“No, yeah, I get that—”
“Honestly, I’m not even sure I want to be in college.”
I look at him. “You mean—”
“Maybe.” There’s this edge to his voice. “I’m just saying, maybe college isn’t for everyone.”
“I know. I just thought you liked it. The creative writing—”
“Yeah, I like that class, but it’s like . . .” He puffs out his cheeks. “I’m paying so much for tuition, and I barely even feel like I’m getting anything out of most of my other classes. Meanwhile, there are a million regular writing workshops that teach the exact same skills, but they’re a fraction of the price. Plus, you don’t even need any of that to be—”
“Of course not. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pressure you.”
“You’re not. I’m being—I guess I’m a little sensitive about this.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Sorry, can we talk about something else? How’s off-Broadway life? Are they letting you yell into megaphones yet?”
“I wish. Still in Spreadsheet City.”
Ben makes a face.
“I mean, it’s fine. I’m getting the hang of it. It’s just boring—” I stop short, blushing. “God, you must think I’m the biggest asshole.”
Ben lets out a startled laugh. “What?”
“The number of people who would kill to have my job, and I’m complaining that I had to forward an Excel file.”
“Okay, well, it’s me! You can complain about that stuff.”
“No, I know. I’m just trying to have a better attitude about it. I really do love it. And everyone there is just so brilliant. Maybe I’ll absorb all their genius somehow.”
We turn a corner, swerving out of the range of water spraying from a fire hydrant. There’s a group of kids running through it, shrieking and laughing, while Spanish music bursts from someone’s phone on the stoop.
“And Taj is still cool?” Ben asks.
“Oh, totally,” I say, thinking about the short-sleeved lace button-up shirt he wore today. And the fact that he just got back from a dreamy long weekend in Montauk with his partner. “He’s, like, exactly who I want to be at twenty-five. And then the next step is to be a gay uncle like Jacob, with a British husband and a hypoallergenic dog—”
“Wow—”
“And then, for my final, most powerful form?” I pause dramatically. “Dorky gay dad of twin girls named Rosie and Ruby.”
He laughs. “You’re like a domestic gay Pokémon.”
We pass an elderly couple who say hi to Ben, by name, in accented English. “That’s Mr. and Mrs. Diaz from my building.” He stops short beneath an awning, glancing at me with a quick, self-conscious smile. “And, uh. Speaking of my building . . .”
I look up, instantly recognizing it. “Wow. Been a minute, huh?”
“For real,” he says. “You should come up. I guarantee my parents would flip their shit if you walked in.”
Another wormhole. I’m here, straight from work, following Ben Alejo up the stairs to his apartment. I’m weirdly nervous—maybe just because it’s been so long since I’ve seen Ben’s parents. I wonder if they’ll think I’m different than two summers ago. Maybe I am different. After all, you never really feel yourself changing until it’s already happened.
The door to Ben’s hallway spits us out right next to his apartment, where Isabel’s balancing a bunch of grocery bags and fumbling for her keys. She gasps when she sees me. “Arthur Seuss. Oh my goodness.”
“So good to see you!” I grab a few of her bags, and then almost drop all of them while attempting to hug her.
“Arthur—thank you.” She squeezes my arm. “Oh, I can’t believe it. How are you?”
“Good! You know, back in New York for the summer.”
Isabel turns the key, pushing the door open with her hip. “Benito says you’re working for a famous Broadway director!”
“I think he might be overselling me a bit.” I shoot a quick grin over my shoulder at Ben, who grins back and tips his palms up. “It’s not Broadway, but I love it.”
“Which is all that matters,” she says as Ben and I follow her inside. “Diego, you won’t believe who’s here!” She turns to me again. “Look at you. Even more handsome than before. I bet you’re breaking boys’ hearts left and right and back again.”