Here's to Us(What If It's Us #2)(66)

But he doesn’t pick up. So I shove my phone in a plastic bag and step straight into the rain.

By the time I reach my building, I barely care that I’m soaked. I press the elevator button so hard my knuckle cracks. And then I stare at the mirrored door, watching my lips move as I run through my lines.

Hey, can we talk?

Mikey Mouse, you deserve so much more than my bullshit.

You deserve the biggest, loudest I love you

With no hesitation.

But, Mikey, I don’t think I can get there

Because. Because. Because.

How the fuck am I going to tell him this part?

Hey, Mikey, remember the exact thing you were afraid of?

The elevator spits me into my own hallway, but from the way my heart’s pounding, you’d think I was walking a plank. Just a few steps until I’m there. I’ll dry off and change clothes, and then I’ll suck it up and call him. I’ll rip off the Band-Aid.

Hey, Mikey, can we talk?

Hey, Mikey, you told me so.

I turn the key and push the door open. The living room light’s on. There’s a suitcase in the entryway.

I feel like an old-timey film reel, a whirring countdown blinking down.

In all the months that I’ve known him, Mikey’s never kissed me like this. It’s so earnest, my knees buckle.

I blink up at him, dumbfounded.

“How’s this for a big moment?” he asks.





Chapter Twenty-Five


Ben

Friday, June 19




The New Town Street coffee shop in Tribeca is one of the best open mic spots according to Yelp—and Dylan, who has been here for the exact amount of time as the rest of us. I don’t have anything to compare it to, but it’s pretty cool. The first comedian we saw managed to finish off his set without being completely offensive, which is always a win. What sucks is how the lighting is really dim so you can’t really make out the paintings on the wall donated by artists for exposure. That’s like me donating my manuscript to a library only for it to be used as a doorstop.

Dylan returns with drinks—two ginger ales for Samantha and himself, a Pepsi for me, a lemonade for Mario—and we toast to our night out. It’s been almost an hour and I haven’t heard from Arthur yet. I even texted him a look who’s late now joke, but no response. I’m going to give it another ten, fifteen minutes before I call him to make sure he’s okay. I wouldn’t be surprised if he fell asleep in front of his laptop while rewatching Waitress covers like he’s been known to.

“Please welcome the Pac-People to the stage!” the host says.

“Woooo!” Samantha cheers, and Dylan keeps pumping his fist like he’s at some sports game.

“Who are they?” Mario asks.

“Yo no sé times a hundred,” I say.

“Patrick recommended them to me,” Samantha says. “The Pac-People were trending on TikTok and he thought I’d like their sound.”

“Patrick may be right about one thing,” Dylan says.

“What about when he said he liked your man bun?” Samantha asks.

Dylan raises his chin indignantly. “I happen to disagree with him. Man buns are out.”

I pay him no mind and focus on the Pac-People, who are setting up onstage. There’s five of them, all dressed up in classic Pac-Man/Ms. Pac-Man and ghost colors—bright yellow, red, blue, pink, and yellow again. And once the music starts, it’s so energetic, it feels like something you would hear during a really fun level in a video game. Mario hugs Dylan from behind and sways with him, and Dylan is not shy at all about dancing.

“Hold my drink, babe,” Dylan says, handing his ginger ale to Samantha, which she double-fists like a champ.

“Sostén mi bebida, Alejo,” Mario says, handing me his lemonade.

“Boys will be boys?” Samantha asks me.

“Mario and Dylan will be Mario and Dylan,” I say.

They’ve been really chill with Mario tonight, and Dylan has only made ten you’re-stealing-my-best-friend jokes. I need Dylan to step up his game because Samantha and I have five dollars on the line here on how many times Dylan harasses Mario on my move to LA by the end of the night.

“So cute,” someone says as they pass our guys.

“Thanks!” Dylan says.

“He makes confidence look exhausting,” I say.

“And exhilarating,” Samantha says with a smile.



“I won’t tell him you said that.”

“I tell him enough.”

“Samantha, you’re feeding the beast!”

“I knoooow.”

The Pac-People put up another song, and Dylan and Samantha turn to each other and cheer.

“‘Ballad of Aphrodite’!” they say at the same time.

Samantha pulls Dylan away from Mario and they sway together.

“This sounds like Cupid created a song with only a harp and an electronic keyboard,” Mario says.

“And it kind of works though, right?”

He holds out his hand. “Let’s see if it works.”

“How do you even dance to this?” I ask.

Mario grabs me by the wrists and moves me around like I’m some puppet. “Don’t know, don’t care. You just move.”