“No. I don’t want to do that to anyone. Or myself.”
“You’re right. Bad advice, Big Brooks.”
“Ben.”
“Not getting anything past you.” Dylan takes me by the shoulders and stares into my eyes, like an intense coach and his trainee. “Maybe you do need a break before you’re really ready to move on. I will respect you if you walk away from this. But I know you’re a dreamer, Big Ben, and maybe the universe is giving you this second shot.”
I hope he’s right. I hope the universe proves me wrong and actually comes through—for both of us.
“Maybe,” I say.
“If you won’t do it for yourself, at least do it for all the people on the train who had to suffer through your cologne in such tight quarters.”
“Asshole.”
We reach the top of the open space, the sun and lake and rest of the park hanging out behind the crowd of Yale’s noobs. A lot of the guys here are tall, so I walk around, dragging my feet, but out of the twenty or so guys, some smelling like cologne way nicer than my dad’s, none of them are Arthur.
“He’s not here,” I say. “And we’re the only ones in polos.”
“It’s early,” Dylan says. “Arthur may show up in a polo?”
I glare.
“We’re here, and we should try to have some fun,” Dylan says. “If you send me home, I’m just going to listen to sad music and stare out the window and jump whenever my phone buzzes and then be sadder than I was before when I see it’s just you texting me and not Samantha.”
“You’ve made me feel like shit, but sure, let’s stay.”
“Yay.” Dylan looks around. “Yale has some lookers here. Aren’t you feeling motivated to study really damn hard in senior year to try and get that full scholarship life?”
“Not a hot dog tie in sight.”
“Is that a new fetish?”
“No, it’s just . . . it’s cool to see someone not take himself so seriously.”
“Well, someone who is actually here is checking you out,” Dylan says. “Eleven o’clock a.m.”
“A.m. or p.m. doesn’t matter.”
“Yeah it does. He’s got those a.m. breakfast-date vibes. Not the p.m. take-me-into-the-bathroom-and-let’s-bump-butts vibes.”
I check out the guy instead of asking Dylan if he knows anyone who bumps butt as a sexual activity because I know he’ll have answers and I have my limits. The guy is really cute and definitely breakfast-date wholesome—dark brown skin, peach blazer, white T-shirt, navy slacks that end above his ankles, and white low-top sneakers that probably cost more than what I spend on clothes in three months. It looks pretty effortless, and if I learned anything from Instagram rising star Harriett, everything that looks effortless requires too much effort. But it’s always worth it if you want the likes and the looks.
“Nice style,” I say. I’m extra self-conscious in my tight polo. “But I feel like I’d rather be him than be with him.”
“Maybe we say hi before you completely write him off?”
“We don’t know if he’s even into guys.”
“Then you make an ass of yourself. It’s not like you’re actually going to have to spend the next four years at Yale with him.”
Don’t I know it. There’s nothing about any of my report cards since sixth grade that have my parents expecting to find me graduating from an Ivy League school. Ma really wants me in college so no one can write me off the way no one took her seriously for so many years, but sometimes it feels pointless anyway. Like if I’m pitted against anyone standing here in this circle, they’re going to see me as Community College Ben and not Yale Ben, and I’ll lose out.
And now there’s this cute guy who I just automatically feel unworthy of. I once felt that way about Hudson too and that worked out before it stopped working. I’m not big on talking to strangers, like I wouldn’t have ever approached Arthur, but there’s an opening here, so I drag Dylan with me to go say hi to this guy while he’s in the middle of a conversation with a girl in a radiant yellow hijab.
“Hi. I’m Ben.”
“I’m Digby Whitaker.”
“Whoa. Hell of a name,” the cute guy says.
“Thanks. What’s yours?” Dylan asks.
“Kent Michele,” he says, shaking Dylan’s hand and then mine.
I turn to the girl. “Ben.”
“Alima,” she says. “So, you guys excited?”
Dylan clears his throats. “Oh yeah. Really excited to advance my education in Greek, Ancient, and Modern studies, you know. I kind of want to name my son Achilles because I think there’s a lesson here about downfalls.”
I don’t . . .
I just . . .
It’s like Dylan tries to out-Dylan himself sometimes.
“Sounds way more fun than Ethics, Politics, and Economics,” Kent says. “Fun times.” Oh good, he’s not so full of himself that he thinks his major is riveting stuff. He definitely gets some cool points. “What are you into?”
And damn, the way he asks that gets me blushing a little. I realize I have no idea what courses are available at Yale. Or colleges in general. I’m not even a senior yet and haven’t really been thinking that far. So I just keep it honest. “I’m big on writing.”
“Me too!” Kent says. “Well, used to be. Don’t make fun, but I used to write a lot of fanfiction.”
“Oh, Ben definitely won’t be making fun of you,” Dylan says.
“I’m not the Little Mermaid, I can speak,” I say with a forced laugh, like ha-ha-ha-shut-the-hell-up. I turn back to Kent. “What fandom were you writing?”
“Pokémon,” Kent says, and he cringes a little like I’m about to make fun of him. He has dimples too because damn. “I know it’s silly, but that was my everything growing up.”
“Not silly,” Alima says.
“Definitely not. I used to beg my parents to take me outside so I could catch a Squirtle,” I say.
“I was a Pikachu guy,” Kent says.
“Pikachu was my man,” Dylan says.
I can’t tell if Dylan is my wingman or competition. I give him a hey-maybe-go-away look and he actually gets my signal.
Dylan turns to Alima. “So, what do you do for fun? What’s your drug of choice? Not literal drug, unless literal drug is your speed. Not speed as in the drug—”
My deepest apologies to Alima, but I feel a flicker with Kent that I like. And maybe I came here looking for someone who won’t show up, but I’ll leave with someone who could be even better for me.
“So how do I find this Pikachu fanfiction?” I ask.
“It’s long gone. Destroyed. I threw it in a volcano and then I threw that volcano into another volcano.” If Kent’s chuckle is this charming, then I can’t wait to hear his laugh. “So where’d you grow up?”
“Alphabet City,” I say.
“No way, that’s not far from me. I live a couple blocks from Union Square.”
Okay, now this definitely feels like the universe is involved. We’ve lived fifteen minutes apart from each other and we’re just now meeting.
“My dad is an assistant manager at Duane Reade right across the street from Union,” I say. I’m proud of my dad, but some dicks at school thought lesser of my family because my parents don’t have “cooler jobs,” and Dylan was the muscle who shut them all down. It feels good to get this out right now in case Kent is a huge snob.
“I go there all the time. I’m in charge of dinner on Tuesdays and Thursdays, so that’s where I get my supplies.”
“But Whole Foods is like a block down,” I say. His sneakers and clothes suggest his family can spring the extra few bucks.
“The lines are always a mile long and everything I need to whip up Spanish dishes is there,” Kent says.
“Oh cool. Are you Puerto Rican by any chance? Or—”
“I am, yeah,” Kent says. Another smile. I still don’t have any clear confirmation he’s into guys, but it’s going well, at least.