Arthur sighs and stares at the floor. “I screwed up my first date. Go me.”
“No, you didn’t screw it up . . . I’m the one who messed up. I’m always ready to flip off anything good the universe throws my way since I swear the universe hates me. But maybe the universe is just playing the long game. Like everything that’s ever gone wrong was so it could be right later. I don’t know.”
“So the date was good? Or wrong?”
“The date wasn’t wrong, I just think that if the universe is setting us up here that our story deserves a more epic first date,” I say. “I really want to see you again. Maybe we should have a do-over date.”
“Like a first date? Again?”
“Exactly. This time you can plan it. Whatever you want.”
“Challenge accepted.”
We smile as we shake on it.
Chapter Fifteen
Arthur
Sunday, July 15
A do-over date. And I’m the one who’s supposed to plan it.
I didn’t even know this was a thing. I thought they were just called second dates.
A do-over.
But at least I get to see him again. Which is convenient, since he’s all I can think about. I can’t even get out of bed. I’m too busy staring at the photo strip of us together. And yeah, we look a little like Pepé Le Pew and his bewildered cat girlfriend, but we really do seem like a couple. If you saw these pictures, you would not conclude that Ben and I are platonic bros. But the idea of myself as part of a couple is so intensely surreal, I can’t even wrap my head around it.
I finally wander out into the living room around ten in gym shorts and glasses. Dad’s on the couch, drinking coffee with the news on mute. “Why are we watching the orange guy?” I ask, sinking into the cushion beside him.
Dad shuts the TV off. “Good morning, Romeo.”
“Wow. Please don’t.”
Dad’s brow furrows. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t be weird.”
“Uh-uh. Nope,” Dad says. “This is not My So-Called Life.”
“I don’t understand that reference, Dad.”
“You’re not The Perks of Being a Wallflower. I did not just rent The Breakfast Club.”
“What does that—”
“It means chill with the fake teen angst. This is your first date, and I want to hear about it.”
“Don’t you think it’s weird that we talk about this stuff?”
“Why? Because I’m your dad?”
“Yes. Obviously.”
He just gapes at me, like he’s trying to process that.
I sigh. “It was fine, Dad. It was an okay date. We have another one tomorrow.”
“Whoa. Look at you. Second date.”
“Well, it’s not a second date. It’s a second first date. We’re having a do-over.”
Dad strokes his beard. “That’s interesting.”
“I know.”
“But he clearly likes you.”
I sit up. “You think?”
“Well, he wants another date.”
“Yeah. God. I don’t know how to do this.”
“How to plan a do-over date?”
“I don’t even know how to plan a regular date.”
Honestly, how am I supposed to know how to pick a destination and set the mood and charm Ben’s pants off? Not literally. Kind of literally, though.
I glance sideways at Dad. “Okay, so if tomorrow’s the first date, how do we talk about Dave & Busters? Do we pretend it didn’t happen? Do we call it Date Zero?” I rub my forehead. “Do we try to reenact it?”
“Why would you reenact a bad first date?” Dad asks. “Just relax. This is going to be great. Just stick with the tried-and-true, like a diner. Something basic.”
Basic.
I nod. “Okay.”
Monday, July 16
Okay, no.
I’m not doing basic. I’m sorry, this isn’t some random guy. This is Ben. Which is why I’m here on a Monday evening, crammed into a corner table at a restaurant in Union Square called Café Arvin. It’s one of those places that looks like a nightclub shoved into a warehouse, with oddly geometric light fixtures and a menu that changes every day. But Yelp says it’s a Best Date Restaurant, so hopefully Ben will be into it. Assuming he shows up. He was supposed to be here fifteen minutes ago, but he hasn’t texted to say he’s running late.
Just like last time.
I should check on him. Are you coming—are you even alive—are you—
Now I sound like my mom. Which is probably the wrong note to hit on a date.
I just never knew dates required so many little decisions. When to text, when to chill, what to do with my hands when I’m waiting. When he walks in, should I look up at him and smile? Should I be nonchalantly reading my phone? I need a script for this. Maybe I just need to stop overthinking.
