“How much cash you got?” Dylan asks. “We’re going to bribe our way to the front.”
Samantha reaches into her purse. “I have a twenty.”
“I’m tapped out after buying the pins,” I say.
Mario observes the line. “There’s nine people ahead of you. I’ll go break that twenty and we’ll make it work.”
He takes the bill from Samantha and runs toward a hot dog cart.
“Do we trust Mario with the money?” Dylan asks.
“Nah, he’s a total mentiroso,” I say.
“Total what?”
I smile as I step away, not translating liar for him.
I take in the passing crowd, wondering what everyone’s stories are. What everyone has been through to be able to be here today. Who will be here next year. And the year after. Will I be back? Will I be back with Mario?
I’m not psychic, so I focus on the present.
There’s so much life out here, it’s explosive. And style like no other day. Someone really went all out in a Captain America costume but instead of red, white, and blue stripes, there’s a rainbow flag. For the most part, people are representing the day in incredible shirts that I wish they’d wear year-round: Sounds Gay, I’m In.
The “T” Is Not Silent.
Trans & Proud.
Space Ace.
Assume Nothing.
And then a short cute guy turns the corner in one of those Lin-Manuel Miranda love is love is love shirts.
Half a second later, I realize it’s Arthur, and suddenly I don’t care that he hasn’t texted. My heart’s pounding so fast, because this has to be the universe at work. Who knows how many people are packing these streets, and of course I zero in on Arthur Seuss. I’m so happy to see him that I jump up and down and shout out his name, but he can’t hear me over the energetic crowd and loud music.
And then, just as I’m about to push through everyone to reach him, I see someone in a blue beanie sidle up to him, linking arms. It’s got to be Mikey.
I feel like I’ve lost my voice and lost control of my muscles. I want to sink down onto the curb and hide behind the parade.
I don’t even get how Mikey’s still in New York. Did he quit his job and just move here? Are they seriously not capable of living apart for one summer? I think back to that weird night at the open mic bar, trying to imagine how everything must have played out. Maybe Mikey just couldn’t bring himself to get back on that train. Maybe they spent the whole week having incredible sex. Maybe Mikey has been delivering personal encores of his karaoke performance every single night. That would definitely explain why Arthur hasn’t texted me all week. It sucks, because I really thought Arthur and I were getting closer. But I feel further away from him now than I ever have before, even when we lived almost a thousand miles apart.
He could have at least let me know he’d be at Pride.
Then again, I guess I could have reached out to him, too.
I don’t even know why I care. All I know is, this is why I’m so fucking ready to start over in Los Angeles. No more memories catching me by the throat every few blocks. No more turning corners and stumbling into exes with their new boyfriends who get the ultimate do-overs that I never did.
Chapter Thirty
Arthur
Tuesday, June 30
What sucks is that I really thought I was fine—or at least I was getting there. Sure, it stung when I couldn’t text Mikey about the Animal Crossing cosplayers at Pride, and I’m still checking in on Mario’s Instagram like it’s my full-time job, but at least my mouth was starting to remember the mechanics of smiling. There were even real stretches of time where I didn’t think about Ben or Mikey at all. I was just a guy in a Hamilton Pride shirt, walking with my best friends through the rainbow-spangled streets of Manhattan.
And then Ethan went home.
I really need to start learning the difference between fine and distracted.
Yeah. So, it turns out, the world doesn’t stop for heartbreak. I don’t get to skip work because I look like a sleep-deprived ghoul, or because I feel bad about Mikey, or because Ben doesn’t love me. I don’t get to unravel nine days before our first dress rehearsal.
Nine days—and just eight more days after that until we officially open. Shouldn’t I be at least a little bit excited about this? Here I am standing on a real New York stage, beneath a scaffolded ceiling and professional-grade lights. I’m not saying it’s Radio City Music Hall—it’s a black box, which is basically just a dark-painted cube, even at a top-tier place like the Shumaker. But the black box isn’t the problem. I’m the problem. Because my brain won’t shut up about the boy I’m not in love with.