“Name one time.”
“Gabriella and Heather and Natalia and—”
“I said one time.”
“—and Harriett. It’s just weird. We tell each other everything.”
Dylan nods. “Not trying to jinx myself, I guess. You know how my dad always goes on about how he knew he would marry my mom when they met in freshman year? I’m getting those same vibes from Samantha.”
I act like I haven’t heard Dylan say this before, most recently with Harriett, who he broke up with in March, but I let it go. Maybe it will work this time. We keep playing as Dylan goes on and on about which hot beverage he and Samantha should name their firstborn after, and I refuse to be Uncle Ben to any child named Cider.
I’m a little jealous Dylan is in this phase of his new romance, where it feels like anything is possible. Like how Samantha could actually be the love of his life. Like when I thought Hudson was going to be mine. How I couldn’t wait to wake up to his face—his beautiful lazy eye, the little bump on his nose, his suggestive dark eyebrows that don’t match his short auburn hair. The way he changed my worldviews, like whenever he had to push back at idiots in school who got at him because of his effeminate mannerisms; he really helped me forget my own idiocy on what I thought a man was supposed to look like. And those nerves before we had sex for the first time in March, not knowing if it was going to be good or not. Spoiler: it was awesome.
Maybe I can kick so much ass this week at school that the teachers will realize I don’t actually need to be stuck taking classes for the next month and I’ll be Hudson-free.
Though I got to be real, I would’ve probably ended up in summer school even if Hudson was never in the picture. I’m not super tight with school.
“You’ll always be my number one, Big Ben,” Dylan says. “Until Baby Cider is born.”
“Bros before babies,” I demand.
“Tie?”
I shrug. “Tie.”
“You won’t be single long,” Dylan says, like he’s a Magic 8 Ball in white flesh. “You’re tall, your hair is Hollywood ready, your style is effortless. If I didn’t have Mrs. Samantha Last-Name-to-Be-Discovered-Before-I-Can-Properly-Hyphenate-It-with-Boggs, I’m positive you would have me changing gears within a year.”
“That’s sweet. You know getting someone to go gay for me would be the highlight of my life.” I don’t go chasing after straight guys, but if one wants to experiment to see what’s what? Welcome to House Alejo. Leave your shoes at the door, or bring them into bed with you if that’s your thing.
I win the first round because I’m me and we get another round going.
“Let’s talk about why you really didn’t mail the breakup box,” Dylan says, like he’s going to bill me for this conversation.
“Only if you drop the therapist voice,” I say.
“Maybe we can begin with why my tone bothers you. Do I remind you of an authority figure?”
I KO his character and flip him off.
“I just . . . I really thought I’d have the chance to hand over the box personally for closure. But then he didn’t show up to school, and all of a sudden I’m at the post office talking to some guy about Hudson when a flash mob rolled through and—”
“Wait. Run that back.”
“Yeah, flash mob. They were performing that Bruno Mars song and—”
“No. The guy. What. Who.” Dylan turns to me, once again abandoning the complex sorcery of the pause button. “You’re an asshole. You have me feeling bad for you and you’re already slutting it up with someone else.”
“What, no. This isn’t real. There’s nothing to pursue or slut up.”
“Why not? Who is he? Name. Address. Social security number. Twitter and Instagram handles.”
“Arthur. I don’t know his last name. I definitely don’t know his address. Ditto on the handles, but while we’re on the subject, why can’t people just have one handle for everything they do?”
“Humans are complex.” Dylan nods sagely. “What do you know about him?”
“He’s new to the city. Visiting from Georgia. He was wearing the most ridiculous tie in all the land.”
“Gay?”
“Yup.” It’s always cool to find out immediately when a cute guy is gay or not. Trying to solve that mystery yourself isn’t fun and rarely pays off.
“I’m getting hot vibes.” Dylan fans himself.
“He’s cute, yeah. Shorter than I usually go for though. Like five seven, maybe five six without the boots. Photoshop-blue eyes, like an alien.”
Dylan claps. “Okay. I’m sold. I am shipping you with the boy you met when you were supposed to be shipping relationship relics to your last boy.”
I shake my head and put down my controller. “D, no. I’m just a bad idea right now. I need to ship myself with me for a bit.”
“You’re never a bad idea, Big Ben.”
“That’s sweet, man. Thanks.”
“In the not-so-distant future we’re going to have too many drinks, I’ll invite myself over at two a.m., and we’re going to . . . cuddle so hard. And I promise not to call it a bad idea the next morning.”
“You ruined the moment.”
“Sorry. Game face back on,” Dylan says. “You’re being hard on yourself. Just because Hudson is an idiot who took you for granted doesn’t mean the next guy will. And damn, you met a cute guy with bad taste in ties the same day you were moving past your ex. This is a sign.”
I think about how Arthur and I talked about the universe, and he comes back into focus. He’s not like the many cute guys I see out and about in the city where I dream up some epic love only to forget what they look like an hour later. Arthur’s teeth were super white with his canine tooth chipped. Messy brown hair. He was too dressed up for anyone our age; an alien would probably dress up like that if it arrived from another solar system and was trying to pose as an adult but didn’t realize how baby-faced it was. I shouldn’t have run out of the post office when I did. Maybe Dylan’s right, I just ignored that sign.
“I should get going,” I say. Pretty bummed now. “Homework time.”
“On a Monday in the summer. Living your best life.” Dylan gets up from the bed and hugs me.
“I’ll call you later.”
“If I’m not talking to Samantha, I will answer.”
Don’t I know it. I really hope I don’t lose my best friend and boyfriend in one summer.
I’m heading out when Dylan calls me back.
“Forgetting something?” Dylan looks at the breakup box. “On purpose? I can handle this if you want. I’ll get a ski mask and some gloves and handle this sumbitch in the dead of night. No one has to know it was us.”
“You need help,” I say. I pick up the breakup box. “I’ll handle it.”
I don’t know yet if I’m lying or not.
I sit at my desk and turn on the laptop. It takes a few minutes to power up because it’s not exactly the newest model, or even the newly old model. Playing The Sims would be way easier if I had an upgraded laptop.
I really should do my homework, but focusing on chemistry was hard enough when I didn’t also have a box beside me with mementos from a relationship that was supposed to be everything and stopped being anything. Sometimes I focus on what went right in the relationship so I don’t get pissed. Like the way Hudson would rest his jaw on my shoulder during our end-of-the-day hugs, almost as if he didn’t want to go home or even step a few feet away from me. And how seen I felt with him, even whenever the brown of his eye was looking elsewhere, because I know he was looking at me. And buddy-reading books with him. And charging my phone in the lightning bolt–shaped power strip so we could stay on FaceTime late into the night.
But that Hudson went away when his parents’ divorce was finalized on April 1 after twenty years of marriage. Hudson swore it was some ridiculous April Fools’ joke from his mother because he’d been counting on them to get back together. Even when his parents announced they were separating and his mother moved out of Brooklyn to Manhattan, Hudson still had hope they would get back together. He had that spirit of some kid in a movie who creates a master plan to get his parents to fall in love again.