Saturday, May 16
My clothes are on the floor, and Mikey’s in my bed. Well, he’s on my bed. He’s propped against my pillow pile, wearing flannel pajama pants and his glasses and nothing on top, with a full face of finals-week stubble. Not that I’m complaining. Scruffy Mikey is my favorite Mikey.
Still, he’s a beacon of order and symmetry, and you can tell at a glance which of my boxes he’s packed. They’re the ones lined up evenly against the foot of my bed, filled with neat piles of towels and sheets, each one labeled in Sharpie. Arthur linens. Arthur textbooks. Right now, he’s taking down my photographs, lumping all my blue poster putty into one egg-sized mega-wad.
I plop down beside him. “You know what this looks like?”
“Poster putty?”
“Let me give him an eye hole.” I poke my finger into the putty and look back at him expectantly.
“Poster putty with an eye hole?”
“Mikey! It’s the blob guy from Monsters vs. Aliens!”
“Ah.” He globs another little wad of putty onto its head, like a toupee.
“Yeah, now he looks like Trump.” I quickly flatten him into a pancake and toss him onto my nightstand. “Much better.”
“Such activism,” says Mikey.
“Hush.” I lean in to kiss him. “Guess what.”
“What?”
“I’m bored.”
“Thanks a lot,” he says.
“Of packing.” I push his bangs off his face and kiss him again.
“You know, we’re never going to finish if you keep doing that.”
I just smile, because Mikey’s so thoroughly Mikey. He still gets flustered when I kiss him. Sometimes he’ll clear his throat and say, Well then. Or he’ll check the time or ask whether the door’s locked, and for weeks I thought that meant he was looking for excuses not to kiss me. But now I get it. Mikey’s one of those people who gets what he wants and then panics.
I rest my head on his shoulder and survey the room: piles of books, scattered papers. All my big hoarder energy. Mikey, of course, packed up his entire room four hours ago.
“Thanks for being here,” I murmur.
If he wanted to, he could be in Boston already. But we both know there was never a universe where Mikey didn’t stick around to rescue me.
I roll up a yellow-striped polo shirt I stole from a box of my dad’s high school heirlooms and shove it into my New York bag—a giant camp duffel bag, already bulging with shirts, jeans, and books. Dragging everything onto the train tomorrow is going to be An Experience, but at this point I’m just hoping I actually make it to New York. Which won’t happen until I clear my thirty metric tons of shit out of this dorm room.
I nudge a cardboard box aside with my foot, hands in my hair. “What am I forgetting? Chargers, shirts, jeans—”
“Underwear?” Mikey says.
“Underwear.”
“Work clothes? Suit and tie?”
“Suit and tie? So I can look like Chad from corporate?” I shake my head. “Michael McCowan, this is queer off-Broadway theater! I’ll be laughed off the stage.”
“Off the stage?” Mikey squints. “You’re an intern to an assistant.”
“Intern to the director’s assistant. Do you even know how many people interviewed for this job?”
“Sixty-four.”
“Exactly. Sixty-four,” I say, feeling just a little sheepish. So maybe I’ve talked Mikey’s ear off about my internship once or twice or possibly a few hundred times. But can you blame me? It’s my ultimate top-tier pie-in-the-sky dream job. I don’t think I’ve even fully processed it yet. Starting in less than a week, I’ll be working for Jacob freaking Demsky, Lambda Award–winning playwright and two-time New York Innovative Theatre Award–winning director. How could I not jump for joy, at least a little?
I was kind of hoping Mikey would do a little joy jumping, too. Or just, you know, try not to look like Eeyore whenever I mention it.
I mean, I get it. Of course I get it. We had our whole summer mapped out perfectly: living in Boston, staying in Mikey’s sister’s guest room, working at a day camp. Not exactly a résumé game changer, but I wasn’t in it for my résumé. I was in it for Emack & Bolio’s ice cream, Union Square Donuts, and day trips to Salem and Cape Cod on the weekends. I was in it for Mikey.
But then Jacob Demsky announced his internship, and I couldn’t get it out of my head.
