“Better than a boyfriend who lives on the other side of the country.”
“Not sure I’d call Boston ‘the other side of the country.’” Jessie laughs—but then she looks at me. “Right. Ben and Mario.”
“It just doesn’t make sense. They’re not even officially boyfriends.”
“Well, maybe they are now. Dinner with Ben’s parents sounds pretty boyfriendy.” Jessie flips off her mirror light, glancing up at the horse-silhouette wooden clock on the wall.
Boyfriendy. I tuck my knees up, feeling dazed. Maybe Jessie’s right—maybe their label status has changed since Ben and I last talked about it. There’s no denying that taking a guy home to meet your parents has big-time capital-B Boyfriend energy.
“I should text him,” I say.
Jessie freezes. “You mean Ben?”
“Yeah—I don’t know. I just feel like an asshole for how I left things on Wednesday with all the Mario stuff.” I paw around for my phone. “I should see what he’s up to.”
“I don’t know if that’s—”
The music drops off, and Jessie’s phone starts vibrating beside me. “Um.” I look from the screen to Jessie. “You’re not going to believe this, but Ethan’s calling you.”
Jessie leaps for it, pressing accept. “Hey!” She sounds breathless. “Running late, sorry. Call you in five?” She pauses. “Yup.”
I stare at her, stunned. “Since when do you guys talk?”
“Gotta go,” she says. “I’ll explain later. Love you! Don’t text your ex.”
Don’t text my ex? When literally two seconds after I said Ben’s name, Jessie got a call from her ex? Could the universe have been any clearer, or does Jessie need it carved on a stone tablet? THOU SHALT DIFFUSE THE AWKWARDNESS FROM THY PRIOR WEEK BY PLATONICALLY TEXTING THINE EX.
I’ve got the message window open before Jessie even reaches the foyer.
I was a weirdo on Wed—any chance you （and Mario!） are up for a do-over? Maybe central park? I press send, feeling so mature, I honestly have to sit here and bask in it for a minute. The proof’s right there in writing: I’m the chillest, most dignified ex in the game.
At least, I’m chill until Ben starts typing. Lol, you weren’t a weirdo! Would totally be into a central park do-over, but I’m supposed to help Dylan try on a suit for samantha’s cousin’s wedding, he’s too scared to go to bloomingdale’s alone.
Patrick wasn’t available?? I ask.
LOL, Ben replies, LOL IN ALL CAPS
I grin at my phone screen. I forgot how much I love making him laugh.
Ben starts typing again. Wait how would u feel if we made it a group hang?? Maybe you could give me your take on the Dylan vibes
Oh, ok! Are you sure D would be cool with me third wheeling it?
Ben’s response is instantaneous. You wouldn’t be a third wheel! You should come—meeting at noon at the flagship store on Lex, men’s formal wear near Armani.
It’s the one near our post office , he adds.
Our post office.
And here I thought Mikey was the only boy who could knock the air from my lungs with three words.
Standing next to a bunch of Armani-suited mannequins, Ben and Dylan look like a pair of camp counselors crashing the Met Gala. When I reach them, Dylan’s already mid-declaration. “I was there when she ordered it. I swear on the life of my ancestors, there is a suit back there with Digby’s name on it.”
“Empty promise,” Ben says. “Your ancestors are already dead.”
“We’re not talking about my bloodline, Benstagram. This is about Digby Worthington Whitaker, five-time Yale graduate, tsunami cum laude. Show some goddamn respect.”
“Is Digby Samantha’s cousin?” I ask.
“Arthropod! That shirt!” Dylan lights up. “It’s like Stranger Things meets . . . the sun.”
“Ha, yeah. I guess it’s pretty yellow.” I fidget with the collar, cheeks going warm. “Thanks for letting me crash your shopping trip.”
“Glad you’re here, bro.” He pats my shoulder. “Gotta go check on Digby’s suit, but you make yourself comfortable. Mi casta es su casta.”
“Mi casa,” says Ben.
“Yes, darling, it’s our casta.” Dylan rolls his eyes, smiling.
By the time he disappears into Men’s Formal Wear, Ben’s managed to extract a tag from between the buttons of a folded blue shirt. “Holy shit. Guess how much this costs.”