“The Ferryman!”
“I can’t believe you know that,” Taj says.
My phone buzzes again—but before I can sneak a peek, Jacob materializes out of nowhere. “Are you texting the boy?” he asks, smiling.
I jolt up straight in my chair.
Jacob laughs. “I promise I’m not here to play phone cop. Write him back!”
Him. The boy. Jacob thinks I’m talking to Mikey, just like Taj thinks I’m talking to Mikey. Because why wouldn’t I be? Why wouldn’t I be texting my boyfriend who’s in love with me, and who I maybe love back, which is a question I should definitely be able to answer by now?
“Okay!” Taj announces. “I’ve got 2016 through 2019. Ready when you are.”
Jacob clasps his hands. “God, I love you.”
My brain stops in its tracks.
“Be right back,” I say, swiping my phone off the table. “Dressing room. Bathroom.”
Taj nods solemnly. “Godspeed.”
The whole way there, I’m barely aware of my own two feet on the ground. Because—
God, I love you.
Love.
It’s such an imprecise word. That’s the problem. Love means too many things. Jacob loves Taj for tracking down a bunch of budget spreadsheets. I love chocolate and Hamilton and my parents and Bubbe. I mean, it’s pretty absurd when you really think about it, right? Here I am, floundering under the weight of the big do-I-love-Mikey question, when I wouldn’t even blink if it was anyone else in my life. Do I love Ethan and Jessie? Of course! And I love my Wesleyan friends. I love Musa. It’s not even a question. So how come it feels like one when I try to apply the concept to Mikey?
I mean, I love Mikey in the regular way. Obviously. It’s just the rest of it that’s foggy.
I’m so distracted, I don’t even see Emmett stepping out of the dressing room bathroom until I crash into him head-on.
I stare at him, my jaw going slack. Emmett Kester.
I just full-on collided with a person whose face is literally on a Times Square billboard. Sure, he’s a little off to the side, kind of tucked behind Maya Erskine and Busy Philipps. But that’s because he’s going to be in a TV show! With Maya Erskine! And Busy Philipps! And these days you can’t even google him without tripping over another Out and Proud Bicons list or Twenty Queer Black Stars Under Thirty.
“I’m—so sorry,” I choke. “I wasn’t—”
“Hey. You’re fine.” He gives my arm a reassuring quick pat. “Arthur, right? I’m Em.”
Emmett—Emmett Kester knows my name. He wants me to call him Em. And now we’re just hanging out in the dressing room like a couple of dressing room bros, and there’s absolutely no way this is real. I was still weeks away from working up the nerve to talk to the actors. Now we’re on nickname terms?
“Hi! Yes! Sorry, I’m not usually such a disaster—” I pause, just long enough to spiral through a hyperspeed greatest hits montage, beginning with the time I complimented Ben on the size of his package. “Oh, and I’m Arthur! Really nice to officially meet you, Ben—Em.”
My heart crash-lands somewhere in the vicinity of my stomach. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Undo. Back arrow. Delete.
Emmett just smiles. “Nice to meet you, too. I’m sure I’ll see you around.”
After he leaves, I just stare at myself in the dressing room mirror, hands pressed to my scalding cheeks. I look like a little Jewish sunburned Macaulay Culkin.
I can’t believe I called him Ben.
I take a few deep cleansing breaths and pull out my phone. Two notifications—two Ben texts. I tap straight into our text chain, scanning for the last text I sent him. It’s from almost thirty minutes ago. You know what you should do??
Ben’s reply, a few minutes later: ??
And a few minutes after that: the suspense!!
I scroll back down to reread the unsent message I’d been typing, about Patricio and Sir Sabre and Duke Dill, and it’s so painfully try-hard, I can’t even get to the end without cringing. I slam my finger down hard on the delete button.
Sorry, got pulled into work! I write, pausing for just a second over the exclamation point. But I think it’s fine. Maybe even good. Nicely restrained, not too apologetic, nothing forced. I know it doesn’t exactly alleviate the suspense （the suspense!!）， but maybe leaving a little mystery isn’t such a bad thing.
Lol it’s okay, he writes back.
I guess it feels almost like a game with Ben sometimes, where the more I put in, the more I lose. I’m always the one who texts first and replies faster, and just about every text conversation we’ve ever had ends with me. Not just this summer. It’s been like this for two years. I’ve been losing for two years.