Yeah, the stipend was less than half of what I’d be making as a camp counselor. But I could always save money living in Uncle Milton’s apartment. Missing that time with Mikey would suck, but it’s not like I’d be moving to the moon. And it was just for the summer. Also, there was no point even worrying about the logistics, because Jacob was never going to pick me. Every queer Broadway nerd in the country would be vying for this, and some of them probably had more impressive theater credits than Beauregard and Belvedere in Ethan’s basement.
Still. I poured every bit of my heart into that email and pressed send.
Then I mostly tried to put the whole thing out of my mind. I focused on Boston and Mikey and frantically teaching myself how to make yarn looms, because, wow, I was not born with camp-counselor skills. But I was going to be a camp counselor. In Boston. Because Boston was real, and New York was a pointless secret email sent into the abyss.
Until two weeks ago.
I’ll never forget the way Mikey froze when I told him I’d been offered a Zoom interview.
I study him now for a moment. Mikey Phillip McCowan, my pale-shouldered nervous wreck of a boyfriend. He’s sitting with his knees tucked up, hugging them, not looking at me.
“Mikey Mouse,” I say quickly. “Put on ‘Don’t Lose Ur Head.’ ”
If any album can pull a smile out of Mikey, it’s the original cast recording of Six.
He grabs my phone off the charger, tapping in my password to unlock it. But then his face sort of… stalls out. He stares wordlessly at my phone screen.
He’s definitely not smiling.
My heart kicks into high gear. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah. Yes.” He taps the screen a few times, and Anne Boleyn’s voice jumps to my wireless speaker. Normally Mikey sings along under his breath, but now his mouth’s a sullen straight line.
It’s like the air pressure changed.
I run my hand down the edge of one of the cardboard boxes marked for storage at my bubbe’s house. “I should probably bring this down to the car.”
“What if you just… don’t go?”
“To the car?”
“To New York.”
I stare at him, and he stares back through his glasses, his eyes plainly serious.
“Mikey.” I shake my head. “I have a job—”
“You had one in Boston, too,” he says softly.
My stomach twists. “I should have told you sooner. Mikey, I’m so—”
“Stop. You don’t have to apologize again.” He shakes his head, cheeks flushed. “I’m just not ready for tomorrow.”
“Me either.” I sink onto the bed beside him.
“I wish you were still coming to Boston.”
The song switches—“Heart of Stone.” I take Mikey’s hand, lacing my fingers through his. “Well, luckily it’s just two months.”
“Ten weeks.”
“Fine, ten weeks. But it’ll go by so fast, I promise. We won’t even have time to miss each other.”
He smiles sadly. “I kind of miss you already.”
I look up at him, so startled I lose my breath for a second. I kind of miss you already.
I mean, I know Mikey’s into me. I’ve never doubted that. But he’s not usually quite so direct about it.
“Me too. But at least I get you back in two weeks.” I nudge him sideways. “And I’m taking you to every single one of my favorite places. Central Park, Times Square, Levain Bakery, you name it.”
Mikey’s brow furrows.
I narrow my eyes. “What?”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You made an eyebrow face.”
Mikey disentangles our hands. “It’s just…” He pauses, rubbing the back of his neck. “Did you go to those places with Ben?”
“Oh. Well, yeah.” I feel suddenly flustered. “But that was two years ago. Ben and I haven’t even talked in ages. Since February.”
Mikey shrugs like he doesn’t quite believe me.
But it’s true. It’s been months since Ben and I have talked or even texted. I even tried FaceTiming him on his birthday in April, but he didn’t pick up. He didn’t even return the text I sent later.
Mikey’s looking at me now with his basset-hound eyes. “Are you going to see him?”
“You mean Ben?”
“You’ll be in the same city.”
“Mikey, seriously. I haven’t talked to him since February. He doesn’t even know I’m coming.”
“I think he knows.”
There’s something about the way Mikey says it.
“What do you mean?”
The song switches again. “I Don’t Need Your Love.” I swear I can hear Mikey’s heartbeat change tempo. He leans sideways, gropes around for my phone, and passes it to me. The Instagram notification pops up the moment I tap the screen.
@ben-jamin liked your photo.
It’s the first time Ben’s liked one of my photos in months.
My heart leaps into my throat. I’ve been trying not to let the Instagram thing bother me. It’s normal for people to drift, right? Especially when it’s your ex-boyfriend.
