“You’re going, right? Are you bringing Mikey?” he asks. “I don’t know if Dylan talked to you yet, but you guys are definitely invited.”
I freeze.
“Um. I—am not bringing Mikey. Because.” I bite my lip. “We kind of. Broke up?”
Ben’s hand goes still on a flower-print onesie. “You did?”
“Yeah. Like, two weeks ago. When he was up here?” Cool. Loving the upspeak I’m serving. King of confidence.
Ben opens his mouth, closes it, and opens it again. “Are you okay?”
“Oh, yeah. Definitely. It was after the whole open mic thing, and I just realized . . . I don’t really want to get into it, but it just wasn’t working, and so I told him, and . . .” I shrug. “That’s pretty much it.”
“I had no idea.”
“Sorry. Yeah, I didn’t want to dump that on you. You have so much going on.”
“That’s not—” Ben shakes his head. “Don’t do that. You don’t have to keep that stuff from me. I want to be there for you.”
“I know. It’s just complicated. But really, I’m fine.”
Ben’s quiet for a moment, brows knitted together. “Sorry, I’m just—” He studies me for a moment, almost like he’s deciding whether or not to say something. “I could have sworn I saw you guys at Pride?”
“Wait, what?”
“Maybe I hallucinated it. It was by the Strand? We were waiting for Dylan and Samantha to finish peeing. Again.”
“I was at the Strand! But not with Mikey. Are you sure you didn’t see Ethan? He was in town that weekend.”
Ben squints. “Was he wearing a hat? I didn’t really see him too closely—”
“Yes! A Queer Evan Hansen hat!”
“Oh!” Ben’s eyes widen. “Is Ethan—”
“Let’s just say he had an epiphany.” I smile.
“Good for him,” Ben says—and then he looks up with a start. “Wait, are you guys—”
“Oh my God, no!” I burst out laughing. “That would be like you dating Dylan—okay, bad example, because I can totally see you dating Dylan—”
“Might I remind you that we are literally, right at this moment, picking out gifts for the baby he’s having with his fiancée, who he’s marrying next weekend—”
“Okay, fair enough, but I’m not dating Ethan. I am a single young intern.”
Ben smiles. “Interns are cool. Also, wow! Less than two weeks until the show, huh?”
“Yup, the seventeenth! And the first dress rehearsal’s in four days.”
“Fuck. Are you freaking out?”
I laugh. “It’s weird—I actually think it’ll be really good? The ads just went live, and I’m obsessed with them. Want to see?” I pull the image up on my phone and hold it up.
Ben’s eyes go saucer-wide. “Wait, is that—”
“Amelia Zhu and Em—”
“You’re telling me . . . this whole time, every time you’ve mentioned Emmett and Amelia . . .” He shakes his head, looking shell-shocked. “Emmett Kester is in your play?”
“He is! He’s awesome, and he’s really sweet—”
“You’ve talked to him?” Ben’s voice jumps a solid octave, just like at the diner with our waitress. Ben, the theater fanboy. I don’t know if I want to laugh or kiss him or both.
Definitely both.
“If you come to the show, I can introduce you,” I say, hoping my cheeks aren’t as red as they feel.
Something flickers in his eyes. “Actually. Um. I think I’ll be in California by then.”
“Oh.” I try to smile, but it barely lasts a millisecond.
“Yeah. Sorry, I haven’t really told most people yet, but I think I’m just going to head out there when Mario goes. After the wedding.”
For a moment, neither of us speaks.
“You’re really leaving, huh?” I say finally.
“It hasn’t fully sunk in yet.”
I grip the edge of the nearest table. “I guess we should figure out the baby stuff, then. You probably need to pack.”
“Yeah . . .” Ben’s cheeks go pink. “No, that’s—”
“I’m going for the narwhal blanket,” I say quickly, forcing a smile. “I’ll tell Dylan you suggested it.”
“Asshole.” Ben grins.
We each pick out a blanket and take them to the counter to pay—me with a card, Ben with a rolled-up, rubber-banded bundle of cash. Then Ben skips the Seventy-Ninth Street subway station and walks me all the way to the front of my building.