“Fucking Patrick.” The next thing I know, Dylan’s ripping into Patrick so hard, he could make an entire YouTube comments section blush. But Mikey nods along politely to every single word of it, even past the five-minute mark. Dylan’s still going strong when Ben reappears in the foyer, Mario in tow.
“Oh shit, this place is huge,” Mario says, and even though he’s not being sarcastic, my cheeks flood with heat. I’ll never see the world the way a New Yorker would. I can’t even calibrate space like a New Yorker.
Mario takes the last empty seat, beside Mikey—of course we’re configured all wrong. I hop up. “You guys probably want to sit together, huh?”
“Oh, we’re fine.” He settles in. “Hi! You must be Mikey. I’m Mario—I belong to that one.”
He points to Ben, who looks as startled by his phrasing as I am.
I toss back the rest of my drink and practically leap from the couch for a refill. And even though I’m a little unsteady with the Brita filter, I manage to get water for Mikey and Mario, too. Though now I’ve got to walk back from the kitchen with three full glasses, which feels a little like walking blindfolded through an obstacle course. Except without the blindfold. And I guess the only obstacles are my own feet.
I return to find Mario in the middle of some story about his trip, but he smiles up at me when I hand him his glass. I sit back down beside Mikey.
“It was amazing just being there,” Mario’s saying. “I want to move there one day, you know? Write for TV, the whole dream.”
“We’ve dabbled in TV,” Dylan says grandly. “Me and Bento Box. Made some waves in the reality space in our time.”
“Being Bad Boys?” I ask.
Mario grins. “Wow.”
Mikey shifts uncomfortably beside me, and it occurs to me how quiet he’s been. Overwhelmed by all of this, probably. I feel this sudden wave of affection for him—my wide-eyed lamb of a boyfriend. I lean in so close, I can almost hear his heartbeat. “You good?” I whisper, letting my lips rest for a moment on his flushed cheek. Mikey nods.
Ben stands, glancing down at my drink. “Grabbing a refill. Want me to top you off?”
My head snaps up.
“Your drink.” His whole face lights up red. “I was—”
“That sounds great!” I throw back the rest of my drink with one frantic gulp, before shoving the glass into his hand.
Dylan ends up following Ben into the kitchen, and then Mario and Mikey start talking about Nintendo. So I just lean back against the cushions, listening to them compare notes about turnips and friend codes. It’s the most animated I’ve seen Mikey all night. I’m not even surprised that Mario loves a wholesome nerd game like Animal Crossing, because that’s the kind of cool person he is. He’s so cool, he doesn’t even care if he looks cool. He’s the type who laughs loudly in movie theaters and sings at the grocery store and happily announces his favorite singer is Taylor Swift, because he just loves Taylor’s music, probably because her music is fucking amazing and she’s a goddius, which is a new word I invented just now that means both genius and goddess, but I think I’m skating past the point here, which is that Mario wouldn’t even worry for a second that he’s being too mainstream or basic. Also, even his phone case is cool without trying—just an old-school Mario with a raccoon tail, flying across a sky-blue background. He unlocks the screen now, leaning in toward Mikey. “Okay, wait, pulling up the app.”
I rest my chin on Mikey’s shoulder, looking back and forth between their side-by-side screens. I feel a little whirly-brained, like I’m being spun around a ballroom.
“Your phones are friends,” I inform them.
Ben and Dylan emerge from the kitchen—though Dylan hangs back, pausing to type on his phone. But Ben presents me with a very generously poured glass. “Here you go. Top-shelf provisions.”
“They are! Literally! My uncle keeps them on the top shelf. My great-uncle,” I add hastily. “And he’s great. He’s a great great-uncle. Not a great-great-uncle, that would be his dad. I think.” I pause to take a sip. “Or would that be my great-grandpa?”
Ben looks like he doesn’t know whether to laugh or take my drink away.
“Okay, this is actually so good? Ben! You should be a bartender. Or—wait—you could write a book about a wizard bartender, and the drinks could be potions!”
Ben just looks at me. “Okay, so. I don’t want to be the party police or anything, but . . . you know you’re drinking that really fast, right?”