Dylan turns to her. “He’s moving next month!”
Samantha takes his hand. “It’s his life. We have to respect that.”
“I might hate it and come back,” I say.
“Oh, please, you’re going to walk away from your hot boyfriend who probably makes the best sandcastles and surfs like an Olympian and looks hot all the time?”
“Mario can’t swim, actually.”
“What about the sandcastles, Ben? What about the sandcastles?”
I shrug.
Dylan sighs. “I guess let me know when you move to Los Angeles forever next month.”
“We just all have to hang out some more,” Samantha says. “Dylan and I are going to an open mic night on Friday. Why don’t you and Mario join us?”
I nod. “That sounds fun.” I pick up my phone, distracted as Dylan mutters something to Samantha. I type out Open mic night this Friday with Dylan and Samantha? and ask, “What’s that, D?”
“Nothing,” he says.
“He said that he’s hoping the open mic night will trick you into loving New York again,” Samantha says. “Which is not my intention. I just want to see you while we can.”
My phone buzzes.
Sounds FUN! Where?
The world grinds to a halt.
I texted the wrong person.
“Um.” I swallow. “I accidentally texted Arthur instead of Mario about Friday. Should I . . . ?”
“Oh, it’s fine,” Samantha says. “Invite them both! The more the merrier.”
“Thanks.”
I text Mario—for real this time—and he’s immediately game. Just the five of us this Friday, hanging out.
What could possibly go wrong?
Chapter Twenty-Four
Arthur
Thursday, June 18
I don’t want to sound the alarms prematurely, but I’m pretty sure I’m being stalked by the state of California. First it was the Clueless GIF Jessie sent me at lunch. Then: a taxi ad for the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills, a busker singing “Hotel California,” a guy reading Big Sur on the platform, and no fewer than four articles in my news app about a Once Upon a Time . . . in Hollywood spin-off. I don’t know if the universe thinks it’s being funny or what, but if I see one more palm tree or sunset or big white letter, I’m filing for a restraining order.
Though the real fucking winner is Ethan smogging up my brain with a link to Mario’s latest Instagram post. Please tell me you’ve seen this
I flop on the couch, trying to imagine a world where I haven’t checked this post five million times since Mario uploaded it. Since when do you follow Mario? I ask.
A moment later: lol since you sent me his feed?
I click into Mario’s profile, pulling up the now-familiar post: Ben and me on the dressing room couch, cropped next to a screenshot of Emma Stone and Ryan Gosling on a park bench. Mario’s caption says, “Spot the difference.” It’s already gotten almost eight hundred likes, and every single one feels like being stabbed by a needle. But what’s worse is how I can’t stop myself from scrolling through Mario’s squares of unfiltered selfies and snapshots from LA: the La Brea Tar Pits, a stack of pancakes, the outside of a bar where an episode of RuPaul’s Drag Race was filmed. It’s a little too easy to plug Ben into every frame. Mario and Ben walking down the Santa Monica Pier, hand in hand. Ben’s laptop next to Mario’s on a patio table. It’s like a bruise I can’t stop poking.
People don’t warn you that heartbreak is a chronic condition. Maybe it quiets down a little over time, or you can muffle it with distance, but the ache never quite dials down to zero. It’s there lurking in the background, ready to flare back up the minute you let your guard down.
Ben’s leaving New York. And it feels like he’s leaving me specifically.
Which makes no sense. I don’t even live here. And even if I did live here, Ben’s not my boyfriend. He’s absolutely, unequivocally not—
Mikey. A photo pops onto my screen like I summoned it: a fish-face selfie with Mia in her dim bedroom light. It’s the sweetest picture ever taken, and I feel so guilty I could puke.
But where does the guilt even come from? I haven’t crossed any lines. And I won’t. I wouldn’t. Mikey knows about every single Ben hangout this whole entire summer.
I tuck my knees onto the couch and press the voice call button.
He answers in a whisper. “Hey, hold on a sec. Just leaving Mia’s room.” A moment later, a door creaks shut, and I picture Mikey padding down the hall in his crisp white socks. “Okay, I’m back,” he says. “Can we FaceTime? I want to ask you something.”