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.