What If It's Us

by Becky Albertalli

“Bros before babies,” I demand.

  “Tie?”

  I shrug. “Tie.”

  “You won’t be single long,” Dylan says, like he’s a Magic 8 Ball in white flesh. “You’re tall, your hair is Hollywood ready, your style is effortless. If I didn’t have Mrs. Samantha Last-Name-to-Be-Discovered-Before-I-Can-Properly-Hyphenate-It-with-Boggs, I’m positive you would have me changing gears within a year.”

  “That’s sweet. You know getting someone to go gay for me would be the highlight of my life.” I don’t go chasing after straight guys, but if one wants to experiment to see what’s what? Welcome to House Alejo. Leave your shoes at the door, or bring them into bed with you if that’s your thing.

  I win the first round because I’m me and we get another round going.

  “Let’s talk about why you really didn’t mail the breakup box,” Dylan says, like he’s going to bill me for this conversation.

  “Only if you drop the therapist voice,” I say.

  “Maybe we can begin with why my tone bothers you. Do I remind you of an authority figure?”

  I KO his character and flip him off.

  “I just . . . I really thought I’d have the chance to hand over the box personally for closure. But then he didn’t show up to school, and all of a sudden I’m at the post office talking to some guy about Hudson when a flash mob rolled through and—”

  “Wait. Run that back.”

  “Yeah, flash mob. They were performing that Bruno Mars song and—”

  “No. The guy. What. Who.” Dylan turns to me, once again abandoning the complex sorcery of the pause button. “You’re an asshole. You have me feeling bad for you and you’re already slutting it up with someone else.”

  “What, no. This isn’t real. There’s nothing to pursue or slut up.”

  “Why not? Who is he? Name. Address. Social security number. Twitter and Instagram handles.”

  “Arthur. I don’t know his last name. I definitely don’t know his address. Ditto on the handles, but while we’re on the subject, why can’t people just have one handle for everything they do?”

  “Humans are complex.” Dylan nods sagely. “What do you know about him?”

  “He’s new to the city. Visiting from Georgia. He was wearing the most ridiculous tie in all the land.”

  “Gay?”

  “Yup.” It’s always cool to find out immediately when a cute guy is gay or not. Trying to solve that mystery yourself isn’t fun and rarely pays off.

  “I’m getting hot vibes.” Dylan fans himself.

  “He’s cute, yeah. Shorter than I usually go for though. Like five seven, maybe five six without the boots. Photoshop-blue eyes, like an alien.”

  Dylan claps. “Okay. I’m sold. I am shipping you with the boy you met when you were supposed to be shipping relationship relics to your last boy.”

  I shake my head and put down my controller. “D, no. I’m just a bad idea right now. I need to ship myself with me for a bit.”

  “You’re never a bad idea, Big Ben.”

  “That’s sweet, man. Thanks.”

  “In the not-so-distant future we’re going to have too many drinks, I’ll invite myself over at two a.m., and we’re going to . . . cuddle so hard. And I promise not to call it a bad idea the next morning.”

  “You ruined the moment.”

  “Sorry. Game face back on,” Dylan says. “You’re being hard on yourself. Just because Hudson is an idiot who took you for granted doesn’t mean the next guy will. And damn, you met a cute guy with bad taste in ties the same day you were moving past your ex. This is a sign.”

  I think about how Arthur and I talked about the universe, and he comes back into focus. He’s not like the many cute guys I see out and about in the city where I dream up some epic love only to forget what they look like an hour later. Arthur’s teeth were super white with his canine tooth chipped. Messy brown hair. He was too dressed up for anyone our age; an alien would probably dress up like that if it arrived from another solar system and was trying to pose as an adult but didn’t realize how baby-faced it was. I shouldn’t have run out of the post office when I did. Maybe Dylan’s right, I just ignored that sign.

  “I should get going,” I say. Pretty bummed now. “Homework time.”

  “On a Monday in the summer. Living your best life.” Dylan gets up from the bed and hugs me.

  “I’ll call you later.”

  “If I’m not talking to Samantha, I will answer.”

  Don’t I know it. I really hope I don’t lose my best friend and boyfriend in one summer.

  I’m heading out when Dylan calls me back.

  “Forgetting something?” Dylan looks at the breakup box. “On purpose? I can handle this if you want. I’ll get a ski mask and some gloves and handle this sumbitch in the dead of night. No one has to know it was us.”

  “You need help,” I say. I pick up the breakup box. “I’ll handle it.”

  I don’t know yet if I’m lying or not.

  I sit at my desk and turn on the laptop. It takes a few minutes to power up because it’s not exactly the newest model, or even the newly old model. Playing The Sims would be way easier if I had an upgraded laptop.

  I really should do my homework, but focusing on chemistry was hard enough when I didn’t also have a box beside me with mementos from a relationship that was supposed to be everything and stopped being anything. Sometimes I focus on what went right in the relationship so I don’t get pissed. Like the way Hudson would rest his jaw on my shoulder during our end-of-the-day hugs, almost as if he didn’t want to go home or even step a few feet away from me. And how seen I felt with him, even whenever the brown of his eye was looking elsewhere, because I know he was looking at me. And buddy-reading books with him. And charging my phone in the lightning bolt–shaped power strip so we could stay on FaceTime late into the night.

  But that Hudson went away when his parents’ divorce was finalized on April 1 after twenty years of marriage. Hudson swore it was some ridiculous April Fools’ joke from his mother because he’d been counting on them to get back together. Even when his parents announced they were separating and his mother moved out of Brooklyn to Manhattan, Hudson still had hope they would get back together. He had that spirit of some kid in a movie who creates a master plan to get his parents to fall in love again.