But the moment I see him, I stop thinking altogether, because, wow: he’s gotten even cuter. Or maybe I just keep noticing new cute things about him, like the curve of his jawline, or the slight hunch of his shoulders. He’s wearing a gray V-neck and jeans, and his eyes scan the room as he talks to the hostess. When he finds me, his whole face lights up.
Suddenly he’s settling in across from me.
“This place looks fancy,” he says.
“Well, you know. Nothing but the best for our FIRST date.”
“Yeah. First date. Never been on a date with you before.” Ben smiles.
I smile back at him. “Never.” And then my brain goes totally blank.
Unanticipated complication: apparently, I don’t know how to talk in nice restaurants. Everything’s so hip and elegant here, and no normal conversation feels worthy. It feels like we should be talking about deep things—classy, intellectual things, like NPR or death. But I don’t even know if Ben likes NPR or death. To be honest, I barely know anything about him.
“So what do you do?”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you have an internship? What do you do all day?”
“Oh, it’s . . .” He trails off, peering down at his menu, and I watch his face go pale.
“Is everything okay?”
“It’s fine. I’m just . . .” He rubs his cheek. “I can’t afford this.”
“Oh,” I say quickly, “don’t even worry about it. This is my treat.”
“I’m not letting you do that.”
“I want to.” I lean forward. “I’m still rolling in bar mitzvah money, so it’s all good.”
“But I can’t. I’m sorry.” He holds up the menu. “I can’t eat a thirty-dollar burger. I literally don’t think I’m capable of doing that.”
“Oh.” My stomach drops. “Okay.”
He shakes his head. “My mom could buy dinner for us for three days with thirty dollars.”
“Yeah, I get that. I guess—” I look up, and my gaze snags on a guy sitting one table over. “Holy shit.”
Ben leans in. “What?”
“That’s . . . is that Ansel Elgort?”
“Who?”
“He’s an actor. Oh my God.”
“Really?” Ben cranes his neck around.
“Don’t stare at him! We have to play it cool.” I grab my phone. “I have to text Jessie. She’s going to flip. Should I talk to him?”
“I thought we were playing it cool.”
I nod. “I should get a selfie, right? For Jessie?”
“Who is he again?” Ben asks.
“Baby Driver. The Fault in Our Stars.” I push my chair back and stand. Deep breath.
I walk over, and Ansel shoots me a polite half smile. “Hi.”
“Hi! Hi.”
“Can I help you?”
“Hi! Sorry. I’m just.” I exhale. “Wow. Okay. I’m Arthur, and my friend Jessie loves you. Like a lot.”
“Oh!” Ansel looks surprised.
“Yeah, so.”
“Well, that’s . . .”
“Can I get a selfie?” I ask.
/> “Um. Sure.”
“Awesome. Oh man. You’re awesome. Okay.” I lean in and snap a few quick ones. “Wow. Thank you so much.”
I mean. That just happened. I just . . . walked right up to an actor. Like, a really famous actor. Jessie’s not going to believe this.
“Wait,” Ben says as soon as I sit down. “You think that’s the guy from Baby Driver?”
I nod happily. “I’m freaking out.”
“Mmm. I don’t think that’s him.”
“What?”
“Oh, and I ordered us truffle fries. Is that okay? They’re like twelve bucks, which is ridiculous, but I’ll totally chip in—”
“No,” I say, and it comes out sharp. I exhale. “I mean, yes. Fries are great. But wait. You don’t think that’s Ansel?”
“I mean, maybe?”
Suddenly, the waiter appears, setting a pale pink mixed drink in front of Ben. Ben looks up at him, confused. “Oh. Um, I didn’t order this.”
“The gentleman in the blue shirt sent this over for you.”
I gasp. “What?”
“Awesome,” says Ben. He takes a sip, and then turns to smile at Ansel.
I gape at Ben. “You’re going to drink that?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because.” I shake my head. “Why is Ansel Elgort buying you drinks?”
