“Oh, I’m definitely walking you out.” I side-eye the hell out of my parents. Dad’s stroking his beard, and Mom clasps her hands, looking slightly abashed.

“Well, Ben, I’m so glad you came,” Mom says finally. “We’ll have to have you here for dinner sometime.”

“Mom,” I say sharply, but then I catch the look on Ben’s face. His eyes are wide, but he doesn’t look horrified. Just bewildered and happy.

“I’m so sorry,” I say as soon as the door shuts behind us.

“Why? They’re really nice.”

“Yeah, for like five seconds at a time, until they start tearing each other’s heads off. I can’t believe they did that in front of you.”

“You mean the Great American Novel thing?”

“Yeah.” I presss my temple. “They’re such assholes to each other.”

“Really? I think your mom was just busting his balls.”

“No, she’s for real. She always does that. She gets on him for not having a job, and then he gets defensive, and it’s nonstop, and I literally wake up every morning thinking today’s the day they’re going to pull me aside for the whole your father and I both love you very much, Arthur, this isn’t your fault, blah blah, et cetera. Like it’s basically inevitable at this point. I don’t even think the universe is rooting for Team Seuss anymore. It’s just a matter of when.”

“God.” Ben looks at me. “Arthur.”

“God Arthur, what?”

“I’m just really sorry. That sucks so much. I didn’t know.”

He pulls me closer and kisses me softly on the forehead, like a butterfly landing. I might actually melt. I look up at him and smile. “It’s fine. I’ll be fine.”

“You don’t have to be fine.”

“I’m just sorry you had to see them being weird and awkward.”

“Mine are weird and awkward, too. You’ll see.”

And just like that, the awfulness vanishes. Because WOW. Ben Alejo . . . wants me to meet his parents. I’m going on the hometown date. I grin up at him, trying to think of the perfect flirtatious-but-not-too-flirtatious response. But then Ben says, “Now I want to tell you something.”

“Okay.”

He’s quiet for a moment, just breathing. He looks terrified.

“You don’t have to tell me,” I say quickly. “I mean. Unless you want to.”

“I want to.”

My stomach’s doing cartwheels. Is he . . . about to say what I think he’s going to say? It feels soon. But I guess New Yorkers don’t really mess around. I should plan my response. Do I say it back? Is it weird if I don’t? But why wouldn’t I? Seriously, why the fuck not?

“It’s about summer school,” he says.

I stare at him. Wow. I think I could burn this whole city down with my cheeks right now. Am I just a thirsty dipshit, or am I the literal thirstiest dipshit to end all dipshits? God help me if Ben ever finds out that I thought—I actually thought he was going to—

Anyway. Summer school.

“What about it?” I ask.

“It’s . . .” He pauses. “Okay, I just want to say first that Hudson and I are really, really over. We’re not even friends anymore. You know that, right?”

“I know.” I take both his hands. “Let me guess. Hudson was a jerk about summer school.”

Ben looks at me strangely. “Wait.”

“He’s an asshole. I’m sorry, Ben, I know he was a part of your history and everything, but fuck him. There’s nothing wrong with summer school, okay?”

“I know. Yeah. Okay—”

“No, it’s not okay. How dare he make you feel like that. I don’t care if he made straight As. I don’t care if he’s a Rhodes Scholar. He doesn’t deserve you. He never deserved you.”

Ben stares down at the carpet. “I should call the elevator.”

“Okay, but just promise me you’ll stop giving Hudson real estate in your brain. He doesn’t know anything. You’re so fucking smart. I wish you could see it.”

The elevator light blinks and the doors slide open.

“That’s really sweet of you.”

“I mean it.”

“I know.” The elevator starts to close, but he catches it with his foot.

I wrinkle my nose. “I don’t want you to go.”

“Me either.” He tugs me closer.

So I kiss him and I kiss him as the doors press in around us.

I flop back onto my bed, and my whole body’s buzzing. Heart, stomach, fingertips, all of it. My brain won’t stop spinning. I feel like I’m living inside a love song.

Kissing Ben. Holding Ben’s hand. Ben’s crinkly brown eyes.

I should text him.

But when I look at my phone, I see two texts from Jessie.

The first one: Hey!

The second one: Wondering if you me and E can talk.

Sure what’s up, I write back.

She responds immediately. Too complicated for text. FaceTiming you, okay?

I accept the call, still lying down. Still smiling dazedly.

“Whoa. Looks like someone had a good night,” says Ethan. They’re on the floor of Jessie’s bedroom, backs pressed against her bed. And something about the familiarity of it all makes me ache: their faces, their voices, Jessie’s purple floral bedspread.

I grin. “Y’all are up late.”

“So are you,” says Jessie.

“So, what’s up? What is this complicated thing?”

“Well.” They exchange glances.

“That should be in caps, right? Complicated Thing.” I laugh.

No one else laughs.

“Wait.” I sit up. “Is this . . . an intervention?”

Jessie looks startled. “What?”

“It’s about Ben, right? I’m too obsessed with him.” I press a hand to my mouth.

They look at each other again.

“You do talk about him a lot,” says Ethan.

“Guys, I’m so sorry.”

I’m the worst friend on earth. Maybe I’m one of those guys who gets tunnel vision whenever he falls for someone. Maybe I’m just incurably self-centered.

“It’s fine.”

“No it’s not. I haven’t even asked you how you are.”

Another furtive glance. Jessie bites her lip.

“Well,” Ethan says. “I guess . . .”

But then a text from Ben pops up, obscuring half of my screen. So . . . I told my parents that your parents invited me for dinner, and my mom turned the whole thing into wanting your whole family to come have dinner at our house tomorrow—I know that’s crazy, don’t be freaked out. They just really want to meet my awesome new boyfriend.

My heart leaps into my throat. Ethan’s still talking—I think—but it barely even registers.

“Boyfriend,” I whisper.

Ethan pauses. “What?”

“Ben just called me his boyfriend.”

“When?”

“Just now. Over text.”

Jessie’s mouth falls open. “Oh, Arthur, really?”

I nod wordlessly.

“Damn,” Ethan says. “That was fast.”

Jessie nods. “Wow. Are you . . .”

But another text pops up and Jessie’s voice fades to the background. Shit. Okay. I didn’t mean to say boyfriend. Unless you want to say boyfriend. We don’t have to label it. Wow. I’m sorry. Don’t freak out.

“. . . the talk?” she finishes.

“Sorry, what?” I blink. Then I shake my head quickly. “Ugh. I’m doing it again.”

“No, you’re good,” Jessie says. “This is a big deal. Boyfriend. Wow.”

“Yeah.” I blink again. “Yeah.”

“Go respond to him!”

“When I’m done talking to you guys.”

“Arthur. Go put your boyfriend out of his misery.”

My brain feels foggy, almost waterlogged. “Boyfriend. I’m just—”

“Arthur, go!” Jessie laughs. “We’ll talk later, okay? I’m hanging up.”