“No. I’ve never been threatened before. And I was so scared for you. Why didn’t you just stay quiet?”

I should’ve. I shouldn’t have endangered Arthur just because I wanted to speak up for us and everyone like us. “I’m sorry. I was scared too.”

We stand there for a few minutes and when the next train comes, Arthur doesn’t want to get on. Same for the next train. He’s collected himself as best as can be expected by the third train, and he’s only willing to get on because it’s packed so there will be more people to protect us if something happens again.

I don’t like that the same world that brought us together is also scaring him.

“I’m not leaving your side until you’re home,” I say.

Arthur looks around the train, and his tired, hurt blue eyes look up at me.

And his hand links into mine and he doesn’t break the hold the entire ride.

Chapter Twenty-One

Arthur

“Did they respond to your text?” Ben asks as I press the button for the third floor. “I don’t want to walk in on your parents having sex.”

“Eww. They don’t do that.”

“They did at least once.”

“Never. No.” I gag.

“You’re funny.” He takes my hand and smiles. “This place is nice.”

“On behalf of Uncle Milton, thank you.” I pause for a moment in the alcove. When you step off the elevator, there’s not really a hallway—just a little nook with three doors, leading to apartments A, B, and C.

“A for Arthur,” Ben says, like this is the most satisfying coincidence of his life.

“We planned that.”

“I figured,” he says smoothly—but when I glance back at him, he’s chewing his lip.

“Are you nervous?”

“Yes.”

I squeeze his hand. “That’s insanely cute.”

And—wow. I’m actually about to do this. I’m bringing this boy home to meet my parents. I’m pretty sure that’s not a typical second-date activity. But maybe Ben and I aren’t typical.

My parents.

I don’t know why I suggested it. Tonight just rattled me, I guess. I can’t stop thinking about the guy on the subway and his crying kid and the look on Ben’s face and the way it made me feel like the whole world was watching me. All I wanted, in that moment, was to be alone. I’ve never wanted to be alone so badly in my entire life.

But Ben stayed. He just stayed. And now I don’t want him to leave. I’m not ready to say goodnight.

I glance back at Ben as I fumble with the keys.

I’m not going to panic. I’m not. This is going to be fine. Totally great. Quick visit. Super casual. So what if my parents know a little too much about Ben. So what if they can barely keep it together around regular friends, much less boyfriends. Not that Ben’s my boyfriend. I can just picture what would happen if I introduced him like that.

Me: Meet my boyfriend, Ben!

Parents: *showering us with condoms* HELLO, BOYFRIEND BEN!!!

Ben: *launches self into the sun*

But—okay. If he’s not my boyfriend, what do I call him? My friend? My gentleman caller? The guy with whom I think about having sex 99 percent of my waking hours? And yes, I mean that both ways. I spend 99 percent of my waking hours thinking about how I’d like to spend 99 percent of my waking hours having sex with Ben.

My parents don’t need to know that.

Okay, I’m just going to casually open this door and breathe and—

“You must be Ben. So nice to finally meet you!” My mom beams up at him from the couch. Where she’s sitting. Right next to Dad.

I gape at them.

She pauses the TV and stands, coming straight over to shake Ben’s hand. “We’ve heard so much about you.” Dad nods pleasantly from the couch, and that’s when I notice they’re both wearing pajamas and glasses. I’m sorry, but what kind of alternate universe did I just step into? What mythical creature bit my parents and turned them into a lovey-dovey Saturday-night-on-the-sofa kind of couple?

“Come hang with us,” Dad calls from the couch, while Mom offers Ben some water.

Ben peers around the apartment, gaze flitting from painting to painting.

“Uncle Milton likes horses.”

“I cracked that code,” says Ben.

We settle onto the love seat.

“So, Ben, tell us about yourself.” Mom slides back onto the couch, leaning forward to really nail that uncomfortable eye contact with Ben. “How’s your summer been?”

“Um. Great.”

“I bet you’re keeping busy,” Mom says. “I’m glad Arthur’s finally spending more time outside the apartment, too. I kept telling him, when are you ever going to get the opportunity to explore New York for the summer? Go enjoy it. Don’t spend your time watching YouTube videos of—”

“So, Ben actually grew up here,” I interrupt. “He’s a New York native.”

“Very cool,” says Dad.

“Did you always live in Georgia?” Ben asks, looking back and forth between my parents.

Dad shakes his head. “I grew up in Westchester, and Mara’s from New Haven.”

“Yankees,” I say. Ben glances at me and smiles.

Mom turns casually to Ben. “So are you working this summer?”

“Uh.” Ben looks like he wants to melt into the couch. “I’m taking a class.”

“Oh, wonderful. For college credit?” She smiles expectantly.

“Mom, don’t interrogate him.”

“Oh, come on. I’m just curious. Your dad and I were just talking about how much summer jobs have changed. When I was younger, we were all camp counselors, or we worked at Ben & Jerry’s. But you guys have these fancy internships or college-prep courses. I mean, I guess that’s what you’ve got to do, these days—”

“Mom, stop it.”

“Stop what?”

I glance sideways at Ben, who’s staring uncomfortably at his knees.

“Just. Stop . . . talking.” I don’t think I’ve cringed so hard in my entire life. I get it, Mom’s used to a particular kind of badass. The Ethan and Jessie kind, who come with rock-solid PSAT scores and debate team trophies and National Merit Scholarships.

“I’m actually in summer school,” Ben says.

Mom’s eyes widen. “Oh!”

Ben looks mortified, which makes me mortified, too. My fucking parents and their fucking achievement spirals. I want to send a secret message straight into Ben’s brain. I’m not like them, okay? That stuff doesn’t matter to me.

Okay, maybe there’s a tiny, minuscule part of me wondering what it would feel like to announce, Ben’s actually the world’s youngest surgeon or Ben’s working in the mayor’s policy office. As opposed to, Ben’s really weird and cagey when you ask about summer school.

But no. None of that matters. I don’t care that Ben’s in summer school. I don’t care if he has a fancy job, and I don’t care if he ends up applying to Yale. I care about how he stood up to that asshole on the subway and how I feel seeing his name in my texts. I care about how much he cared about making my first kiss perfect.

“Ben’s a writer,” I say. “And he’s amazing.”

“No I’m not.” Ben shakes his head, but he’s smiling.

“He is. I’ve read his work.”

“That’s wonderful,” Mom says. “What do you write?”

Ben pauses. “Fiction, I guess?”

“Ooh.” Dad sits up straighter. “You know, I’ve always wanted to write a novel.”

“Oh really?” says Mom.

“I’ve actually been—”

“Oh, I sincerely hope you’re not about to say you’ve been writing the Great American Novel instead of applying for jobs. I really hope you’re not about to say that.”

“Mara, let’s not—”

“Oh wow. It’s late.” I stand, face burning. “I better walk Ben to the elevator.”

Ben looks uncertain. “You don’t have to walk me out. I can just—”