“That’s not—”
I cut him off. “Shit—okay. He’s coming over.”
“Hey,” Ansel says, pressing his hands on the edge of our table. He turns to Ben. “Jesse, right?”
Oh.
Oh.
I laugh. “Oh wow, I’m sorry. Okay, Jessie’s actually my—”
“Yup, I’m Jesse! Thanks for the drink.”
I stare at Ben, dumbfounded, but he shoots me a tiny smile.
“Sure. Hey. I’d love to get your number.”
Ansel Elgort. Asking for Ben’s number. During our date. What the actual fuck?
“Did you just buy my underage date an alcoholic beverage and then ask for his number?” I ask Ansel loudly.
His eyebrows jump. “Underage?”
“Yes, Ansel, he’s seventeen.”
“Ansel? Dude, my name is Jake.”
For a moment, we just stare at each other.
“You’re not . . .” I trail off, cheeks burning. “I’m . . . gonna shut up now.”
“Good call,” says Jake, already retreating to his table.
I sink deeper into my chair, while Ben gulps down his drink. “I think that went well,” he says, grinning. World’s cutest asshole.
I cover my face with both hands. “That was so—”
“Sir, I’ll need to see your ID.”
I peek through my hands. It’s an older guy, wearing a tie. And he’s talking to Ben. My heart leaps into my throat.
“Oh. Um.” Ben looks startled. “I think I left it—”
“He’s seventeen,” I interject.
Ben shoots me a look.
“Please don’t call the police.” My voice cracks. “Please. God. I can’t go to jail. I can’t—my mom’s an attorney. Please.” I fling down a twenty and grab Ben’s hand. “We’re leaving now. I’m so sorry, sir. I’m incredibly sorry.”
“Bye, Ansel,” calls Ben.
I drag him out the door.
“I can’t believe how fast you just sold me out,” Ben says. “Wow.”
“I can’t believe you let a random guy named Jake buy you a drink!”
“I did.” Ben smiles proudly.
“You almost got us arrested.”
“No way. I just rescued us from those thirty-dollar hamburgers,” he says. “And now look at us. Two-dollar hot dogs. Amazing.”
And even I have to admit it: street vendor hot dogs make a perfect dinner. It helps that Ben has a pretty cute hot dog technique. He pulls the bun up around it like a cardigan, takes a tiny bite, readjusts the bun, and starts all over again.
“How are you eating that without ketchup?”
Ben smiles. “Blame Dylan. He told me I’m forbidden, especially on dates.”
“I don’t get it.”
“I don’t either.” He shrugs. “But he says, and I quote, ‘Ketchup breath is both a dealbreaker and a relationship ruiner.’”
I open my mouth to say something, but all I get is air. No words whatsoever.
Because if Ben’s thinking about ketchup breath, I’m pretty sure he’s thinking about kissing.
Specifically: kissing me.
I watch him put this together. His neck and cheeks go pink.
“We’ll keep it in mind for our next do-over,” he says quickly. “Third do-over will be the charm. Nothing too pricey next time, okay?”
“Yeah. And we won’t order garlic fries.”
“I thought they were truffle fries.”
“Right.”
He smiles. Then he loops his arm around my shoulder, and I’m so happy, I can barely breathe. Even though it’s just a shoulder thing. People on the street probably think we’re just bros. Just two bros eating hot dogs with their arms around each other.
“Okay, so truffles,” Ben says. “Since when do truffles not involve chocolate?” He slides his arm off my shoulders and takes out his phone. “I’m looking this up.”
“Looking what up?”
“What . . . are . . . truffles?” he says, typing.
“They’re some kind of seed, right?”
“Nope. Fungus.” He holds up his phone. “See?”
“What? No way.” I lean in closer. Our arms are brushing. “I really thought they were seeds.”
“I think you’re thinking Truffula Seeds from The Lorax, Arthur Seuss.”
I burst out laughing, and Ben gets this look on his face. Like he’s surprised and self-conscious and a little bit pleased with himself. I guess he doesn’t know how funny he is. Probably his jerkface ex-boyfriend never laughed at his jokes.