I just didn’t think it would happen to us. To Ben and me. I kind of thought we were indestructible.
And in the beginning, we were.
I’ll never forget that first week back home after leaving New York. Ben and I talked every single night until our phone batteries died. And for the rest of senior year, we never went more than a day without texting. I used to walk around the house on FaceTime so often, my parents started shouting, “Hi, Ben,” whenever they saw my phone. Then sometimes Diego and Isabel would shout back, and the four of them would be off and running with some side conversation. Ben and I complained about it constantly, but I think we both secretly loved that our parents were lowkey obsessed with each other.
I mean, I liked to think Ben and I were lowkey obsessed with each other, too.
And I thought college would be the same. Or better. Definitely better, because at least I wouldn’t have to deal with my mom’s knowing looks every time I stepped out of my bedroom. For the record, that’s a barrel of laughs: trying not to be in love with your ex-boyfriend when he rants adorably about story structure over FaceTime and having your parents see right through every single denial. All the boyfriend-related parental teasing without the actual boyfriend.
So. Privacy was good. And Wesleyan’s proximity to New York was even better. Just over three hours by train—two if I left my car at Bubbe’s house and took the train from New Haven. It’s not that I expected our relationship to pick right up where we left off—not necessarily. But Ben seemed really happy I was moving closer. He brought it up constantly for months.
Of course, once I was actually in Connecticut, things got weird really fast.
We still talked all the time, and Ben was always saying he missed me. Or I’d wake up to rambling remember when texts. But when I mentioned train schedules, he’d change the subject so fast it made my head spin.
Once he sent me a screenshot of my own Instagram selfie, followed by a single heart-eye emoji. Which led to two hours on FaceTime with Ethan and Jessie, trying to pinpoint the most casual-yet-effective way to say, Um, I think you’re joke-flirting, but in case you’re also real-flirting, might I remind you that I have a single dorm room.
It was bewildering and infuriating, and I was a Ben-addled mess all over again. I thought about blocking his number. I thought about showing up on his doorstep. I was surrounded by cute boys with loud opinions who liked kissing, so I tried that. But I always ended up alone in my dorm room, poring over Ben’s texts.
Until Mikey.
@ben-jamin liked your photo.
I can’t stop staring at the notification. Of course, it doesn’t say which photo he liked. Could have been my packing-day post, sure. But it could have also been the Stacey Abrams quote graphic I reposted last night, or Sunday’s throwback photo for Mother’s Day, or anything, really. I want to click into the app so badly my fingers are twitching, but I can’t do that in front of Mikey.
That little heart icon.
I wish I knew what it meant.
Probably nothing. Maybe his finger slipped while scrolling. Maybe he doesn’t even know he liked it. I wonder if he’ll unlike it as soon as he realizes. I don’t know if that would make the notification go away or if I’ll get a new notification or—
I realize with a start that Mikey just spoke. And I didn’t hear a word of it.
“Wait, sorry.” I swallow guiltily. “What did you say?”
Mikey looks at me. “I said if you want to see him, you should see him.”
“Mikey, I haven’t even talked to him since—”
“February. I know.” He’s blinking a lot. “You said that. A few times.”
I blush. “Well, it’s true.”
February 12th, to be exact.
And I hate it. I hate how far I have to scroll to find Ben’s texts. I hate not knowing if he finished his last TWWW revision, or whether his parents followed through and made him get a job like they threatened. I hate not knowing what he had for breakfast this morning.
I hate that it’s my fault. I’m the one who made it weird. I guess it started when Mikey and I got back together, on New Year’s. But I can’t blame Mikey—it’s not like he asked me not to be friends with Ben. He just always got kind of prickly and distant when Ben’s name came up.
So I stopped bringing his name up.
And I guess that made Ben feel like a thing I was hiding.
“Mikey, Ben liking one Instagram post doesn’t mean we’re suddenly best friends again,” I say, aiming for the space between casual and jovial. But even I can hear the defensive edge in my voice.
I glance sideways, and Mikey’s doing this tic he has sometimes, where he pinches the bridge of his nose behind his glasses. He used to do it a lot first semester. I don’t think it even hit me until now that he’d stopped. He shuts his eyes for a moment. “Can I be really honest with you?”
