“How’s your story going, Benito? Have I made a reappearance yet?” Ma asks.

The only people who know I’m writing this novel are Dylan, Hudson, Harriett, and my parents. This year I couldn’t afford to buy Ma anything for Mother’s Day, so I wrote her into the story as a sorceress who doesn’t age and casts peace spells. I printed it out, but at the last second my insecurities kicked in and I just told her what her character does instead of letting her read for herself. I’ve gotten so far with this story that I’m nervous any negative feedback might make me quit.

“Nope. Isabel the Serene needs to stay in her tower. Can’t have any more peace spells in a war with wizards.”

“Maybe they can reach a place of understanding by talking.”

“Ma, no.” I smile a little. “The laptop has been acting up lately. It gets overheated after twenty minutes.”

“Maybe if you pass summer school, we can get you a new one,” Ma says.

“No,” Pa says. “His reward for passing summer school is not getting left behind.”

“Better to have me home writing than outside getting robbed, right?”

“Cheap shot,” Pa says. “But well played. Hector the Haggler taught you well.” Hector the Haggler got even less page time than Ma’s character.

“We can find another on Craigslist,” Ma says.

I think getting a laptop on Craigslist was the problem to begin with, but I can’t complain.

“Frankie connected with his new girlfriend on Craigslist,” Pa says.

“Which Frankie? Employee Frankie or Mailman Frankie?” I ask.

“Employee Frankie. Rodriquez. He was telling me about this page on Craigslist where you can find people you met or almost met. Missed you connections, I think.” Pa looks at me and Ma like we’re supposed to know what he’s talking about. He shrugs. “Well, Frankie first met Lola on the train and they didn’t trade numbers before he got off. His friend told him to check out Craigslist, and he found a listing from Lola. Been dating two weeks now.”

“That’s so wonderful,” Ma says.

“Impressive,” I say.

It’s like Craigslist is some agent of the universe. Handling business. And maybe the universe is speaking through my dad right now to encourage me to do the same. To see if Arthur, my Lola, tried finding me too. I get up from the table.

“I have to check something,” I say.

“What about dessert?” Ma asks.

I halt and almost double back, but keep it moving. Dessert will still be there. I have this I-must-do-this-right-now-or-explode feeling in my chest. I close my bedroom door and sit on my bed with the busted laptop that started this whole Craigslist conversation. There’s this exciting hope of possibility filling me up, like when Hudson and I started texting for the first time, like when Arthur said hi and we flirted and talked about the universe.

I go on Craigslist and find missed connections—not missed you connections, Pa, wow—and I look through their dude-for-dude listings in Manhattan. What starts out as hopeful scrolling quickly turns into defeat, and I sort of wish I could start a support group for all these people with their regrets and what-if fantasies.

I close the laptop.

I guess that’s it on this Arthur business.

Chapter Seven

Arthur

Wednesday, July 11

“Arthur, shoes. Come on. We’re going to be late.” Mom checks her phone. “Oy. I’m getting a Lyft.”

I peer up at her from the couch. “It’s only eight.”

“Well, since your dad finished off the coffee without telling me,” she says loudly, in the general direction of their bedroom, “we need to stop at Starbucks before the Bray-Eliopulos call. You’ve taken your pill, right?”

“Yeah, but.” I sit up slowly. “Why don’t I just take the subway?”

“You’d need to leave now anyway for the subway.”

“Not really. Not until eight twenty.”

Mom scoffs. “Is that why you keep rolling into the office at nine fifteen?”

“That was one time!”

She ruffles my hair. “Come on. I already called the Lyft.”

But then the door to my parents’ bedroom nudges open and out shuffles my dad, wearing plaid flannel pants and yesterday’s T-shirt. “Morning.” He yawns, rubbing his beard. “Hey, Art. Want to grab bagels?”

“Yes!”

“Michael, can you just . . . not.” Mom exhales. “Not right now.”

They look at each other, and it’s one of those lightning-fast wordless parental debates—if you can even call it a debate. It’s more like watching a bulldozer run over a worm.

Dad pats my shoulder. “Let’s do bagels tomorrow.”

“But I don’t want to be stuck in a Lyft with pre-coffee Mom,” I whisper.

“You’ll survive.”

The Lyft pulls in front of our building, and I slide into the back seat after Mom. She smooths her skirt and sets her phone on her lap, screen down, hands clasped together. She’s regained her chill now that we’re moving, but she’s watching me intently, and I think that’s almost worse. No doubt she’s gearing up for a Chat.

She clears her throat. “So, tell me about the boy.”

“What boy?”

“Arthur!” She nudges me. “From the post office.”

I look at her sidelong. “I already told you about him.”

“Well, you just told me what happened at the post office, but I want the whole story.”

“Okay. Um. You didn’t want me to look for him, so . . . that is the whole story.”

“Sweetie, I just don’t want you on Craigslist. Did you read that article about—”

“I know. I know. Machetes and dick pics.” I shrug. “I’m not doing Craigslist. I don’t even care that much.”

“I’m sorry, Arthur. I know you were hoping to find him.”

“It’s not a big deal. He’s just a random guy.”

“Well, I just think,” Mom starts to say—but then her phone buzzes in her lap. She peeks at the screen and sighs. “I have to get this. Hold that thought.” She twists her body toward the window. “What’s up . . . yes. Okay, yes. On our way. Ten minutes, and we’re swinging through Starbucks . . . what? Oh. Oh no.” She drums on her briefcase. Then she turns to me, eyes rolling slightly, and mouths, “Work.”

Which means she’s not hanging up the phone anytime soon. So I turn to stare out my own window, mentally cataloging the restaurants and storefronts. It’s not even nine, but the sidewalks are jammed with commuters. They all look exhausted and generally underwhelmed.

Underwhelmed. By New York!

I don’t know. Sometimes I feel like New Yorkers do New York wrong. Where are the people swinging from subway poles and dancing on fire escapes and kissing in Times Square? The post office flash mob proposal was a start, but when’s the next big number? I pictured New York like West Side Story plus In the Heights plus Avenue Q—but really, it’s just construction and traffic and iPhones and humidity. They might as well write musicals about Milton, Georgia. We’d open with a ballad: “Sunday at the Mall.” And then “I Left My Heart at Target.” If Ethan were here, he’d have the whole libretto written by the time we stepped out of the car.

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Mom’s saying into the phone. “Unless Wingate filed a brief. Okay, we’re a block away.” She pauses. “No, that’s fine, I’ll send Arthur. Be right up.”

Already, she’s fishing a twenty from her purse. “Tall nonfat latte,” she mouths.

Hashtag intern life.

I text Ethan while waiting in line at Starbucks. Concept: a musical set in the Atlanta suburbs called . . . wait for it . . . Ha-Milton. Mic emoji. Down-arrow emoji. Boom.

But Ethan doesn’t text back.

Thursday, July 12

It’s radio silence until the next morning, when Ethan texts a selfie to—surprise, surprise—the group chain. It’s him and Jessie at Waffle House holding up a bottle of chocolate syrup. You’re here in spirit, my dude! he writes.