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Everything about him is worth noticing.
“That’s a big package.” And . . . shit. The words tumble out. “I don’t mean package. Just. Your box. Is big.”
It’s weird—now I want to prove it. I want some gay ID card to whip out like a cop badge. Or I could demonstrate in other ways. God. I would happily demonstrate.
He believes in the universe. And I don’t want to jump to conclusions or anything, but Box Boy believing in the universe is definitely a sign from the universe.
“On the sad scale, how are you feeling today?” Dylan asks. “Opening-montage-of-Up sad? Or Nemo’s-mom-dying sad?”
And yes, it could be a solidarity thing, like some kind of Kinsey scale Sorting Hat. “Better be . . . GAY!!!!!!” *cue cheers and rainbow flag waving from Hudson of Gay House*
They might as well write musicals about Milton, Georgia. We’d open with a ballad: “Sunday at the Mall.” And then “I Left My Heart at Target.”
Dylan watches Samantha as if she were glowing, and I wonder when I went dim for Hudson. If I ever really glowed for him at all.
I loved your laugh. Wish I’d gotten your number. Want to give me a second chance here, universe?
I guess that’s any relationship. You start with nothing and maybe end with everything.
“I’m still feeling burned after green apple was replaced by lime.”
“You’re not The Perks of Being a Wallflower. I did not just rent The Breakfast Club.”
He laces our fingers together and shrugs. And I’m dead. I am actually dead. There’s no other way to explain it. I’m sitting in fucking Herald Square, holding hands with the cutest boy I’ve ever met, and I’m dead. I’m the deadest zombie ghost vampire who ever died.
I never knew kissing had a rhythm. I never even thought of it, beyond lips mashed together. But I can feel it like a bass line, somehow steady and urgent at once.
I smile back. “Infinite do-overs.” “I like that,” he says. “It sounds like us.”
“No spoilers!” “It’s history!” “History that I don’t know.”
“Oof. What’s in here?” “Mostly my laptop.” Also six boxes of condoms. Not that I plan to have thirty-six rounds of sex. But if sex happens, I need options, including glow-in-the-dark options.
“God, Arthur.” He kisses me. “Te quiero. Estoy enamorado. You don’t even know.” And I don’t speak a word of Spanish, but when I look at his face, I get it.
