“Yeah, well that’s not—”
“Arthur, we knew you were gay.”
My heart jumps into my throat. “What?”
“I mean, we didn’t know, but we figured. You’re not really subtle . . . about anything.”
“So, wait. You knew I was gay, but you pretended you didn’t—”
“Art, it wasn’t like that,” Jessie says. “We just wanted you to be able to come out when you were ready.”
“And you were just going to act surprised when I told you. That was the plan, huh?”
“No. Not at all—”
“I love that y’all had, like, a whole strategy for this. That’s just great.” I nod. “That must have been very interesting for you guys to talk about behind my back. In between makeouts. Wow. Any more secrets you’d like to fill me in on?”
“Arthur! God. I knew you were going to make this awkward.”
“Oh, I’m the one making it awkward? You guys have been dating! All summer!”
“I know. And we tried—”
“Listen, I’m not weird about you being gay,” Ethan says suddenly. He presses a hand to his forehead. “I’m weird about Jess. Okay? This is new for me, too. I don’t know how to do this. It’s like, I wanted to tell you everything, the way you do about Ben—”
“Wow.” I laugh harshly. “I guess it’s your lucky day, then, because guess who I never want to talk about ever—”
“No. Arthur.” Ethan looks pained. “That’s not what I meant. Okay. This isn’t—look, I know our timing sucks, but now you know, and I guess that’s . . . that. And I’m sorry. But dude, I just need you to know that I don’t have any issues with you. I never have. It’s just that we were trying to find the right way to tell you, and we wanted to do it together, and then it dragged on for so long, it started to feel like I was lying to you. And I hate that.”
“I mean. You were lying to me. For months.”
Ethan frowns. “But it’s kind of like how you didn’t want to tell us you were gay—”
“Oh, don’t you dare.” I practically spit. “Don’t you fucking dare compare this to coming out. That is not the same thing, and you know it.”
“We know!” Jessie’s eyes brim with tears. “Arthur, I’m sorry, okay? You’re right. You’re totally right.”
For a moment, we just stare one another down. Ethan, Jessie, and me.
“I don’t know,” Jessie says finally. “I guess I thought you’d be happy for us.”
“I am!”
“And I know this was a shitty time to drop this bomb, because clearly something just happened with—”
“I don’t want to talk about Ben.”
“That’s fine! Art, that’s fine.”
“And I think you guys should go.”
“Are you—”
“Hanging up now.” It comes out choked.
Then I hug my messenger bag to my chest and cry until my face hurts.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Ben
Tuesday, July 31
The only person who should be upset on Harry Potter’s birthday is Lord Voldemort. But here I am, staring at a wall while Sorcerer’s Stone is on, pretty pissed off. While I was failing a quiz this morning, Samantha went over to Dylan’s early “to help set up.” I thought I was going to walk into Dylan’s apartment with Hogwarts banners hanging from the walls. Maybe some bowls with color-coded candy for each house. At the very least, streamers from wall to wall. But Dylan’s place is just as Dylan’s as ever before. The only difference is the freshly made Butterbeer in the fridge, the Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans in a cereal bowl, and our T-shirts.
Butterbeer doesn’t take six hours to make.
They probably had sex, napped, and had sex again.
“Controversial opinion incoming,” Dylan says. He takes a sip from the Butterbeer, getting more foam on his beard. Pretty sure he’s doing it on purpose in the hopes Samantha will lick it off, but her self-respect keeps getting in the way. “Michael Gambon is the better Dumbledore.”
“Wrong. So wrong,” Samantha says. “Richard Harris was perfectly cast. Pure Dumbledore. Demeanor, appearance, delivery, everything.”
Dylan raises a skeptical eyebrow. “The court rules that you can only have an opinion on Harry Potter casting if you’ve been a fan longer than a year.”
“I may be late to this world, but I will still out-Harry-Potter you,” Samantha says. She grabs the bowl of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans. “I propose a Triwizard Trivia Tournament. If you get a question right, you choose your own bean. If you get it wrong, someone chooses for you.”
I play along even though my heart’s not really in it. If I could ace chemistry questions the way I’m slaying this Harry Potter trivia, I would’ve never been in this mess with Arthur because I wouldn’t have been stuck in summer school with Hudson in the first place. Where the fuck is a Time-Turner when you need one? I would go back in time and never date Hudson. Maybe not even be his friend at all knowing that’s where it started. But then I wouldn’t have been at the post office with the breakup box to meet Arthur. Not like that has a happy ending either.
Dylan gags on a vomit-flavored bean as I watch the movie. Ron’s pet rat, Scabbers, comes on the screen, and I think about Arthur singing “Ben” during karaoke. Things weren’t easy then, but they were simpler. Sorry was enough to keep it moving. But now Arthur has unfollowed me on Instagram and probably enlisted Namrata and Juliet on putting together restraining orders.
“I’m seriously the worst,” I say. I take a swig of the Butterbeer, which we’d planned on spiking with rum thinking Dylan’s very Irish parents wouldn’t care, but all bets were off on that because they don’t want Samantha buzzed on the way home. “I ruined everything. Something good with Arthur. How much he loves New York. He’ll probably never want to come back, and . . . I really wanted him to want to come back.”
Samantha puts down a bean and sits in front of me. “You’ve done everything you can right now. He might just need some more time.”
“I haven’t gone to his house,” I say. “Or job.”
“Let’s not do that.”
“Why not? No one invited him to my school.”
“No, but you were dating,” Samantha says.
I can’t believe how quickly everything has gone with Arthur—strangers to boyfriends to exes. We wouldn’t be exes if Arthur hadn’t tried to surprise me. But that’s who he is. Someone who goes the extra step. Someone who puts up a poster to find a boy from a city he doesn’t live in even though he’s not here to stay.
“I know it couldn’t last anyway,” I say.
“He was only here for another week, right?” Dylan asks.
“Yeah, but . . . nothing lasts. Me and Hudson didn’t last. Me and Arthur didn’t last. You and Harriett didn’t last. You guys won’t last. Nothing lasts.”
“Um.” Dylan gestures at himself and Samantha. “No need to bring us into this, Bennison.”
“D, I’m just saying. We all talk a big game like the universe is actually setting us up for something epic, and then everything ends. If we were all just a little more realistic, we wouldn’t keep losing people.”
Samantha stands. “I’m going to, uh, get more Butterbeer.” She walks out of Dylan’s bedroom.
“Dude. Big Ben. The fuck.”
“What?”
“You’re telling me my relationship with my girlfriend isn’t going to last . . . in front of my girlfriend. Like she wasn’t standing right there. Which she was.”
“Yeah, but for how long is it going to last?”
“Hopefully a long time.”
“But probably not. You’re hyping up this relationship like last time, and you’re just going to disappoint Samantha like you did Harriett.”
Dylan pauses Sorcerer’s Stone, which, wow, dude never pauses a game, but he’s pausing a movie we’ve seen over a dozen times. “It’s different with Samantha. She’s—”