Maybe I should just not reply. Quit while I’m ahead, for once.
But no. This isn’t it. We’re just starting to get our friendship back on track, and that’s not a thing I’m willing to lose again. Plus, with Dylan’s alleged weirdness, he clearly needs a friend more than ever.
I tap into our text chain again, filling the window with the kind of unfiltered sincerity I’m always trying to hold back these days. At least with Ben, I hold back. But this time, I press send before I can talk myself out of it.
Okay so I was going to make some joke about Dylan and his weird one-way rivalry with Patrick, but seriously I know you’re worried about him and I just want you to know I’m up for listening if you ever really want to sit down and talk about it
Or stand up and talk about it? I add. Or stand on one foot and talk about it?
Ben writes back right away. Thanks, yeah, that’s really nice of you, may take you up on that
You should! I feel my mouth tugging up at the corners. Name a date and I’ll put it on the calendar, it’ll be like scheduling therapy with a wildly incompetent therapist What a compelling offer lol, Ben writes back—and just as I’m about to shoot back a clown emoji, he adds: okay what are you up to this coming Wednesday?
I stare at my screen for a moment, feeling like I just chugged a full bottle of chocolate liqueur. But I blink away the thought and start typing. Nothing, just work! Should be getting out around six Cool, you’re pretty close to me, right? Want me to meet you outside and we can figure out where to go from there?
Best plan ever, I write.
Because so what if Ben and I hit a few awkward notes last weekend. Maybe our friendship just needs one more do-over. I’ll help him dissect and hyperanalyze all his interactions with Dylan, beat by beat.
And maybe Ben’s the friend who can help me cut through my Mikey fog at last.
Part Two
We Can Try That
Chapter Nineteen
Ben
Tuesday, June 9
Everything is going wrong today.
The moment I clocked in, some unsupervised child was sitting in a corner with an as-seen-on-TV cooking pot and mixing fruit punch and Sprite from the fridge to make a magical potion. I applaud the imagination, but this kid is banned from my future amusement park after this mess I had to clean up. Another customer yelled at me at the cash registers because she was short seventy-five cents for a deck of cards and I couldn’t just look the other way. And I’ve got so much extra work on my plate because my coworker called in sick, even though his Instagram shows him having a picnic with friends by the Brooklyn Bridge. I’m so tempted to show Pa, but then I’m the person who snitches to his father to get his colleagues in trouble.
I’m starting to not care.
This job isn’t who I am, and I’m not trying to be here forever.
I’m also not sure if I’m just talking about Duane Reade anymore when I think here.
In the nine days since Mario broke the news that he might get a job out in Los Angeles, I’ve experienced a range of feelings: pride that his brilliance is recognized, jealousy that nepotism for Mario means a job in TV and all I got was cleaning up Sprite–fruit punch potions at Duane Reade, praying to higher forces that the executives at the network hate androids so Mario won’t have to leave.
I’ve been trying to focus on my own work instead of letting my selfish feelings get in the way. It’s been harder to write lately. I keep staring at the same words, unsure how to fix them and make them right.
Everything is so confusing, and I don’t know what my story is supposed to be anymore.
Maybe Mario is right that I’d be happier out in LA.
New home. New people. New life.
What I keep coming back to is how much it would hurt to say goodbye to Mario. If long-distance wasn’t an option with Arthur—who was in love with me!—I can’t count on a relationship with Mario surviving. I’m not ready for another round of sleepless nights, hating how lonely I am.
I’m not ready to let another amazing person slip out of reach.
I finish mopping up the aisle, put up a Caution sign, and go into the break room even though I’m still supposed to be out on the floor. Pa’s office door is closed and the employee bathroom is empty, so I’m safe to FaceTime Mario before I change my mind. I stare at the wall that has my schedule for the rest of the week, wishing so badly that I could tear it down, quit, and not go home to my boss tonight.
“Alejo,” Mario softly answers. The way he says my name simultaneously calms me down and excites me. He’s in his bedroom and props the phone up against a stack of books as usual.