while you’re eating.”
“Yeah, that’s why I suggested it. It has extreme Arthur energy.”
“And New York energy.” I peer around happily, taking in the souvenir shops, yellow cabs, and pretzel stands, the impossibly huge billboards. “God, I love New Yorkers. You guys embrace every single moment. Just look at all these people.” I gesture down the line. “No one’s pissed they have to wait, no one’s driving around Alpharetta or wherever, looking for a place with parking, because God forbid—”
“Alpharetta, Georgia?” An older white woman ahead of us turns around, clasping her hands. “Don’t mean to interrupt, but are y’all from there?”
“Yeah! I mean, I’m from Milton, which is pretty much—”
“Oh, I know it well. We’re from Woodstock.” She gestures to a guy wearing an FDNY T-shirt. “Bill, you won’t believe where these gentlemen are from. Milton, Georgia!”
“Well, how about that?” says Bill. “And you know, the young lady with the big puffy sleeves up there? She’s Australian!”
“Big New York energy,” Ben whispers.
“Shh!” I elbow him, and he elbows me back, and I can’t believe how different this feels from Dave & Buster’s, or even the post office. I spent all week reminding myself that the awkwardness between us was normal. Seeing your ex for the first time in almost two years isn’t exactly a chill situation, and meeting his new boyfriend? Whole new level of weird. But in this moment, it’s almost hard to remember the awkwardness ever existed. I feel as instantly at home with Ben as I always did.
The line moves quickly, and before I know it, we’re seated in the middle of a bank of identical rectangular tables, all barely an elbow’s distance apart. “Well, this is cozy,” says Ben, glancing sideways.
“You mean the fact that I could literally reach out and pull that lady’s ponytail?”
“That’s definitely what I meant. Touching strangers’ hair.”
We smile at each other.
“So,” I say.
“So.” He cups his chin in his hand. “No Jessie, huh?”
I make a face. “She’s at work.”
“On Memorial Day?”
“Can you believe it? She’s there catching up on paperwork. It’s tragic.”
“I would cry.”
“Oh, me too, for sure. I love my job and everything, but—” I stop short, looking up at Ben. “Wait, how do I not know what you’re up to this summer? Are you working?”
“A little. Mostly just writing, though.” He leans forward. “I want to hear about your fancy theater internship. Your boss is kind of a big deal, right?”
I sit up straighter. “Kind of, yeah. I mean, I don’t know how many people outside the queer arts scene have heard of him, but he’s won a bunch of awards.”
“Wow. Is he pretty hands-on? Like, do you get to talk to him and stuff?”