Here's to Us(What If It's Us #2)(63)

Samantha walks toward the bathroom line, dropping the bottle into the trash like it’s a mic.

Dylan closes his eyes. “One cappuccino, two cappuccino, three cappuccino, four cappuccino . . .”

He was never a big fan of counting with Mississippis because he thinks no word should be that tricky to spell. It’s always been stupid to me since he’s not spelling the word when he says it, but Dylan is going to Dylan.

“. . . ten cappuccino.” He opens his eyes and hits stop on Samantha’s phone’s stopwatch. “Hello, Benjamin. I appreciate you taking time out of your day so we may converse like civil men.”

I glare at him.

“I would like to speak with you about something I found rather upsetting if you’re willing to dialogue with me about said matter.”

“That’s why I’m here.”

“Once again, I appreciate your presence. So, the matter at hand was the discovery that you are considering a move to Los Angeles. Not from you, as one would expect between best friends for life, but instead by one Mario Colón. He dropped the bomb as if it were a plaything when I assure you that bombs are no toys.”

“Take that up with him.”

“I’m not particularly fond of him right now. He’s taking my best friend away from New York.”

“You don’t even live here anymore.”

“That could change! Chicago’s winters are the worst!”

“You know where winter isn’t the worst?”

“Don’t say it—”

“Los Angeles.”

“Damn you, Benjamin. You said it when I asked you not to, and I’m our worried our civil conversation is at risk of becoming uncivil.”

This is giving me a massive headache. “D, why do you care? You talked this big game about how we were going to hang out all summer, and instead you’ve canceled on me a thousand times—”

“Falsehood! Falsehood!”

“And your reasons are so weak. Why should I have to stay in New York when you’re not here? And even when you are, you’re being weirder than usual?”

Dylan leans in. “There are forces at play here that I cannot speak to because I have been sworn to secrecy,” he whispers. “The stuff happening in Samantha’s family is huge, but that’s her business and as her boyfriend I have been trusted with that and I can’t abuse it. Not even to you, my freckled best friend who equates my canceling of plans to the same crime as moving across the country without telling me.”

“I haven’t moved yet. We don’t even know if the show’s getting picked up!”

“And when might that information be forthcoming, pray tell? Or should I ask Mario?”

“I mean, Mario thinks we’ll know soon. Maybe a week or two? But even if Mario has to head out sooner, I don’t think I’d leave until next month.”

“Next month?!”

Samantha returns from the bathroom. “I don’t see anyone making sweet love.”

Dylan turns to her. “He’s moving next month!”

Samantha takes his hand. “It’s his life. We have to respect that.”

“I might hate it and come back,” I say.

“Oh, please, you’re going to walk away from your hot boyfriend who probably makes the best sandcastles and surfs like an Olympian and looks hot all the time?”

“Mario can’t swim, actually.”

“What about the sandcastles, Ben? What about the sandcastles?”

I shrug.

Dylan sighs. “I guess let me know when you move to Los Angeles forever next month.”

“We just all have to hang out some more,” Samantha says. “Dylan and I are going to an open mic night on Friday. Why don’t you and Mario join us?”

I nod. “That sounds fun.” I pick up my phone, distracted as Dylan mutters something to Samantha. I type out Open mic night this Friday with Dylan and Samantha? and ask, “What’s that, D?”

“Nothing,” he says.

“He said that he’s hoping the open mic night will trick you into loving New York again,” Samantha says. “Which is not my intention. I just want to see you while we can.”

My phone buzzes.

Sounds FUN! Where?

The world grinds to a halt.

I texted the wrong person.

“Um.” I swallow. “I accidentally texted Arthur instead of Mario about Friday. Should I . . . ?”

“Oh, it’s fine,” Samantha says. “Invite them both! The more the merrier.”

“Thanks.”

I text Mario—for real this time—and he’s immediately game. Just the five of us this Friday, hanging out.

What could possibly go wrong?





Chapter Twenty-Four


Arthur

Thursday, June 18




I don’t want to sound the alarms prematurely, but I’m pretty sure I’m being stalked by the state of California. First it was the Clueless GIF Jessie sent me at lunch. Then: a taxi ad for the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills, a busker singing “Hotel California,” a guy reading Big Sur on the platform, and no fewer than four articles in my news app about a Once Upon a Time . . . in Hollywood spin-off. I don’t know if the universe thinks it’s being funny or what, but if I see one more palm tree or sunset or big white letter, I’m filing for a restraining order.