Monday, May 25
The line outside the diner’s already halfway down the block, but it barely even feels like I’m waiting. The weather’s mild and sunny, I’ve got the whole day off work, and I’m on literal Broadway—the street and the district. Plus, the Winter Garden Theatre is practically within spitting distance, and I’m not even going to try to be cool about it. If I have to crouch to get that perfect low-angle shot of the marquee, so be it.
Which is exactly how Ben finds me: popping a squat on the sidewalk. He peers down at me with an expression that’s half amused and half disturbed, and I jump up so quickly, I almost conk his chin with my skull. “Sorry! Hi!”
“Hi! Yikes. Am I really late?” He surveys the line, looking vaguely distressed.
“Not at all. It’s not even open yet.”
“But why are there so many people here?”
“Because it’s Eileen’s Galaxy Diner. Ben, it’s a landmark! Have you never been here?”
His face falls. “Have you?”
“No,” I say quickly. “I mean, maybe once? Years ago, though. I don’t even really remember it.”
Ben looks at me like he’s never seen someone so full of shit in his entire life.
“Fine, it was two years ago and I remember everything, but so what? It’s amazing! The waiters sing. It’s like a full Broadway performance while you’re eating.”
“Yeah, that’s why I suggested it. It has extreme Arthur energy.”
“And New York energy.” I peer around happily, taking in the souvenir shops, yellow cabs, and pretzel stands, the impossibly huge billboards. “God, I love New Yorkers. You guys embrace every single moment. Just look at all these people.” I gesture down the line. “No one’s pissed they have to wait, no one’s driving around Alpharetta or wherever, looking for a place with parking, because God forbid—”
“Alpharetta, Georgia?” An older white woman ahead of us turns around, clasping her hands. “Don’t mean to interrupt, but are y’all from there?”
“Yeah! I mean, I’m from Milton, which is pretty much—”
“Oh, I know it well. We’re from Woodstock.” She gestures to a guy wearing an FDNY T-shirt. “Bill, you won’t believe where these gentlemen are from. Milton, Georgia!”
“Well, how about that?” says Bill. “And you know, the young lady with the big puffy sleeves up there? She’s Australian!”
“Big New York energy,” Ben whispers.
“Shh!” I elbow him, and he elbows me back, and I can’t believe how different this feels from Dave & Buster’s, or even the post office. I spent all week reminding myself that the awkwardness between us was normal. Seeing your ex for the first time in almost two years isn’t exactly a chill situation, and meeting his new boyfriend? Whole new level of weird. But in this moment, it’s almost hard to remember the awkwardness ever existed. I feel as instantly at home with Ben as I always did.
The line moves quickly, and before I know it, we’re seated in the middle of a bank of identical rectangular tables, all barely an elbow’s distance apart. “Well, this is cozy,” says Ben, glancing sideways.
“You mean the fact that I could literally reach out and pull that lady’s ponytail?”
“That’s definitely what I meant. Touching strangers’ hair.”
We smile at each other.
“So,” I say.
“So.” He cups his chin in his hand. “No Jessie, huh?”
I make a face. “She’s at work.”
“On Memorial Day?”
“Can you believe it? She’s there catching up on paperwork. It’s tragic.”
“I would cry.”
“Oh, me too, for sure. I love my job and everything, but—” I stop short, looking up at Ben. “Wait, how do I not know what you’re up to this summer? Are you working?”
“A little. Mostly just writing, though.” He leans forward. “I want to hear about your fancy theater internship. Your boss is kind of a big deal, right?”
I sit up straighter. “Kind of, yeah. I mean, I don’t know how many people outside the queer arts scene have heard of him, but he’s won a bunch of awards.”
“Wow. Is he pretty hands-on? Like, do you get to talk to him and stuff?”
“Oh, definitely. Like, I mostly work with Taj, his assistant, but Jacob’s really chill. I ask him questions all the time.”
“That’s so fucking cool,” Ben says. “You must be pinching yourself. Your actual dream job.”
