CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR ARTHUR
Tuesday, July 7
The evening drizzle turns to rain as soon as I reach Tompkins Square Park. I should have known the universe would come through with the perfect finishing touch on this shitpile of a moment. This could be the last time I’m alone with Ben Alejo for the rest of my life, and now I get to show up sopping wet and panting, like a sad, gay Mr. Darcy.
I make a run for the first structure I see—half gazebo, half statue, with the word “CHARITY” engraved in all caps near its roof. There’s a water fountain in the middle, and the rain creeps in through its wide-open sides. But it’s enough shelter to protect my phone and Ben’s present, so it’s good enough for now.
My hands are shaking, so I call instead of texting. “Hey! Sorry—okay, wow, the rain’s really loud. Can you hear me?”
“You okay?” Ben asks. “Where are you?”
“Tompkins Square Park, and it’s pouring. But I’m in a gazebo, so I’m just going to wait it out for a bit—”
“A gazebo…” He pauses. “Is there a bronze lady on top?”
“Yes! And a bunch of virtuous words.”
He laughs. “Okay, wait right there. I’ll grab an umbrella and come get you.”
“What? Ben, no—”
“Already on my way. See you in a sec!”
Staring at the rain lulls me into such a glassy-eyed daze, I don’t even notice Ben until he’s right in front of me, holding a peacock-patterned umbrella. He smiles when he catches me eyeing it. “It’s my mom’s. It’s so extra, I know, but it’s the biggest one I could find.”
“No, I love it,” I say. “Thanks for rescuing me.”
“Of course,” he says, lifting the umbrella so I can slip under. Then he pulls it back down about an inch above his head and half a foot or so above mine, like a little nylon-and-metal cocoon. I’m acutely aware of how close he’s standing—only my messenger bag hangs between us.
I’ve barely stepped into this moment, and I already miss it.
“This fucking weather,” he says.
I’m too tongue-tied to speak. We’re practically out of the park by the time I cough up even the most inane of all questions. “How’s the packing going?”
“Fine, I guess? Could be worse.” Ben switches hands on the umbrella handle for a second to scratch an itch. “I’m not packing up my whole room or anything. And Mario’s uncle’s guest house is furnished, so it’s just whatever clothes and stuff I want to bring with me.”
“Better bring something for the red carpet.”
Ben laughs. “I think that’s getting a little ahead of things.”
“Well, it’s what you deserve.”
“Thanks, Arthur.”
We wipe our feet on the mat outside Ben’s apartment, and he dumps the umbrella in a stand near the door. “My parents are at work,” he says. In a different universe, I think, that could be an invitation.
He taps his phone, and music drifts from a speaker in what sounds like his room. But it’s not until he opens his bedroom door that I recognize it. I look up at him, smiling. “Is that my Broadway playlist?”
“Got to soak in all the New York while I still can.”
Ben’s bedroom is a war zone of strewn clothing and books and a few half-packed cardboard boxes.
Box Boy, I remember, my heart panging sharply.
Ben surveys the chaos. “Sorry about all of this.” He crosses the room, swiping a black garment bag off his bed and looping its hanger through his window blinds. Then he sits back down on the bed, scooting to make space.
I hesitate. “Do you want help with any of this? I don’t want to throw you off your packing game.”
“Oh, it’s fine. I can take a break.”
I settle in beside him, glancing up at the zippered bag now hanging from his window. “Is that the Bloomingdale’s suit?”
“My Best Man gift from Dylan and Samantha. I don’t know how I didn’t see it. Like, in retrospect, why on earth would Dylan drag me to Bloomingdale’s, have me try on an expensive-ass suit, and bring in a sales consultant to get the fit right?”
I laugh. “Because it’s Dylan, and he does stuff like that?”
“I know.” Ben’s face clouds over. “I still can’t believe the timing. I’m moving across the country, and now he’s having a baby.”
“But the baby’s not due until December, right? Maybe you could come back for a few weeks?”
“As long as I can find cheap tickets.” He smiles, a little nervously. “It’ll be my first time on a plane.”
“I forgot you hadn’t been on one.”
“I’m, like, already scared of flying.”
“Oh no! Don’t be. It’s weird—for most of it, you barely feel like you’re moving. You’ll get used to it pretty quickly.” I pause. “And you’ll be with Mario, right?”
“I guess so? He’ll probably want to spend Christmas here if he can, so…”
“That will help.”
“Yeah.” He scoots back to the wall, tucks his legs up, and sighs. “Okay, honest question. Am I the biggest asshole for leaving?”
“Wait—why?”
“I mean, how often does your best friend have his first kid?”
“Once? Unless all his other kids are do-over first kids?”
Ben’s eyebrows shoot up.
“Okay, stop being morbid. First first kid is alive and healthy. And you”—I prod his arm—“need to stop rereading that YA book where everyone dies at the end.”
He tips his palms up. “It’s a good book.”
“And you’re not an asshole,” I add. “You shouldn’t have to put your life on hold for Dylan’s.”
“Yeah. No, you’re right. I’m being weird.” He stares at his knees without blinking.
“Let me grab your present,” I say when the silence is a little too unbearable. I reach for my messenger bag.
“You really didn’t have to get me anything.”
“It’s small. You’ll see.” I root around inside the bag for a moment, managing to slide the envelope out of my work binder without even undoing the clasp. It’s a regular white business-sized envelope—sealed and, thankfully, dry.
“Should I open it now?”
I nod, and he carefully pries it open, revealing a tiny full-color picture on photo-sized cardstock. Along the side, styled like a ticket, are the words: Play It Again: Dress Rehearsal, Admit One. “Oh, awesome!” Ben says.
“Turn it over.”
