Here's to Us(What If It's Us #2)(49)

I’m kind.

I’m really handsome.

My heart is everything.

No matter how much time I’ve spent alone building up my self-worth, I still welcome Mario’s words about how much I mean to him. I believe him when he says my heart is everything.

“How do I say ‘Are you trying to make me cry?’ in Spanish?”

Mario smiles.

I grab his hand. “You’re one of the most generous souls I know. And you’re pretty damn handsome yourself.”

“I seriously wish I’d started talking to you the moment you stepped into the classroom.”

I’m glad he didn’t. I was still deep in my feelings for Arthur and needed more time to open myself up to someone new.

“Everything in its own time,” I say.

Mario stares at our held hands. “Except I messed up by not acting sooner. Something has come up that’s pretty exciting.”

I’m tempted to let go of him, nervous what he’s about to share. “Okay . . .”

“So Hector, that writer I met in LA? He shared his document for his android series so I could see what a proper pitch package looks like. It was so cool, and I was sold on the premise. But I thought his younger characters needed some work, and I gave him some ideas. Hector actually went and rewrote some scenes and said they shined brighter.”

“That’s amazing,” I say.

I’m still waiting for the gut punch.

“Hector isn’t sure if a network will buy the pitch yet, but if they do, he wants to hire me as his writer’s assistant.”

“That’s so awesome—” I stop when I realize what he’s saying. “The job isn’t in New York.”

He doesn’t look up at me. “It would be in LA.”

“You think you would go?”

“I would definitely go.”

This is the kind of news that people ask you if you’re sitting first before they tell you.

Why does everything have to be so damn hard for me? I’ve waited years to find someone right for me, he’s finally confessing his deep feelings for me, and now he’s ready to leave? It’s shit like this that makes me not want to believe in the power of the universe. I keep meeting incredible people in this city who leave me behind and go on to lead better lives.

“What about college?” I ask. I know it’s grasping at straws, but there’s no way in hell he’s going to stay for me.

“I’d be getting paid to learn in a real writers’ room instead of paying the school to teach me.”

“When would you know? If the show is getting picked up?”

“Maybe in the next couple of weeks.”

“Weeks. Wow.” He could be gone so soon. “Mario, are you sure you’re not riding some high after all that LA sunshine?”

Mario finally looks me in the eye. “I think there’s a version of me in LA that will be happier than I am now. That’s worth chasing. Do you think you’re at your happiest here?”

“No. I haven’t been for a while. But you’ve made it better.”

“And apart from my brothers, I’ll miss you the most. You’re one of a kind, Alejo. I think you would like LA.”

“I don’t have LA money or an uncle with a guesthouse.”

“But you have a Mario who does. Maybe you could stay with me sometime?”

I don’t know how to respond to that. The whole sentiment makes me feel like we’ve been dating the entire time and I zoned out when we made it official because I was too busy staring into his hazel eyes.

“Say something,” Mario says.

This is a lot to take in right now. “I’m just thinking about everything I’m about to lose,” I say. I can practically feel his lips on mine, the comfort of his head on my shoulder, the swelling pride whenever I understand him in Spanish.

“Hey, maybe I don’t know what I’m talking about and Hector’s script actually sucks,” Mario says. “Then I won’t go anywhere.”

“I want you to win at life,” I say. “Even if it means missing you.”

“Don’t miss me yet,” Mario says.

He leans in for a kiss, and as much as I want to step back to protect my heart, I welcome his lips—because I know they’ll be on the other side of the country soon.





Chapter Eighteen


Arthur

Friday, June 5




You know those expectation-versus-reality memes? That’s my professional life.

I love my job; don’t get me wrong. I get to joke around with Taj and breathe the same air as Emmett Kester and Amelia Zhu. I’m even getting somewhat more chill around Jacob, probably because he’s about as intimidating as a mall Santa—until you watch him flip a whole scene on its head with a single bit of direction. The whole process fascinates me—watching the story stitch together, piece by piece.

It’s just that I thought I’d be doing some of the stitching.

“So you think you sent it?” Taj asks, managing to convey a hearty Dear God, Arthur in a single split-second arch of his eyebrow. Like I’m the biggest fuckup on earth.

“No, I sent it. Definitely.” I lean forward, scanning the list of subject lines in my outbox. “I forwarded it to him on . . . Friday. Ha!” I point to last week’s design budget log on my screen, silently thanking Past Arthur for not dropping the ball.