What If It's Us(16)

“Okay, barbarians.” Ma shakes her head because she’s not about any talk of violence. She doesn’t even like action movies, which Pa and I are openly fine with since she will ask you ten thousand questions during a movie, even if everyone is seeing it for the first time. “I hope it smooths over soon.”

“Not holding my breath.”

I try to stretch dinner for as long as possible because being alone is really getting to me. Ma tells us about the new thriller podcast she’s been listening to, and how each episode ramps up the tension so much that she almost wishes the series was over already so she could breathe and not be held in suspense anymore. Pa tells us about how this afternoon a father and son were buying condoms at the same time without realizing the other was there.

“How’s your story going, Benito? Have I made a reappearance yet?” Ma asks.

The only people who know I’m writing this novel are Dylan, Hudson, Harriett, and my parents. This year I couldn’t afford to buy Ma anything for Mother’s Day, so I wrote her into the story as a sorceress who doesn’t age and casts peace spells. I printed it out, but at the last second my insecurities kicked in and I just told her what her character does instead of letting her read for herself. I’ve gotten so far with this story that I’m nervous any negative feedback might make me quit.

“Nope. Isabel the Serene needs to stay in her tower. Can’t have any more peace spells in a war with wizards.”

“Maybe they can reach a place of understanding by talking.”

“Ma, no.” I smile a little. “The laptop has been acting up lately. It gets overheated after twenty minutes.”

“Maybe if you pass summer school, we can get you a new one,” Ma says.

“No,” Pa says. “His reward for passing summer school is not getting left behind.”

“Better to have me home writing than outside getting robbed, right?”

“Cheap shot,” Pa says. “But well played. Hector the Haggler taught you well.” Hector the Haggler got even less page time than Ma’s character.

“We can find another on Craigslist,” Ma says.

I think getting a laptop on Craigslist was the problem to begin with, but I can’t complain.

“Frankie connected with his new girlfriend on Craigslist,” Pa says.

“Which Frankie? Employee Frankie or Mailman Frankie?” I ask.

“Employee Frankie. Rodriquez. He was telling me about this page on Craigslist where you can find people you met or almost met. Missed you connections, I think.” Pa looks at me and Ma like we’re supposed to know what he’s talking about. He shrugs. “Well, Frankie first met Lola on the train and they didn’t trade numbers before he got off. His friend told him to check out Craigslist, and he found a listing from Lola. Been dating two weeks now.”

“That’s so wonderful,” Ma says.

“Impressive,” I say.

It’s like Craigslist is some agent of the universe. Handling business. And maybe the universe is speaking through my dad right now to encourage me to do the same. To see if Arthur, my Lola, tried finding me too. I get up from the table.

“I have to check something,” I say.

“What about dessert?” Ma asks.

I halt and almost double back, but keep it moving. Dessert will still be there. I have this I-must-do-this-right-now-or-explode feeling in my chest. I close my bedroom door and sit on my bed with the busted laptop that started this whole Craigslist conversation. There’s this exciting hope of possibility filling me up, like when Hudson and I started texting for the first time, like when Arthur said hi and we flirted and talked about the universe.

I go on Craigslist and find missed connections—not missed you connections, Pa, wow—and I look through their dude-for-dude listings in Manhattan. What starts out as hopeful scrolling quickly turns into defeat, and I sort of wish I could start a support group for all these people with their regrets and what-if fantasies.

I close the laptop.

I guess that’s it on this Arthur business.





Chapter Seven


Arthur


Wednesday, July 11

“Arthur, shoes. Come on. We’re going to be late.” Mom checks her phone. “Oy. I’m getting a Lyft.”

I peer up at her from the couch. “It’s only eight.”

“Well, since your dad finished off the coffee without telling me,” she says loudly, in the general direction of their bedroom, “we need to stop at Starbucks before the Bray-Eliopulos call. You’ve taken your pill, right?”

“Yeah, but.” I sit up slowly. “Why don’t I just take the subway?”

“You’d need to leave now anyway for the subway.”

“Not really. Not until eight twenty.”

Mom scoffs. “Is that why you keep rolling into the office at nine fifteen?”

“That was one time!”

She ruffles my hair. “Come on. I already called the Lyft.”

But then the door to my parents’ bedroom nudges open and out shuffles my dad, wearing plaid flannel pants and yesterday’s T-shirt. “Morning.” He yawns, rubbing his beard. “Hey, Art. Want to grab bagels?”

“Yes!”

“Michael, can you just . . . not.” Mom exhales. “Not right now.”