Here's to Us(What If It's Us #2)(60)

“Empty promise,” Ben says. “Your ancestors are already dead.”

“We’re not talking about my bloodline, Benstagram. This is about Digby Worthington Whitaker, five-time Yale graduate, tsunami cum laude. Show some goddamn respect.”

“Is Digby Samantha’s cousin?” I ask.

“Arthropod! That shirt!” Dylan lights up. “It’s like Stranger Things meets . . . the sun.”

“Ha, yeah. I guess it’s pretty yellow.” I fidget with the collar, cheeks going warm. “Thanks for letting me crash your shopping trip.”

“Glad you’re here, bro.” He pats my shoulder. “Gotta go check on Digby’s suit, but you make yourself comfortable. Mi casta es su casta.”

“Mi casa,” says Ben.

“Yes, darling, it’s our casta.” Dylan rolls his eyes, smiling.

By the time he disappears into Men’s Formal Wear, Ben’s managed to extract a tag from between the buttons of a folded blue shirt. “Holy shit. Guess how much this costs.”

“Fifty dollars?”

Ben tilts his palms up and gestures for me to go higher.

“A hundred?”

“Two hundred twenty-five,” he says, “for a button-down shirt.”

“Oof. Armani’s not messing around.”

“I don’t get it,” Ben says. “Why is this better than, like, Marshalls? Is it threaded with diamonds? Does wearing it give you an orgasm?”

“Hola, I’d like to place an order for one diamond-threaded orgasm shirt, please.”

We both whirl around to find Mario in a loose blue tank top, looking like he teleported straight from the beach. He greets me with a kiss on the cheek, which catches me so off guard, I can hardly process the fact that he’s here in the first place. I’m pretty sure Ben didn’t mention he was coming, but I guess Mario’s presence is the default setting now.

But before I can even cough up a real hello, Dylan reappears, carrying a black suit on a hanger. “Gentlemen, time to try this bad boy on for size. And by ‘bad boy’”—he glances slyly at Ben—“I do not mean the suit.”

“I’m not having sex with you in a Bloomingdale’s dressing room,” says Ben.

“Then we’ll save it for Bergdorf.” Dylan tousles Ben’s hair. “Come on, I don’t want to be the only one trying stuff on.”

Ben shakes his head. “I don’t have—”

“Don’t you worry, Benji. I’ll find you something hot.”

“D, I don’t even think I can afford socks here.”

But Dylan’s already prodding Ben toward the dressing room, leaving Mario and me to amble along behind them. Of course, I can’t resist peeking at the price tags out of sheer morbid curiosity. “This one’s eight hundred dollars.” I gape at a mannequin wearing a three-piece suit in deep blue. “How fancy is this wedding? Is Samantha’s cousin Jeff Bezos?”

“Damn.” Mario high-fives the mannequin. “I see you, Mr. Literal Fancypants.”

Minutes later, I’m following Mario into a space that could pass for a minimalist studio apartment, with its hardwood floors, hanging orb light fixtures, and framed black-and-white photos of off-kilter street signs. This isn’t the kind of dressing room where you can see feet poking out under curtains, but it’s pretty easy to tell which stalls Ben and Dylan are in from their voices. Especially Dylan. I settle onto one of the backless black leather couches beside Mario, who immediately cups his hands around his mouth and calls, “Where’s my fashion show? I need some swagger.”

“You can’t handle my swagger,” Dylan shoots back, and Mario opens his mouth to reply. But then the door next to Dylan’s creaks open, and my brain flips to portrait mode. Everything blurs except Ben.

Ben in his dark gray suit with its unbuttoned jacket, scuffed sneakers poking out the bottom of slightly-too-long gray trousers. He’s pink-cheeked and bashful, and the way he’s holding his arms makes me think of penguins. I feel flustered just looking at him.

“Wow,” Mario says softly. He’s clutching his heart, but Ben just grimaces.

“I could pay half of our rent with this suit. It’s ridiculous.”



I clear my throat. “You did a half-Windsor.”

He smiles and says “yeah” and then we just kind of stare at each other for a minute. Or ten minutes. Or ten hours. I don’t know how to measure time when Ben’s looking at me.

“Behold!” Dylan’s voice booms through the stall door. He flings it open, revealing a suit that’s somehow even fancier than Ben’s. “’Tis I, emerging from my chrysalis, transformed by the forces of nature and beauty.”

I give him a thumbs-up. “I like it.”

“You like it?” He gapes at me. “You sound like my mom.”

“Is that . . . bad?”

Mario studies him. “Love the suit. Are we open to constructive feedback on the bow tie?”

“I . . . do not know if we’re open to it.” Dylan swipes his phone out of his breast pocket and starts typing. “I’ll have Samantha . . . text her cousin to find out.”

“Ah,” I say. “Difficult groom?”