Here's to Us(What If It's Us #2)(10)

Pa sighs. “If you say so. Wrap it up with the wrap-it-ups and you can clock out early.”

“Thanks.”

Pa does his exaggerated cough to get me to speak in Spanish. He’s been pushing for more out of me ever since I turned Mario into my personal Duolingo. That’s the other reason Pa gets weird about Mario, though he’d never admit it. He had the chance to teach me himself. Now I’m turning to someone else.

“No one needs Spanish lessons to say gracias.”

“Every little bit counts.”

“Gracias, Pa.”

He squeezes my shoulder. “Ese es mi hijo.” Static rasps from his walkie-talkie before Alfredo’s voice asks for Pa for assistance at the cash register. “Don’t forget to say bye before you leave.”

“Don’t you mean adiós?”

Pa bows slightly in gratitude and heads to the front of the store.

I have this instinct to apologize for closing myself off, but I shouldn’t have to. I should get some time to figure out my feelings in peace.

I shelve the condom boxes, thinking about another consequence of still living with my parents. Last month Pa was doing laundry and found a condom sleeve in my jeans pocket. It led to this big conversation where he asked if I was sexually active or not. He was shocked when I told him that I’d had sex with Hudson, Arthur, and Mario. Pa got really fidgety because I don’t think any of the articles he read about how to talk to his son about sex could’ve prepared him for what to say when you find out your nineteen-year-old son has had sex with more people than you. All he could really say was how he was relieved condoms were always involved, and that he would tell Ma for me if I wanted. I didn’t mind her knowing, but I still couldn’t look either of them in the eye for the rest of the night.

I’m about to turn my attention away from the condoms and to the pregnancy tests when I hear my best friend.

“Aha! I should’ve known I’d find you here,” Dylan says.

“Why’s that?”

“Because you must be stocking up for more sex marathons with your boyfriend.”

“He’s not my boyfriend.” And right as Dylan opens his mouth, I add, “And we don’t have sex marathons.”

“How are you not bumping butts with that perfect creation every chance you get? I told Samantha that I bet Mario was created in a lab by some horny Dr. Frankenstein, and she did not disagree.” Dylan lets out a low whistle.

“Yes, he’s beautiful,” I say while stacking more pregnancy tests, which unlike the condoms did need restocking; the math here speaks for itself.

“Hot,” Dylan says.

“It’s more than just sex for us,” I say while carrying the extra condoms to the back room.

“I know, Big Ben. I saw you guys together. You’re definitely going to be the Luigi to his Mario, just jumping down each other’s pipes and”—Dylan stops talking as a customer with a child passes us in the aisle—“just—”

“No need to finish that sentence,” I say.

I go into the back room, clock out, and change out of my khaki pants and white polo to jeans and a blue V-neck that reminds me of the shade of nail polish Mario sometimes wears. When I come out from the back, Dylan is reading the blurb of a mass-market romance novel. I pause in front of him, thinking that will get his attention, but he keeps reading, muttering the summary about a schoolteacher and a marine falling for each other.

“Am I gay if I buy this?” Dylan asks.

“What do you think?”

Dylan pauses. “No?”

“Correct.”

“Awesome. What’s your employee discount? Fifty percent?”

“No.”

“Seventy?”

I’m truly shocked we’re on line buying this book, but it works out in his favor when Pa calls us up to the cash register he’s working.

“Dylan, welcome back,” Pa says.

“It’s an honor to be welcomed back, Diego.” Dylan salutes.

Pa’s polite smile reminds me of whenever he’s exhausted by customers but has to hide it. He turns to me. “You didn’t have to get in line to say bye.”

“I didn’t.”

Dylan steps up to the counter and sets down the romance novel.

“This for Samantha?” Pa asks.

Dylan shakes his head. “Diego, Diego. Surely you’re more progressive than that.”

“You’re the one who asked if buying the book meant you were gay,” I say.

“I am the reader of romances,” Dylan continues. “This is what makes me so wonderful with the ladies”—he wraps his arm around my shoulders—“and your son.”

“It appears college didn’t make you any more mature,” Pa says.

“Oh, believe me, Diego, I’ve been plenty mature at college.”

The other cashier, Donny, accidentally scans a shampoo bottle multiple times while eavesdropping on Dylan’s insanity.

Pa bags up Dylan’s book. “Please leave.”

“You’ll be seeing more of me soon,” Dylan says, throwing the bag over his shoulder and walking toward the exit.

“Why did that come off as a threat?” Pa asks.

I shrug. “See you, Pa.”