“So how’d you figure out my last name?”
“From your email address?” He tugs me sideways to let a woman and her kid go by. It’s pretty nice having a New Yorker to help keep me in check on the sidewalks. “So, are you related to Dr. Seuss or something? No wait, it’s a pen name, right?”
“His is. Mine’s not.” I smile. “And you’re Ben Hugo?”
“Ben Alejo. Hugo is my middle name. It’s harder to misspell than Alejo.”
“Ben Hugo. I like that, it sounds like a poet’s name.”
“Nope. Not a poet. No picture book empire.”
“Hey, you never told me what you do all day.”
“Right.” He presses his lips together. “I’m taking a class.”
“You’re auditing something? I thought about doing that at NYU. How is it?”
“Um. Pretty great.”
“Very cool, Ben Alejo.”
“I guess we’re doing first and last names now.”
“Well, I need to memorize it so I can google you.”
He laughs. “I’m not that interesting.”
“Yeah you are.”
“So are you, Dr. Seuss.”
Chapter Sixteen
Ben
Tuesday, July 17
@ArtSeussical started following you.
Screw homework.
I sit up in bed. Following each other feels like a step, one that I’ve been excited about because Arthur’s profile has been on private. “Yo. Arthur just followed me.”
“Finally,” Dylan says, turning away from my desk, where he was playing The Sims. I’ve just rescued my Sim from doing homework too while Dylan’s Sim lounges around playing games on the laptop. The whole thing is too meta for real me.
“Do I follow him back right now? Playing it cool seems pointless since he’s leaving at the end of the summer. No time to waste.”
“And there’s no playing it cool with someone who put up a poster with your face to find you,” Dylan says.
“Good point.”
I follow Arthur back and suddenly we have access to each other’s
profiles. Like we’ve given each other keys to our lives. Harriett’s Instagram is radiant, but I see how much energy she puts into each photo. Arthur’s Instagram feels real.
There’s a photo of him eating his first slice of New York pizza.
Playbills for Aladdin and Wicked.
A mirror selfie in some lobby, and I notice it’s the day we met—hot dog tie and all.
A prom photo of Arthur and Jessie and Ethan.
A laptop decal that says WWBOD: What Would Barack Obama Do?
Arthur sitting on a stool somewhere fancy, and at first I think it’s a restaurant, but then I see photos of him on the wall. His house in Georgia is definitely way nicer than I built it up to be in my head. The idea of him visiting my apartment before he goes home for good just became a thousand times more intimidating.
Arthur sitting cross-legged in front of what looks to be his bedroom mirror stops me. Even Dylan is zooming in on his face.
“Holy blue eyes, Batman,” Dylan says.
“Holy blue eyes,” I repeat. I’ve seen them in real life, but still.
And then there’s another photo of Arthur in glasses, which is a thing, and wow. In the next ten photos I look at, I find myself staring at his lips instead of his eyes. “Is Thursday too soon to go in for the kiss?”
“Not one bit. Make your move,” Dylan says. His phone buzzes on my desk and he gets up to check it. “You’re on the timer here, Big Be—” He stares at the screen. “It’s her.”
“Samantha?!”
“Beyoncé,” Dylan says. “Of course Samantha. What do I do?”
“Open the text. Read it. Then respond with words. But not words of the ‘future wife’ variety.”
He reads the text and hands me the phone. “Okay. This is good. I think. Help me not mess this up.”
I check out the text:
Hey Dylan. I’m sorry I haven’t reached out sooner. Every time I start writing something I just assume you no longer care and then I feel stupid and say nothing. I had this anxiety with Patrick during a falling out and he was happy I wrote to him and I’m hoping you might be too. I panicked a bit over your future wife comment because my last relationship just felt very obsessive and I don’t like who I became during it or how I felt after. I think you’re good and funny and I’d like to see you again if we can keep it casual. If you’ve moved on, I’m sorry to bother you.
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