“It’s fine,” Mikey says without looking at me. I watch him rearrange the dishwasher for a moment, trying to dial my heartbeat down to normal.
“Hey.” I grip the edge of the counter. “I haven’t forgotten about what we talked about.”
He flips a plate around, slotting it neatly beside the others. “Okay.”
“Do you want to talk about it now? I was just going to wait for Jess to head out, but—”
“Later’s fine.”
“Later,” I echo, ignoring the guilty twinge in my chest. It’s not that there’s anything wrong with talking later. It’s just that the laters keep piling up on top of each other. First it was Ben walking us home from ice cream last night, and then it was Jessie and more Jessie, and then we slept, and then today it was the museum and Six and then talking about Six, and then dinner. So it’s been kind of a lot. And now this, just when Jessie was heading out to Samantha’s parents’ house.
Right on cue, Jessie appears in the doorway, a weekend bag hitched over her shoulder. “Namrata thinks I should bring condoms and booze.”
“Orgy etiquette on point.” I press my palms together.
Mikey’s eyes widen, and Jessie laughs. “Absolutely one hundred percent not an orgy,” she assures him. “Samantha’s friend Patrick’s in town, so we’re eating cupcakes and watching movies.”
I shake my head. “I still can’t believe you text with Namrata. She and Juliet acted like I was a little kid.”
“I mean, you kind of were? That was two years ago.”
Two years ago. The way Jessie says it makes my breath hitch. She makes it sound like the Stone Age—but maybe it really was a whole other era. Me at sixteen, with all my high-octane feelings. I was like a human volcano. I remember every beat of that summer, everything I felt, everything I thought. It’s right there, but I can’t seem to climb back inside it. It almost feels like something I read in a book.
When I open the door ten minutes later, Dylan hugs me like he’s returning from war. “Look at you. Haven’t aged a bit. How long has it been?”
I count back to Dave & Buster’s. “Eight days?”
“Right right right, but we don’t count the night you gave my son away to Super Mario.” He steps into the foyer, Ben trailing behind him.
“Mario’s on the subway,” says Ben. Then he turns to hug Mikey. “Hey, man, good to see you again.”
“The famous Mikey! Aardvark’s told me so much about you!” says Dylan.
Mikey’s face is like a middle schooler being kissed on the cheek by an unknown elderly relative. Nothing but sheer polite panic. It’s like looking at my own bar mitzvah album.
Ben turns to me. “Hope it’s okay that we’re here? Samantha kicked Dylan out for the night.”
“She did not. I escaped in a blaze of glory. I don’t fuck with that crowd.”
“Who, Jessie?”
Ben rolls his eyes. “He means Patrick.”
“I don’t want to hear that name. I don’t want to see that face.” Dylan cuts through the living room, plopping onto the love seat. “That man is a goddamn bunion on the foot of my life. You know he and Samantha used to share a bed, right?”
“On family trips,” Ben says. “When they were six.”
“A bed’s a bed!”
“You and I have shared a bed. Many times.”
Dylan scoffs. “I’m supposed to find that reassuring? Benzo, every time you and I are within ten feet of each other, you can cut the sexual tension with a knife.”
Ben shoots a quick smile at Mikey. “Would you believe he’s sober?”
“Which is a crime.”
“No. It’s literally the opposite of a crime,” says Ben.
Dylan ignores him. “Seussical, what’s the drink situation here?”
“Right. Okay, water, obviously. Coke, milk, OJ, and . . . uh. I can scope out the other stuff.” I stand.
A moment later, Ben does, too. “Need any help?”
“Oh!” I sneak a quick glance at Mikey. “Um—”
“Sweet. You two, hook me up with some Seuss juice. The Mikester and I are long overdue for some bro time.” Dylan slides closer to Mikey, who looks terrified.
A minute later, I’m standing with Ben in my uncle’s tiny bright kitchen, trying to remember how conversations work. “So, um. I think most of the alcoholic stuff is—”
“Is this chocolate liqueur?” Ben holds up a bottle Jessie must have left on the counter. “Is this, like, up for grabs, or—”