“I know.” I bite my lip. “I’m kind of bad at it though. I’m constantly messing up.”
Ben smiles a little. “I doubt that.”
“For real! It’s because there’s so much organization involved—like spreadsheets and keeping track of things, and I suck at that. Like, you should see Taj. He sorts emails into folders. He has a bullet journal.”
“I don’t know what that is.”
“It’s just a fancy journal and organizer. I don’t know, he has a whole system for it. He’s just so on top of everything. Like, you ask him when a package is arriving, and he’s like, ‘Want the tracking number?’ ”
“I hate tracking numbers,” Ben says.
“Me too!”
“Okay, so what about your role? Is it mostly the spreadsheets, or do you ever get to do director stuff?”
“Director stuff?”
“Like yelling into a megaphone? I don’t know.” He clocks my expression and laughs. “Is that not a thing?”
“Oh, it’s my whole job. Just yelling in megaphones. For hours.” He wrinkles his nose at me. “Yeah, no. It’s more the spreadsheets… I basically just do whatever Taj tells me to do. Like on Friday I had to go through all this makeup inventory to get rid of all the expired stuff. That kind of thing.”
“That doesn’t sound too bad,” Ben says.
“Until I squirted it on Jacob.”
“Um. What?”
“Like, Jacob came over to ask us something, and I’m holding this bottle of foundation made for the whitest of white people. And I guess I was just antsy or something, because I don’t even realize I’m pressing up and down on this bottle pump until this goopy blob splooges out and lands on his thigh—”
“Hiiii! Welcome to Eileen’s Galaxy Diner. I’m Kat. Can I take your drink order?” I look up to find a ponytailed waitress smiling sweetly as she sets a pair of menus on the table. “Or should I come back once you’re done talking about—”
“Makeup!” I say quickly. “Not—you know. The squirt was makeup. The kind you rub on your face? Like, for skin?”
“Should you be rubbing foreskins on your face?” Kat asks.
Ben laughs so hard he can barely order his coffee, and he instantly declares Kat to be his all-time favorite waitress. I grab a menu, mostly to have something to hide behind. Scanning the list of options makes me hungry already—omelets, grilled cheese, milkshakes.
But then I look at the prices.
“Um. Ben?”
His eyes pop up adorably over his menu.
“I forgot how expensive this place is.”
“Yeah, that’s kind of how it goes with these tourist-trap places.”
“We don’t have to eat here. Why don’t we go grab bagels or something?”
“No, look! They have bagels!” Ben flips his menu around, pointing.
“I mean a bagel that doesn’t cost double digits.”
“Arthur, it’s fine. I knew what I was getting into.”
I study his face, trying to read between the lines of his expression. He seems sincere—but I’m never quite sure how to step when it comes to money stuff with Ben. It would be so much easier if I could just pay for his meal—but that feels so boyfriendy, like I’m trying to encroach on Mario’s territory. Not that Mario seemed territorial. Honestly, Ben’s probably the one feeling territorial, now that I’ve apparently confessed my love for Mario via claw-machine teddy bear. Because I’m—I can’t emphasize this enough—a full goddamn disaster.
“So, what’s up with Mario?” I ask.
Ben looks taken aback. “You mean—”
“Sorry.” I blush. “I just mean what’s he up to today? Why is he not having fancy bagels with us?”
“Oh!” Ben says. “He’s in LA. Visiting his uncle.”
“Oh, right! He mentioned that.”
Kat shows up with Ben’s coffee. “Are you guys ready, or do you need more time to…?” She waves her hands around vaguely.
“Ready!” I shoot her a nice big not-talking-about-splooge-and-foreskins-this-time smile. I end up going for the challah French toast, which sounds great until Ben orders something five dollars cheaper off the appetizer menu. So then I go around in circles for a second, trying to decide if changing my order would make Ben feel more or less self-conscious.
“Why are you making your panic face?” Ben asks as soon as Kat leaves.
