What If It's Us(59)

Mrs. Seuss takes a bite of the ham. “This is delicious.”

Ma taps her elbow and places the other hand on her heart. “Thank you. Mami taught me when I was seven. She was an afterschool teacher, so I would have to fend for myself when I got home. I’d make a snack and get dinner started while doing my homework. I love cooking.”

“Do you cook professionally?” Mrs. Seuss asks.

“No. I do accounting for a gym. I’m scared I’ll fall out of love with cooking if someone’s paying me to do it. It’ll become work and I won’t be excited to come home and cook with my family.”

Man, I love my mom. She’s the kind of person who will make everyone feel at home even if she has a problem with you, sort of like she was with Hudson. But I can tell she’s already so comfortable with Mrs. Seuss, like I can maybe even see them hanging out. Except Mrs. Seuss will be leaving at the end of the summer and taking my boyfriend back to Georgia with her.

“You’re an attorney, right?” Ma asks.

“Yes. At Smilowitz & Bernbaum. It’s a great firm. One that’s been very relaxed about Arthur following your son into a post office instead of running his coffee errand.”

We all laugh. I never realized that Arthur went into the post office just to follow me in.

“How about you, Diego?” Mr. Seuss asks.

“I’m an assistant manager at Duane Reade. It’s not fancy, but we’re comfortable. I have a great team—mostly great. Bills get paid. Food makes its way to the table. Ben gets his allowance. Anything else would be extra.”

I think about extra a lot. Vacations to all these tropical islands I’m always seeing in movies. Owning expensive sneakers that I can take out into the world and not keep in a closet, scared that I’ll mess them up. Family car to get us out of here on weekends. Updated iPhones and laptops. College since I won’t score a scholarship. These are all things Arthur’s family doesn’t have to worry about as much.

“Yourself?” Pa asks Mr. Seuss.

“Computer programming. I’m in between gigs right now because of the relocating,” Mr. Seuss says. He turns to Mrs. Seuss immediately. “Which is not anyone’s fault. I thought it’d be easier to find a position of interest that can be managed with our time frame before we go back home.”

“Do you miss working?” Ma asks.

“So much. The first week I got to watch a lot of Netflix, but that’s satisfying, not fulfilling. I’ve done a dozen consultations and not been hired yet, and it’s really taking a toll on me—on us.” He gestures to Arthur and Mrs. Seuss. “But we’re hanging tight.”

“The coquito will make you feel better,” Pa says. “Embarrassing the boys might help too, right?”

“Yes, please,” Mr. Seuss says.

“No,” Arthur and I say at the same time.

Our parents trade stories about what we were like as kids. I thought I was in the clear with secrets because Arthur knows I’m in summer school now, but I wasn’t prepared for him to learn about ten-year-old Ben and Dylan acting like we were on a reality show called Being Bad Boys without realizing how sexual that sounded. And Arthur sinks into his chair while everyone, myself included, bursts into laughter because of how often he used to take selfies with mannequins on his dad’s phone while they shopped for school clothes.

“I have another one,” Mrs. Seuss says.

“No you don’t,” Arthur says. “You’re fresh out of stories.”

“A few months ago, when Arthur found out we’d be spending the summer in New York, Michael and I came home early from a friend’s birthday party and Arthur was—”

“Mom!” Arthur shouts.

“—watching a YouTube video of a Dear Evan Hansen song and belting along while dancing.”

“It was magnificent,” Mr. Seuss says.

I don’t laugh this time because Arthur seems a little upset.

I stand. “Arthur, let’s go to my room. I can show you the cover I drew for my book.”

Arthur practically knocks into his dad getting out of his seat. “Yes, please.”

“But wait, we’re still eating,” Ma says.

“Food isn’t going anywhere,” I say, taking Arthur’s hand. “We’ll be back.”

“Keep the door open!” Mr. Seuss shouts.

We go to my bedroom with flushed faces.

Like we’re going to lock the door and get wild in here with them outside.

Except when we enter my room, I lead Arthur out of sight and I kiss him with this howling hunger that’s demanding more time with him each passing day.

I take a breath. “You okay?”

“Better now. I just don’t like being teased about Broadway. The videos keep me going. I saw two shows last month, but they weren’t my top shows.” His eyes widen. “Oh. That’s shitty to say. That my Broadway shows weren’t good enough. I was lucky to go to any. I just keep entering the lottery for Hamilton and Dear Evan Hansen, but no luck.”

“There’s still time,” I say. “And it could’ve been worse out there.”

“True.”

Arthur looks around the room. He walks over to my desk. “So this is where the future bestselling and global phenomenon The Wicked Wizard War gets written. Where’s the book cover?”