“Of course.” I scoot an inch closer.
The music’s stopped, and the silence feels boundless and thick. When Mikey speaks at last, his voice is flat. “I know you haven’t talked to him. And even if you did, I trust you, Arthur. You’d never cheat. I know that. I’m just scared.”
I press my thigh against his. “Of what?”
“I don’t know. I guess I feel a little threatened by him. He was your first love. Your big Broadway love story.”
“Two years ago. And I haven’t seen him since then. You know that.”
He nods quickly. “It’s just, what happens when you do see him again?”
“But why would I? I don’t even think he thinks we’re friends at this point.”
Mikey looks at me strangely. “Do you think you’re friends?”
My cheeks go warm. “I mean, we were? I don’t know. He’s my ex. We dated for a few weeks, a million years ago. But I’m with you now. And, Mikey, I really, really like you. I really like us.”
And I do. I really like him. I like Mikey’s face and his voice and his weird nerdy brain, and there are times when I find him so endearing I almost can’t stand it. And we’re so good together. We barely fight. Yeah, he’s been a little moody about New York, but I know we’ll work through that. We always work through stuff. Because we’re mature grown-ups in a mature grown-up relationship, and everything’s good and chill and solid. And I’m happy.
“I like us, too,” Mikey says.
I take his hand again and squeeze it.
Here’s the thing. Ben was my big Broadway love story. But I was sixteen. That’s just what falling in love at sixteen feels like. Just because it’s different now doesn’t make it less real.
I study Mikey’s face for a moment. “Okay, I want to show you something. I was going to wait to surprise you in New York, but…”
I stand, stretch, and quickly tug my shirt down, winning a fleeting smile from Mikey. My messenger bag’s propped against the edge of my bookcase, packed and ready. I grab it and bring it back to the bed, unzipping the smaller front pouch.
Mikey watches me curiously.
“Wait for it…” I root around until I find a short stack of paper, folded in thirds. Then I pass it straight to Mikey, who hesitates. I nudge him. “Open it.”
He does, and then pulls the papers closer to read, his eyes going huge behind his glasses. “Wait, for real?”
“Two weeks from tomorrow. It’s the matinee. But the seats are terrible, just so you know.”
Mikey stares at me, dumbfounded. “We’re seeing Six?”
“We’re seeing Six!”
“Arthur, that’s—it’s too expensive. You didn’t have to do that.”
“I wanted to say sorry for ruining our summer—”
“You didn’t ruin it.”
“I did.” I lean my head on his shoulder. “And I wanted to do something special, you know? For us.”
“Arthur.” His voice sounds choked.
“And it wasn’t expensive,” I say quickly, lifting my head to meet his eyes. “I mean, it was, but I get a discount. Internship perk.”
“Why don’t they skip the discount and raise your stipend?”
“Doesn’t work like that.” I kiss his cheek. “Sorry, you’re just going to have to suck it up and see the best show on Broadway with me. And you know what?”
His lips tug up. “What?”
“You were right. I do need a tie. Chad from corporate is going to Broadway.” I stand again, scanning the room. “Now I just have to figure out where I packed them.”
“Cardboard box by your desk. Label says Arthur: Fancy.”
My hands fly to my heart. “You made me a fancy box?”
“I did.” He looks at me for a moment, smiling faintly. Then he stands, grabbing his shirt off the floor. “Okay, how about you finish up? I’ll go drop off my key and grab us some food on the way back?”
“Mikey Mouse, you’re my hero.” Even after he leaves, I can’t help but smile at the door.
But a moment later, I reach for my phone.
@ben-jamin liked your photo.
Apparently my heart’s going for a jailbreak from my rib cage. Over an Instagram notification. It’s the most ridiculous thing.
But I tap the notification, and moments later, I’m staring at my official New York announcement post from last week. It’s a selfie where I’m holding a postcard of Central Park, the one Ben gave me the last time we saw each other in person. There’s even a handwritten Ben-Jamin and Arturo scene on the back. But of course, the only person who would possibly recognize the postcard ignored the post entirely, like he always does.
Liked by @ben-jamin and others.
Until now. The day before I leave for New York.