“What? I’m not!” I clasp my hands and tuck them under my chin. “Anyway! How’s the coffee?”
Ben studies me for a moment before answering. “Decent. I’ve had better.”
“Coffee snob. You’ve clearly been spending too much time with Dylan.”
He laughs, but there’s this edge to it.
“Wait, is everything okay?”
“Yeah, no, totally,” Ben says quickly. “He’s just—I don’t know. He’s been sort of distant lately.”
“Distant?” I tilt my head, thinking about Dylan’s claw-machine antics. “Like distant from reality?”
Ben laughs. “It’s kind of hard to explain.”
“Well, talk me through it.”
“It’s just…” He pauses. “I mean, I’m probably reading way too much into things. I’m sure he’s just busy. Which is great, because so am I.”
“You’ve got Mario now,” I say, nodding—but the look on Ben’s face sends my stomach into free fall. “Okay, I feel like that came out weird.”
“No—”
“I just mean that I’m happy for you. Mario seems awesome, and I’m glad you have a boyfriend who makes you happy.”
“Oh—that’s not. He’s not my boyfriend.”
“He’s… not?”
“Not officially,” Ben adds, and I’m pretty sure he’s speaking English. But there’s this lag before the words sink in. It’s almost like I’m waiting for a live closed-captioned translation.
Did Ben just say Mario isn’t his boyfriend?
It doesn’t compute. I’m not trying to be dense, but I saw them kissing—in broad daylight. Which is what you do with your boyfriend, not some random guy you’re hooking up with. Okay, there might have been a modest amount of daylight kissing before Mikey and I were official, but not at the goddamn post office. I’m sorry, but there are two and only two reasons to kiss at a post office. Either you just got proposed to via flash mob, or you’re saying goodbye to your first love before you head back home to Georgia. Anything else is just gratuitous PDA.
“Arthur?”
I look up with a start. “Hmm?”
“Why are you doing big eyes?”
“Those are just my eyes.”
Ben raises his eyebrows. “You think I don’t know what your eyes look like?”
My heart leaps into my throat—which makes no sense whatsoever. Eyes, Arthur. This isn’t an intimate statement. He’s not talking about your dick. Strangers on the subway know what your eyes look like.
“I’m just saying, you don’t have to be scandalized about it,” Ben says. “It’s what Mario and I both want. Things are good, we have fun together, and we make each other happy. We just haven’t quite reached the no-I-love-YOU-more stage like you and Mikey.”
“Wait, what?”
“Hello, New York!” booms an amplified voice. I whip around sideways in my seat, craning my neck—there’s a waiter with a microphone standing directly behind me on the booth divider. “Looks like you’ve wandered into Eileen’s Galaxy Diner!” Cheers erupt from every corner of the dining room. “I’m Blair, but I’m about to turn the microphone over to my friends Kat and Dana—”
I glance back at Ben. “Our Kat?”
“Who are going to—okay, Dana’s dropping off some drinks, but then they’re going to dazzle you with their extraordinary talent. Are you ready, Dana? Yes! Okay! This is… ‘Dance with You’ from The Proooom!” Blair hops off the divider as the opening notes of background music start to play. When I turn back around, Kat’s standing a few feet behind Ben, clutching a microphone in both hands. Ben twists his chair sideways, which gives me the perfect profile view of his mouth falling open when Kat starts the first verse.
“Holy shit.” He turns back to me. “Are they all this good?”
“Pretty much.”
“Okay, well, I’m impressed.”
I laugh. “I am, too! I just mean everyone here’s amazing. You’ll see.”
But the truth is, I don’t even notice when the vocals switch to Dana. I can’t keep the music in focus; I keep drifting back to what Ben said about Mikey. The no-I-love-you-more stage? Does he really think Mikey and I are that serious? Obviously we’re serious in the sense that we call each other boyfriends and have sex sometimes. But love? And for Ben to just assume that?
