Because if Ben’s thinking about ketchup breath, I’m pretty sure he’s thinking about kissing.

Specifically: kissing me.

I watch him put this together. His neck and cheeks go pink.

“We’ll keep it in mind for our next do-over,” he says quickly. “Third do-over will be the charm. Nothing too pricey next time, okay?”

“Yeah. And we won’t order garlic fries.”

“I thought they were truffle fries.”

“Right.”

He smiles. Then he loops his arm around my shoulder, and I’m so happy, I can barely breathe. Even though it’s just a shoulder thing. People on the street probably think we’re just bros. Just two bros eating hot dogs with their arms around each other.

“Okay, so truffles,” Ben says. “Since when do truffles not involve chocolate?” He slides his arm off my shoulders and takes out his phone. “I’m looking this up.”

“Looking what up?”

“What . . . are . . . truffles?” he says, typing.

“They’re some kind of seed, right?”

“Nope. Fungus.” He holds up his phone. “See?”

“What? No way.” I lean in closer. Our arms are brushing. “I really thought they were seeds.”

“I think you’re thinking Truffula Seeds from The Lorax, Arthur Seuss.”

I burst out laughing, and Ben gets this look on his face. Like he’s surprised and self-conscious and a little bit pleased with himself. I guess he doesn’t know how funny he is. Probably his jerkface ex-boyfriend never laughed at his jokes.

“So how’d you figure out my last name?”

“From your email address?” He tugs me sideways to let a woman and her kid go by. It’s pretty nice having a New Yorker to help keep me in check on the sidewalks. “So, are you related to Dr. Seuss or something? No wait, it’s a pen name, right?”

“His is. Mine’s not.” I smile. “And you’re Ben Hugo?”

“Ben Alejo. Hugo is my middle name. It’s harder to misspell than Alejo.”

“Ben Hugo. I like that, it sounds like a poet’s name.”

“Nope. Not a poet. No picture book empire.”

“Hey, you never told me what you do all day.”

“Right.” He presses his lips together. “I’m taking a class.”

“You’re auditing something? I thought about doing that at NYU. How is it?”

“Um. Pretty great.”

“Very cool, Ben Alejo.”

“I guess we’re doing first and last names now.”

“Well, I need to memorize it so I can google you.”

He laughs. “I’m not that interesting.”

“Yeah you are.”

“So are you, Dr. Seuss.”

Chapter Sixteen

Ben

Tuesday, July 17

@ArtSeussical started following you.

Screw homework.

I sit up in bed. Following each other feels like a step, one that I’ve been excited about because Arthur’s profile has been on private. “Yo. Arthur just followed me.”

“Finally,” Dylan says, turning away from my desk, where he was playing The Sims. I’ve just rescued my Sim from doing homework too while Dylan’s Sim lounges around playing games on the laptop. The whole thing is too meta for real me.

“Do I follow him back right now? Playing it cool seems pointless since he’s leaving at the end of the summer. No time to waste.”

“And there’s no playing it cool with someone who put up a poster with your face to find you,” Dylan says.

“Good point.”

I follow Arthur back and suddenly we have access to each other’s profiles. Like we’ve given each other keys to our lives. Harriett’s Instagram is radiant, but I see how much energy she puts into each photo. Arthur’s Instagram feels real.

There’s a photo of him eating his first slice of New York pizza.

Playbills for Aladdin and Wicked.

A mirror selfie in some lobby, and I notice it’s the day we met—hot dog tie and all.

A prom photo of Arthur and Jessie and Ethan.

A laptop decal that says WWBOD: What Would Barack Obama Do?

Arthur sitting on a stool somewhere fancy, and at first I think it’s a restaurant, but then I see photos of him on the wall. His house in Georgia is definitely way nicer than I built it up to be in my head. The idea of him visiting my apartment before he goes home for good just became a thousand times more intimidating.

Arthur sitting cross-legged in front of what looks to be his bedroom mirror stops me. Even Dylan is zooming in on his face.

“Holy blue eyes, Batman,” Dylan says.

“Holy blue eyes,” I repeat. I’ve seen them in real life, but still.

And then there’s another photo of Arthur in glasses, which is a thing, and wow. In the next ten photos I look at, I find myself staring at his lips instead of his eyes. “Is Thursday too soon to go in for the kiss?”

“Not one bit. Make your move,” Dylan says. His phone buzzes on my desk and he gets up to check it. “You’re on the timer here, Big Be—” He stares at the screen. “It’s her.”

“Samantha?!”

“Beyoncé,” Dylan says. “Of course Samantha. What do I do?”

“Open the text. Read it. Then respond with words. But not words of the ‘future wife’ variety.”

He reads the text and hands me the phone. “Okay. This is good. I think. Help me not mess this up.”

I check out the text:

Hey Dylan. I’m sorry I haven’t reached out sooner. Every time I start writing something I just assume you no longer care and then I feel stupid and say nothing. I had this anxiety with Patrick during a falling out and he was happy I wrote to him and I’m hoping you might be too. I panicked a bit over your future wife comment because my last relationship just felt very obsessive and I don’t like who I became during it or how I felt after. I think you’re good and funny and I’d like to see you again if we can keep it casual. If you’ve moved on, I’m sorry to bother you.

“Wow,” I say. “You have to respond soon. Don’t leave her hanging.”

“What should I say?”

I go through everything I know about Samantha. “Maybe invite her out to grab some seafood with her sister? So it seems less romantic?”

“That’ll land me in the friend zone.”

“Dude, she wants to see you. Texting you was clearly hard for her, but she did it anyway. You just have to take your time,” I say.

“Right. I was kidding about the future-wife thing. Half kidding.” He takes the phone back and reads over the message again.

“Can I help you with the text, please?”

Dylan shakes his head. “I got this.” He takes a deep breath and narrates: “Dear future wife . . .”

I snatch the phone.

Thursday, July 19

Our third first date is pretty low-key. No arcade games where Arthur can’t keep up. No meals I can’t pay for. Figuring it out wasn’t easy. Arthur suggested one of those disco parties where you wear headphones and dance to songs of your choice. I suggested Nintendo World, which was apparently too close to arcade games for someone—cough, cough. He suggested a painting class. I suggested rock climbing. We’ve settled on a stroll through Central Park, and I have plans for where I can kiss him.

It’s after six as we walk the same path I walked with Dylan last week. I even knocked out my homework and studied for tomorrow’s test this afternoon so I can stay out until nine. Arthur and I split a pretzel while talking about how his favorite GIF is the one of the bald eagle that tries biting Trump’s hand off, and all I can think about are all the things I want to know about him. And what that means since he’s not here for good.

“What are some of the things you have to do before you go back to Georgia?”

“Win the Hamilton lottery. And I kind of want to see another show on my birthday. Visit Lady Liberty, maybe? Going to the top of the Empire State Building could be interesting.”

“It’s hell to get up there, but definitely worth the Instagram photo op. I really liked that photo of you in the hot dog tie,” I say. “A lot of photos, actually. But I didn’t want to be That Guy who likes all your old photos. That Guy isn’t cool. I hope where I’m taking you is worth the ’gram.”