Here's to Us(What If It's Us #2)(26)

“Is that the prop baby?” I ask.

“Yeah, no. Absolutely not.” Jacob lets out a tired-sounding laugh, running a hand through his hair. “Okay, I better go deal with this.”

“And I’ll get you logged in,” Taj says, turning to me—but then he pauses. “Actually, you know what? You want to grab some coffee before the actors get here?”

“Oh! No thanks, I’m good. First-day jitters. Can’t have caffeine, or I’ll turn into Sonic the Hedgehog. Or a vibrator.”

Hello, yes, hi? I’d like to speak with a manager, please, about the possibility of me voluntarily bursting into flames? Because I, for some unknowable fucking reason, decided to refer to myself as both a Sega Genesis character and a sex toy on my first day of work. Also, I can’t stop staring at those suspenders. And that tie.

“Got it,” says Taj after about ten hours of excruciating silence.

I text Jessie as soon as he leaves. I could pull off a floral tie, right??

No response. I’m guessing she’s currently drowning in legal files or fighting with the copy machine or taking Starbucks orders, and God I’m so glad I’m not a law intern anymore. I’m not saying entering props into an Excel sheet is the pinnacle of creativity—intern life is intern life. But if I’m stuck picking up someone’s iced coffee, it might as well be Jacob Demsky’s.

And then it hits me like an anvil: Taj wasn’t asking me if I wanted to get coffee. He wanted us to get coffee for Jacob and the crew, maybe even the actors. Which means I’m officially the most useless assistant’s intern on earth. Is this my legacy? Arthur Seuss, trailblazer in the realm of forgetting basic tasks like offering to get my boss’s coffee?

I’ll just have to make up for it by dazzling Taj and Jacob with the best props log in the history of theater. The blank template Taj gave me is really basic, but I bet I could replicate the grid in the design app Samantha’s always hyping on Instagram. Maybe I could even import images to go with each prop, just for the wow factor. I want Jacob to know how seriously I’m taking this. My bare-minimum-effort days are over. I’m putting all my kiss-ass teacher’s pet energy into the universe.

I’m so in the zone that I don’t even hear Taj’s footsteps until I’m hit with the scent of his coffee. “Oh, wow.” I glance up to find him peering at my screen, his brow furrowed. “Is this—”

“What do you think? Obviously, it’s all the same info, but I wanted to give it a little bit of extra punch. You know?”

“Um. Yeah, okay. I see that. It’s definitely got the punch.”

I bite back a proud smile.

Taj rubs the bridge of his nose. “So. Um. Typically, the props team likes to stick to their standard templates, just to streamline the process.”

My stomach drops. “Oh. Um—”

“This is really impressive,” he adds quickly. “I’m just—you know. Wondering if you also happen to have the other version . . . ?”

“Totally! I mean, I don’t have it yet, but I can go back. God. I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize . . .” I stare at my hands.

“Oh! No. I’m sorry. I should have clarified. You were just—this is a fantastic chart. It’s just—”

“It will take me ten minutes. I’ll do it right now.” I’m blinking so fast, my eyelids are practically fluttering. But I can’t. I can’t cry on the first day of work. It’s just. I haven’t even been here an hour, and I’ve already messed up. I already need a do-over.

This really is like a date.





Chapter Nine


Ben

Friday, May 22




“Knock, knock,” Dylan says outside my bedroom door without actually knocking.

“One sec.”

I’m standing shirtless in front of my open drawer. I want to wear one of the shirts Mario made for me, but that feels like a strong choice of wardrobe on my way to hang with my ex and his new boyfriend. Will it come off like I’m trying to really push how much Mario cares about me even though we’re not official? Or is it more than enough that Mario’s already hanging out with all of us on his last night before he leaves for his LA trip?

It’s stupid caring this much.

I don’t need to seem like I’m in competition with Arthur.

I’m going to walk into this hangout with my head high.

Speaking of pride, I choose my favorite shirt Mario made for me after we started our Spanish lessons: a plain white tee with a Puerto Rican flag stamped onto the chest pocket. I had joked with him that sometimes it felt like people wouldn’t be able to tell that I’m Puerto Rican unless I started wearing the flag like a cape, and he made this shirt and told me it was more subtle. I feel seen when I wear this.

“Knock, knock,” Dylan says again. “You have five seconds to pull your pants up.”

“Come in,” I say.

“Really? You still have like three seconds,” Dylan says, still outside my door.

“Move,” Samantha says, letting herself in. “Hey, Ben.”

Samantha is twirling her key necklace around her finger and dressed in black and white—black tee, white vest, black jeans, and black-and-white sneakers. She’s got a Cruella de Vil intern vibe, and it really works for her. Then in comes Dylan, following like her loyal puppy.