There’s an explosion of cheering when the song ends. Kat shows up with our food a minute later, and I’m treated to yet another intriguing performance: Ben Alejo in the nonverbal role of Fanboy Visibly Losing His Shit.
“I can’t believe you’re having your Broadway awakening at this very moment.”
Ben grabs a mozzarella stick. “If you say so.”
“Pretty sure I know the hip hooray and ballyhoo when I hear it.”
Ben looks at me blankly.
“ ‘Lullaby of Broadway’? From 42nd Street?”
“Oh, does the awakening come with a full encyclopedia of obscure Broadway references?”
“Did you just call 42nd Street obscure?” He tilts his palms up. “Ben, it won a Tony. And then the revival won a Tony.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Unacceptable. I’m making you a playlist. No, you know what? I’m making you a whole playlist of playlists. One for ballads, one for love songs—” I feel my cheeks go warm. “Oh, and just so you know, Mikey and I haven’t discussed that yet.”
Ben holds his mozzarella stick aloft. “The playlist?”
“No, the I-love-you thing. We haven’t said it yet.”
“Oh!” He blinks. “Sorry, I just figured—”
“No, you’re fine. Yeah, we’re just…” God, I don’t even know how to finish that sentence. But Ben’s looking at me, waiting to hear the rest of my bullshit. “Like, I’ve thought about it. Obviously, I love him. I just don’t know if I’m—” I stop short.
“If you’re in love with him?”
I shove a giant bite of French toast in my mouth, scanning the room as I chew. Maybe a waiter’s about to break into song right now? Maybe a nice, loud, full-ensemble number? Anyone?
“You don’t have to answer that,” says Ben.
I swallow. “I know.”
Something flips in my chest when our eyes meet.
I quickly look away. “It’s just hard to pin down sometimes. I always thought love was a certain feeling, and it’s either there or it’s not. But with Mikey, it’s just…” I tilt my palms up, looking back up at Ben.
He doesn’t reply. He just furrows his brow and watches me.
“But I don’t actually think it’s supposed to feel like Broadway, you know? It’s not a rom-com. It’s just, I don’t know. Real life. He makes me happy. And I love who he is as a person.”
“He seems great.”
“He is.” I smile. “Like, he’s really funny, but he’s so quiet that hardly anyone knows he’s funny. So you feel like you’re in on a secret. And he’s so smart. And he can sing—sorry, I know I sound like a checklist.”
“No, I get it,” says Ben.
“It’s just… I think about it a lot, actually. I keep trying to add it all up in my head. Like at what point does all of this mean I’m in love with him?”
Ben wrinkles his nose. “Why are you trying to turn love into a math problem?”
“I’m not, I swear!” I laugh. “I just wish I knew is all? I keep waiting for it to click or something, and maybe that’s not—I don’t know. I’m probably doing this wrong. I’ll probably look back in a year and say, ‘Wow, I was in love with him the whole time,’ right?”
I shift in my seat, feeling squirmy and strange. I’ve never said any of this out loud before, and now I wish I could snatch the words back out of the air. All these questions about Mikey, these tiny back-burner thoughts in my head. It’s like they’re highlighted and bolded, stamped all over my face: ARTHUR DOESN’T KNOW HIS OWN HEART.
The thing is, two years ago with Ben, there wasn’t a doubt in my mind.
I shake the thought away, turning brightly to Ben. “Seriously, you should come meet him next weekend,” I say. “Mario, too, of course.”
“Right.” Ben pauses. “Mario’s still going to be in LA.”
“But you’ll be here, right?”
“Yeah. But… would that make things weird?”
“What? No way. I know Mikey would love to meet you! He’s heard a lot about you. Not in an overshare way—”
“Of course not. Never.”
“Shut up. I’m just saying.” I grin. “It’ll be fun! Universes colliding! You know, I actually think you guys will hit it off. You have a lot in common.”
“We do?”
“Well, you’ve got me,” I say. “And I’m a lot.”
Turns out, Ben’s startled laugh is still one of the best sounds on earth.