Here's to Us(What If It's Us #2)(64)

Though the real fucking winner is Ethan smogging up my brain with a link to Mario’s latest Instagram post. Please tell me you’ve seen this

I flop on the couch, trying to imagine a world where I haven’t checked this post five million times since Mario uploaded it. Since when do you follow Mario? I ask.

A moment later: lol since you sent me his feed?

I click into Mario’s profile, pulling up the now-familiar post: Ben and me on the dressing room couch, cropped next to a screenshot of Emma Stone and Ryan Gosling on a park bench. Mario’s caption says, “Spot the difference.” It’s already gotten almost eight hundred likes, and every single one feels like being stabbed by a needle. But what’s worse is how I can’t stop myself from scrolling through Mario’s squares of unfiltered selfies and snapshots from LA: the La Brea Tar Pits, a stack of pancakes, the outside of a bar where an episode of RuPaul’s Drag Race was filmed. It’s a little too easy to plug Ben into every frame. Mario and Ben walking down the Santa Monica Pier, hand in hand. Ben’s laptop next to Mario’s on a patio table. It’s like a bruise I can’t stop poking.

People don’t warn you that heartbreak is a chronic condition. Maybe it quiets down a little over time, or you can muffle it with distance, but the ache never quite dials down to zero. It’s there lurking in the background, ready to flare back up the minute you let your guard down.

Ben’s leaving New York. And it feels like he’s leaving me specifically.

Which makes no sense. I don’t even live here. And even if I did live here, Ben’s not my boyfriend. He’s absolutely, unequivocally not—

Mikey. A photo pops onto my screen like I summoned it: a fish-face selfie with Mia in her dim bedroom light. It’s the sweetest picture ever taken, and I feel so guilty I could puke.

But where does the guilt even come from? I haven’t crossed any lines. And I won’t. I wouldn’t. Mikey knows about every single Ben hangout this whole entire summer.

I tuck my knees onto the couch and press the voice call button.

He answers in a whisper. “Hey, hold on a sec. Just leaving Mia’s room.” A moment later, a door creaks shut, and I picture Mikey padding down the hall in his crisp white socks. “Okay, I’m back,” he says. “Can we FaceTime? I want to ask you something.”

My stomach twists, but I smile through it. “Should I be nervous?”

“Why would you be nervous?”

“Because you said you wanted to ask me something, and questions are scary.”

“This isn’t a scary one, I promise.” Mikey pops into video, smiling. He’s at his desk now, with his phone propped up, camera angled up from below. All chin, forever adorably bad at FaceTime. “So my parents finally talked Robbie and Amanda into a wedding,” he says.

“Oh! Wow—”

“Really tiny. Just dancing and cake in their backyard. But I get to bring a plus-one, so . . .” He smiles shyly. “Save the date for July eleventh?”

I pause. “Of this year?”

“I know, it’s ridiculously soon. But apparently they’ve got our pastor lined up, and I think they’ve booked a tent already, too.”

“Mikey, I can’t,” I say quietly. “I’m so sorry. The play opens that weekend. I have to be at work.”

His brow furrows. “You don’t think anyone could cover for you?”

“On opening weekend?”

“You’re the assistant’s intern.”

My cheeks go warm. “Yeah, I get that you’re disappointed, but please don’t shit all over my job.”

“That’s not—” He shuts his eyes for a moment. “Arthur. I’m sorry. That came out wrong. I just miss you, you know?” His cheeks are flushed. “And it’s not just the wedding. I guess . . . I feel like I’m the one putting in all the effort lately.”

My stomach goes taut. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. Just the day-to-day stuff, and FaceTime—”

“We talk every day!”

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Because I call you every day.”

I stop short. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize—”

“And it’s like, you’re so good at the big moments. Like New Year’s. The theater tickets. But I feel like we get a little lost in between those things.”

“Well,” I say, “maybe I want more big moments from you.”

“Like when I told you I loved you?” says Mikey.

All the air leaves my lungs.

“Sorry.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t pressure you.”

“No, you’re right.” I take a deep breath. “I’m so sorry. You’ve been so patient. I want to say it back to you. I’m just not—I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I keep getting in my head about it, and I end up thinking in circles.”

Mikey nods quickly without meeting my eyes. We’re both silent for a minute.

When I finally speak, my voice cracks. “I shouldn’t have come to New York.”

“Arthur, no! It’s your dream job. I shouldn’t have said anything.” His voice shakes, and it makes my whole chest clench.