“Me too.”

“What’s going to happen when he goes home?” Pa asks.

I shrug. This question sucks. “I’m just getting to know him while he’s here.”

I think about the way Arthur smiled so hard during dinner when he thought no one was watching him and what I could do to win as many smiles out of him as possible.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Arthur

Monday, July 23

“I leave the room for five minutes,” Namrata says, “and now you’re standing on a fucking chair.”

“I’m taking a sensory motor break.” I press my fist to my chest. “Oh Benny booooooooy . . . the pipes, the pipes are calling.”

Juliet glances up from her laptop. “I’m just glad he stopped singing ‘Ben’s Body Is a Wonderland.’”

“Anyway, big announcement time,” says Namrata. “Guess who’s dropping out of school and moving in with their parents.”

I gasp. “You?”

Namrata snorts. “No, dumbass. David’s roommates.”

“The dino porn guys?”

“Their Kickstarter got funded, so they’re taking the year to work on Jurassion Passion. And apparently 714 people are willing to pay for that quality content, so.” She shrugs.

“Good for them!” I bump back down into my seat, sliding the chair back to the table. “Let’s throw a party.”

“You want to throw a party celebrating dinosaurotica?” Juliet asks.

“I’m in a good mood, okay?”

“We noticed,” says Namrata.

“Want to know why?”

“We know why. Starts with B, rhymes with ‘when,’ as in when are you going to start working on the Shumaker files?”

“Ten points to Ravenclaw!” I announce, holding my fist like a microphone. “But which Ben? Is it Affleck? Stiller? Carson? Nope, it’s BENJAMIN HUGO ALEJO. My . . . boyfriend.” I do a quick drumroll. “Also Ben Platt.”

“Great speech,” says Namrata.

Juliet peers at me for a moment, her chin in her hands. “It’s pretty wild, actually,” she says. “I can’t believe you pulled this off. You put up a poster for this guy, then you actually found him, and now you guys are boyfriends.”

“We are! We’ve even got the label. We’re doing some heavy labeling.”

“Jesus. And you’ve already met his parents,” Namrata says. “It’s been, what—two weeks?”

“Yup.” I beam.

“So what the fuck is next?”

I mean, the thing that’s so crazy is I don’t even know. I don’t know what comes next. Because Broadway tells me one thing, but Reddit tells me something very different. And no one’s advice seems to fit how I feel.

Nothing’s quite what I expected. I think I knew I’d feel giddy, but I didn’t know I’d feel so certain. I didn’t know it would feel like the whole world clicking into place. It’s weird, because even I know that two weeks are nothing. So why do two weeks with Ben feel so earth-shattering?

It’s scary how easy it is to picture a future with him. It’s scary how every minute, something new reminds me of him. New York in general reminds me of him.

As far as I’m concerned, Ben is New York.

And that’s terrifying.

Tuesday, July 24

Hi hello yes we still need to discuss the Complicated Thing!! You guys free?

Hellllooooooo Jess, helllooooo Ethan

JESSICA NOUR FRANKLIN ETHAN JON GERSON WHERE ARE YOOOOOU

Im alone in the group chat frowny face frowny face frowny face.

Y’all are in Target aren’t you, why does Target have the worst signal WTF

GET YOUR BUTTS OUT OF THE DOLLAR SECTION AND INTO MY TEXTS

Wednesday, July 25

By Wednesday, I’m a human fireball. The moment work ends, I launch out the door of the building, skidding to a stop next to Morrie, the doorman. Ben’s surprising me tonight. I don’t know where he’s taking me, but he’s been hyping it all week.

“Whoa there, Doctor,” Morrie says, blue eyes twinkling. “In a hurry?”

“Someone’s meeting me here.”

My boyfriend. My boyfriend my boyfriend my boyfriend.

Morrie steps away to open the door for someone, and I sneak a glance at my phone. Five fifteen, and nothing from Ben. I peer up the street, taking inventory of all the faces. I don’t even see him in the distance. I bite back a twinge of disappointment and shoot him a quick text.

A moment later: Sorry, running late! Be there in 5

He shows up at five thirty.

I just look at him. “I thought you might be dead.”

“No—sorry. Lost track of time.” He hugs me tightly. “Hey.”

And it’s the kind of contradiction that makes my brain hurt. On one hand, here’s Ben, late, yet again, and obnoxiously unperturbed about it. On the other hand, I don’t want him to stop hugging me, ever.

We set off for the subway. “So, where are you taking me?”

“Downtown.”

“Interesting.” I take in his outfit. He’s definitely dressier than usual. This may be the first time I’ve seen him in pants that aren’t denim.

He checks the clock on his phone.

“Are you worried about the time?” I ask. “Should we Lyft?”

“We’ll be fine.”

“I can pay for it,” I start to say, but the look on his face stops me in my tracks. “Or not. Subway’s probably faster anyway.”

But the subway isn’t faster. The subway is a shitshow. It’s literally one stop from Grand Central to Times Square, but the train never starts moving. They don’t even shut the doors. I turn to Ben after a moment. “Do trains sometimes just . . . forget to go?”

He taps his hand on the pole, mouth pressed tight. “I don’t know what’s happening.”

“Should we tell someone?”

“Tell who?”

“The Metropolitan Transportation Authority.”

That makes him smile. “I don’t think so.”

“I heard someone threw up,” says a lanky guy in glasses.

Ben checks his phone again.

“What does that mean?” I ask, but Ben doesn’t seem to hear me.

The lanky guy chimes in. “Well, they have to clean the whole car and sanitize everything. We might as well settle in.” He seems almost pleased about it. “We’re not going anywhere for a while.”

“We better walk,” says Ben. “Come on.”

I follow him out of the station and out to the street. “It’s not much farther. We’ll be there in ten.”

But ten minutes turns into fifteen, and that’s with him walking so fast, I’m practically jogging to keep up. He turns onto Broadway and then Forty-Sixth Street, and I open my mouth to ask where we’re going, but then I see it, all lit up in yellow-gold.

“Ben.” For a moment, I’m speechless. “You did not.”

He exhales, grinning. “Okay, so Lin-Manuel Miranda was running this lottery promo for—”

“For teens enrolled in New York Public Schools. I know. I know.”

Holy shit. This is happening. This is actually happening. My voice cracks. “You won?”

“I mean, I entered.” Ben shrugs. “I don’t know. I figured, even if we lose, we could still hang out.”

“I’m sorry, what?” My mouth falls open.

He smiles uncertainly. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I just . . . are you seriously implying that seeing Hamilton and quote-unquote ‘just hanging out’ are two equally good alternatives?”

“I feel like there’s an insult buried in there.” Ben laughs.

I don’t laugh.

“Anyway, I think they should have announced the winners by now. Let’s check with the box office.”

I nod, but I feel like crying. God, I actually let myself picture this happening. Just for a moment, but already the loss of it stings. No one ever wins the Hamilton lottery. I enter every single day. And yeah, maybe the odds are better on this promo thing, but I’ll never be that lucky. The universe doesn’t love me that much.