He flips it, eyes widening as he reads the handwritten words out loud. “ ‘Ben, Hope to see you Thursday! Yours, Em Kester.’ ” Ben turns to me, gaping. “WHAT?”
“Surprise!”
“Arthur! Fuck. This is incredible.” He flips it back over to study the ticket. “I’m—wow. I didn’t even know they made tickets for dress rehearsal.”
“They don’t. I mean, they do, but just for the final dress rehearsal, and you’ll be gone by then. But Jacob said you could come to this one. And I made the ticket so Emmett would have something to sign.” I pause, heart pounding. “If you do want to come, I’m pretty sure I can introduce you to Em afterward.”
“Oh.” Ben does a few quick blinks. “Wow.”
“No pressure though,” I say quickly. “I know you have a ton going on, with the packing and the wedding, and—plus, you don’t have to decide now. Or at all. Just. If you want to, you can.”
“I mean, it sounds amazing. I need to figure out what I have going on this week—”
My cheeks flood with heat. “Seriously, don’t even worry about it.”
“This is such an amazing gift. Just. Thank you.”
“No problemo!” I say, immediately cringing. “Wow, I did not just say that. Whatever you thought you heard…”
He laughs. “I’m going to miss you.”
“Me too.” I exhale. “Which is so ridiculous, because I don’t even really live here. Literally, what’s the difference, right?”
“No, I get it,” he says, and my eyes start to prickle.
I stand abruptly. “Anyway, I’ll let you finish packing.”
“You’re fine! Hang out as long as you want.”
I stare at his face, trying to memorize all its details. I know I’ll see him again at the wedding, and maybe the play. But Ben’s face has always looked a little different when it’s just us. “I should—I’ll see you soon.”
He jumps up to hug me. “Okay, well. Thank you so much. For just—yeah.”
I nod into his shoulder, barely capable of speaking.
The door shuts behind me, and I can hardly catch my breath for a minute. I don’t know what I even expected. A big final-act kiss? A scorching rejection? It’s the kind of thing that makes sense in movies, but it falls apart when it’s real, when it’s Ben, when his bedroom floor is covered with moving boxes. When he’s telling me to hang out as long as I want to, but not begging me to stay.
I wonder how many love stories end like this—with an ambiguously long hug and a million things left unsaid.
I reach the staircase, staring down blurrily like I’m peering over a cliff. My phone buzzes a few times in my pocket, and I pull it out to find a whole long thread of texts from Ben. The first one’s just a word: I’m—
Followed by a series of screenshots, each one zooming closer and closer on Emmett’s handwritten Yours.
Yours. My breath catches.
He texts again. EM IS MINE??? 
His. Emmett’s. Not mine. Not ever. Unless—
I’m barely aware of my feet springing me back into the hallway, barely hear my own knuckles on the wood of Ben’s door.
Ben opens it, smiling. “What’d you forget?”
I step past him into the apartment. “Okay, listen,” I say. “I’m not trying to make things weird, and I don’t want to fuck things up for you. I don’t even know how this goes, because I can’t—I can’t imagine saying this to you, but I also can’t imagine walking out that door without saying it.” I turn to look at him, finally, and my lips are trembling. “Ben, I’m so fucking sorry.”
He laughs, looking taken aback. “Why?”
I start to cover my face with my hands, but I stop myself, clasping them under my chin. “I’m not making any sense.”
“Literally none.”
I laugh, a little breathlessly. “Right. I just have to—fuck. They make this look so easy, and I’m—” I hold my hands up, and they’re shaking.
“Okay, you’re scaring me a little.”
“I’m still in love with you,” I blurt.
Ben’s lips fall open. “Oh—”
“And I know I’m not supposed to be, and I promise I’m not standing here waiting for you to say it back to me. I know that’s not… going to happen, but it’s fine.” I try to smile. “And I want you to know that I’m happy for you and Mario.” I stop. “I mean. Sort of.” I stop again. “Okay, you know what? Fuck that. I’m not.”
Ben lets out a quick, surprised laugh.
“Look, I want you to be happy. But not with him, because he’s—I mean, he’s great.” A tear slides down my cheek. “I actually really like him. But I want you to be with me.” I press my hands against my chest, against my thudding heart. “And he’s not me.”
“Arthur—”
“Wait, let me just say the rest really quickly, before I—just. I just need to say it, okay? I don’t want to wake up in two years and have to tell the next guy I’m not”—my voice cracks—“I’m not in love with him. Because he’s not you. And I know this is the part where I’m supposed to list out all the quirky reasons—like, oh, I love how fucking intense you get about video games—”
“It’s not really the games,” Ben says. “I just don’t like—”
“Losing. I know.” I give a choked, tearful laugh. “I’m just—I’m so bad at this. How am I so bad at this? You know what I did last night? I watched every love confession scene I could find, and every single one of them reminded me of you. All of them. Notting Hill. Crazy Rich Asians. Ten Things I Hate About You—Ben, I cried watching the end of the Kissing Booth sequel, because for me, it’s always you. You’re the point of every story.”
A tear rolls down Ben’s cheek, and he swipes it away with his fingers.
“And I want to tell you it’s okay that you’re leaving and that I’ll get over you, I’m sure it is, and I’m sure I will. But right now?” I shut my eyes for a moment. “I don’t even know what getting over you looks like. I can’t even imagine it, and—God, I shouldn’t be telling you this. It’s not fair to you.” I wipe my eyes. “I know. I know it’s not.”
“It’s fine, Art. You’re fine.”
“You know what? I’m gonna go”—I gesture vaguely at the door—“so you don’t have to figure out what to say or how to say it. Just know—I get it. I do, and I’m going to find a way to not be in love with you. Eventually. So.” I shoot him a faltering smile. “I guess I’ll see you at the wedding. Bye, Ben.”
I take a shaky, deep breath, and then I walk out the door.