What If It's Us(28)

“I was a Pikachu guy,” Kent says.

“Pikachu was my man,” Dylan says.

I can’t tell if Dylan is my wingman or competition. I give him a hey-maybe-go-away look and he actually gets my signal.

Dylan turns to Alima. “So, what do you do for fun? What’s your drug of choice? Not literal drug, unless literal drug is your speed. Not speed as in the drug—”

My deepest apologies to Alima, but I feel a flicker with Kent that I like. And maybe I came here looking for someone who won’t show up, but I’ll leave with someone who could be even better for me.

“So how do I find this Pikachu fanfiction?” I ask.

“It’s long gone. Destroyed. I threw it in a volcano and then I threw that volcano into another volcano.” If Kent’s chuckle is this charming, then I can’t wait to hear his laugh. “So where’d you grow up?”

“Alphabet City,” I say.

“No way, that’s not far from me. I live a couple blocks from Union Square.”

Okay, now this definitely feels like the universe is involved. We’ve lived fifteen minutes apart from each other and we’re just now meeting.

“My dad is an assistant manager at Duane Reade right across the street from Union,” I say. I’m proud of my dad, but some dicks at school thought lesser of my family because my parents don’t have “cooler jobs,” and Dylan was the muscle who shut them all down. It feels good to get this out right now in case Kent is a huge snob.

“I go there all the time. I’m in charge of dinner on Tuesdays and Thursdays, so that’s where I get my supplies.”

“But Whole Foods is like a block down,” I say. His sneakers and clothes suggest his family can spring the extra few bucks.

“The lines are always a mile long and everything I need to whip up Spanish dishes is there,” Kent says.

“Oh cool. Are you Puerto Rican by any chance? Or—”

“I am, yeah,” Kent says. Another smile. I still don’t have any clear confirmation he’s into guys, but it’s going well, at least.

“Me too! Everyone always thinks I’m white. It sucks,” I say. “It’s pretty annoying always having to make that clear.”

Kent bites his lip as he nods. “At least no one follows you around grocery stores like you’re trying to steal something. And I bet no one is asking you if you got into Yale to meet some sort of diversity quota. That actually sucks.”

I look away because wow, Kent didn’t swing, but it still felt like I got punched. “I’m sorry, I . . .” It’s quiet between us. Having to tell people I’m Puerto Rican is not a problem compared to what Kent faces regularly. I’m the worst. “I should rescue Alima from Dylan.”

“Yeah. I’ll see you around, Ben.”

Of course he won’t, and that’s got to be a good thing.

I go to Dylan and grab his arm. “Excuse us a sec,” I say. I drag him away. “I want to go.”

“Are you kidding? I was wrong about the a.m. vibes. Kent is pure p.m. He wants you to take him into that bathroom and catch his Pikachu.”

“I have no idea what that is supposed to mean. We need to have a chat about what dude-on-dude sex looks like.” I shake my head. “I don’t belong here. I’m not actually about to build a future at Yale or with Kent or Arthur. I’m done.”

“You’re not being fair to yourself,” Dylan says.

“Maybe not. But I’m being honest.”

I rush for the steps and head back down into the park.

This was such a waste. I can’t believe we did all this, like Arthur was ever actually going to be here. I was stupid to think that the universe had some master plan. All I know now is that I cared enough to show up here, and I’m walking away completely clueless on what’s next for my future. I just know I’m back at the start with no idea which way to go.

Friday, July 13

I can’t focus on Angry Birds when I hear Hudson and Harriett laughing while taking a selfie together.

“The bags under my eyes are so . . .” Hudson can’t find the word.

“WWE cage match?” Harriett says. She flips her hair over her shoulders and sticks her chest out. “You should make a silly face. It’ll distract from the beat-up look you got going on.”

“Thanks for the ego boost.”

“I’m just being honest. You need more beauty sleep,” Harriett says.

Beauty sleep hardly seems important for someone who filters the holy hell out of her photos, but what Harriett does for the ’gram is her business—literally. She does these ads for healthy juices that she doesn’t even like because they give her stomachaches. Doesn’t stop her from making two hundred dollars a picture. Harriett once did a #BoyfriendTag with Dylan where she did his makeup—contour on his cheekbones and eyeshadow. Dylan was a total champ about it and loved the attention. Harriett was so proud of the photos that she didn’t even delete them after he broke up with her. Harriett tagging me in photos was always wild. I would get a couple dozen followers. Then they’d all gradually unfollow because they could give a shit about my pictures of cool graffiti I’d find in bathrooms around the city. Or my pictures with Hudson.

“That photo sucks even more,” Hudson says, after another attempt. “My face is not good today. Forget it.”