Here's to Us(What If It's Us #2)(65)

“Mikey.”

“I’m gonna go.” He tries to smile, but it doesn’t quite hold.

“Mikey Mouse. Hey. Can we talk about this?”

“Tomorrow. I’m sorry. I’m not mad, okay?” he says. “I miss you.”

Then he ends the call before I have a chance to say it back.

At work the next day, Taj ambushes me before I even put my bag down. “Ready for some fuckery? You’re not going to believe this.” He throws up jazz hands. “The theater double-booked us for the weekend of the tenth.”

My mouth falls open. “Are you serious? Opening weekend?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Is that, like . . . a normal thing that happens?”

He lets out a choked laugh. “It’s so far from normal. Marketing’s already started. The posters. I’m losing my goddamn mind,” he says, reaching for his bullet journal. Then he spends the next few minutes outlining the entire revamped production schedule that I forget on the spot, because it seems my brain only has room for two dates.

July 17th, our new opening night. And July 11th, the wedding.

When Mikey said to save the date, I guess the universe listened.



Taj leaves to find Jacob, but I barely register his absence. I’m too wrapped up in what should be the simplest equation of all time: Mikey plus one.

I settle in at my table, chin in my hands, waiting to feel over the moon about this.

It’s a good thing, no question. I like Robbie and Amanda, I like cake, I like dancing. I definitely like making Mikey happy. And who knows—maybe seeing Mikey in a suit will make it all click into place. We’ll kiss under the stars and hold hands under the table, and I’ll finally know for sure that I’m completely in love. That I’ve been in love all along.

But I’m missing something. I know I am. It’s like there’s a thought circling my brain, waiting for clearance to land. Something about weddings and dancing and blown-away grooms and the l’dor v’dor of it all. Generation to generation.

I think about my bar mitzvah, and how I missed the kiddush luncheon because I was crying in an empty Sunday school classroom. I’d managed to skip a line in my Torah portion, and even though my parents swore no one noticed, I knew that was bullshit. God noticed. And wasn’t God the whole point? Did my bar mitzvah even count anymore?

I was a quaking lump of pinstripes and hair gel when Bubbe found me, and at first she said nothing. She just pulled a chair up beside me and rubbed circles on my back like she used to when I was little. But when she spoke at last, it felt like the first real adult conversation of my life. “It’s not about the Torah,” she’d said gently, and I’d looked up in scandalized amazement. “It’s not! Your zayde was called to the Torah, and your uncle Milton, and my father, and his father, and so on. But your mother and I never read from the Torah. When I was a girl, it was unusual for girls to even read from the haftarah. My mother gave tzedakah and received a private blessing at home. There’s no particular way a ritual has to look. You could have stood up there and done the Charleston, and it wouldn’t have mattered, as long as you felt it right here.” She touched both hands to her chest and smiled. “It’s our link to the generations who came before us, and it’s how we hold space for the ones who haven’t been born yet. L’dor v’dor, Aharon,” she said, using my Hebrew name, and I knew she was thinking about my great-grandpa Aaron. Bubbe was young when her dad died—even my mom never got to meet him. But that’s who I’m named for, and Bubbe always says my heart is just like his.

Here’s the thing: this isn’t just cake, and it isn’t just dancing. It’s a wedding. Which means it’s wrapped in every wedding that ever came before it and all the ones that haven’t happened yet, too. Maybe even mine.

I press a hand to my face. Suddenly, I’m holding back tears.

I’ve been searching my brain, inch by inch, but I never thought to zoom out. Now it’s as clear as the X on a map.

I’m completely in love. I’ve been in love all along.

But not with Mikey. And when I think about the future, Mikey’s not the one who’s in it.

I must be time-traveling again. Every time I blink, another hour goes by—a full Friday workday, gone with no trace. I don’t remember taking the elevator down, but here I am under the studio awning, waiting for the rain to die down. The plan was to call Mikey from home, but maybe I should do it now, before I lose my nerve.

Except my hands won’t stop shaking. I don’t even know what this conversation looks like. There has to be a script for this somewhere. I’m not the first guy on earth to break up with someone. It’s not even my first time breaking up with Mikey.

The thought rips through me so sharply, I barely keep my grip on my phone.

I know I’m impulsive. And careless. But the way I’ve treated Mikey? The way I keep yanking my heart out of reach every time he tries to catch it?

I’m his first I love you, his first time having sex, his first kiss, his first everything.

I’m his Ben.

The rain hasn’t died down at all, so I walk back into the studio lobby. Mikey’s so easy to find in my contacts—his name’s at the top of my favorites. I tap the call button and try to catch my breath while it rings.

I owe him this, I think.