  Watching a love that he really believed in fall apart wasn’t playing out well for us. We were mega out of sync. There were times he didn’t want me around to comfort him and other times when we would hang out and he would just be a total asshole about love. But there were only so many hits to the heart I could take before I needed to step away. I gave him a lot of chances—I gave us a lot of chances. I just wasn’t good enough to remind him love could be a good thing.

  My laptop is good to go. I have to let off some steam before homework, so I open up my self-insert fantasy novel that I’ve been working on since January. It’s the only time I’ve actually honored a New Year’s resolution, and I’m really obsessed with my story. The Wicked Wizard War—TWWW for short—is for my eyes only, but maybe one day I can share it with the world. Or at least Dylan, who’s dying to see the character I modeled after him.

  I jump back in where I last left off.

  It’s a scene with Hudson’s character and starts off pretty simple. Ben-Jamin and Hudsonien sneak out of Zen Castle late at night and wander into the Dark Woods for a romantic rendezvous. And Ben-Jamin clears the mist with his wind powers, and whoa, a gang of Life Swallowers have suddenly shown up to execute the holy fuck out of Hudsonien. Shame. I go into great detail about the massive guillotine they’re going to use to behead him because I really like to paint a picture, you know. And right when the Life Swallowers drop the blade from its frame, I shut down.

  I can’t do it.

  I’m not ready to kill off Hudson—Hudsonien.

  Or throw away the box.

  Maybe we’ll be able to talk things out. Get some closure. Really be friends.

 
I want to know how he’s doing.

  My heart races as I check in on Hudson’s Instagram profile, @HudsonLikeRiver. One hour ago he posted a selfie, and I don’t know why Harriett said he was sick because he looks pretty damn healthy. He’s holding up peace fingers with the caption #MovingOn. It’s really clear which finger he should’ve thrown up instead.

  Hudson has to know I unfollowed him. Just like he knows me well enough that I would check his Instagram anyway since his profile isn’t private like mine. But if he’s so ready to move on, he should have no problem showing his face in school.

  I wonder if he’s actually moving on though. He said that guy from the party doesn’t live in New York, but maybe they have a long-distance thing going on. I sometimes thought Hudson may have been into Danny from math class, but Hudson swears Danny isn’t his type—too muscular, too obsessed with cars. Maybe it’s someone else completely.

  I mean, I can hashtag move on too. The universe definitely wasn’t trying to help me out today, otherwise I’d probably be texting Arthur instead of looking up my ex-boyfriend. But Dylan has really gotten into my head. Playing to the romantic in me. But that was a problem with Hudson. When we broke up, Hudson said my expectations are too huge and that I sometimes dream too far. I don’t get why that’s so bad. Why shouldn’t I want to be with someone who makes me feel worthy? Someone who wants to be with me for the long run?

  I don’t know how to find cute strangers in New York. I normally see them once and that’s that. But I spoke to Arthur. I got his name. I click out of Hudson’s profile and type Arthur into the search bar, and what do you know, the universe doesn’t just push the Arthur I met to the top just to make my life easier. I have no clue if Arthur has Instagram, but if he’s like everyone else at school, he’ll post about every detail of his life on Twitter. I type Arthur hot dog tie to see if he’s said anything about his ridiculous tie. Nothing except for a tweet about a hot dog eating contest with some dude named Arthur and a demand for a tiebreaker. I type Arthur Georgia and there’s nothing but randomness, like a girl named Georgia binge-watching every King Arthur movie, and nothing about Post Office Arthur relocating from Georgia for the summer.

  Damn.

  This is New York, so Post Office Arthur won’t pop up into my life again. I guess that’s fine. It’s not like something could’ve really happened between us.

  Thanks for nothing, universe.

  Chapter Three

  Arthur

  Tuesday, July 10

  Hudson. Like the river.

  Lol, replies Jessie. You know you’re creepy as hell for swiping his address label, right?

  Sobbing tears emoji. I know, I swear I’m not a stalker

  And even if I were—which I’m not, I would never—I’d be the worst stalker ever. I didn’t even take the whole address label. It’s ripped and crumpled to the point where I don’t know if I’m looking at the to or the from. The address is torn in half, and the last name’s completely illegible. Still, I text a picture of it to the group chat as the 2 train pulls in. Jam-packed, as always. I squish between a man with a Cats shirt and a woman with tattoo sleeves.

  Well it definitely says Hudson, writes Jessie.

  I lean into the pole. Right? But is Hudson the boy or the boyfriend?

  I’m still kicking myself for letting him go. I always thought that was just an expression. Kicking myself. But nope, I’m literally standing here on the subway, kicking the back of my heel with my foot. All I had to do was ask for his number. That’s it. I had one job.

  Why am I such a gameless dumbfuck??

  What?? Jessie writes. What are you talking about? You have so much game. I would never have had the guts to talk to a cute boy I just met. You’re a badass.

  God he was so cute. I don’t think you understand how cute he was.

  I’m serious, Arthur, that makes your game even more impressive. Muscle-arm emoji.

  Agreed, chimes Ethan, you talked to a cute boy, you get props.

  Okay, you know what’s unsettling? Boy talk with Ethan. And the fact that he says all the right things makes it weirder. Because now I don’t even know which Ethan is real. Supportive Friend Ethan from the group chain? Or our one-on-one chain, featuring a wall of unanswered texts from me? And I know it’s just texts, and it’s a weird thing to fixate on. My mom says I should just talk to him. But I don’t even know what I’d say. And I bet he’d deny anything’s wrong in the first place.

  I tap into my photos. There’s just this part of me that has to wallow, the part that cues up Les Misérables when I’m sad. I can’t help it. If I’m going to feel something, I want to feel it.

  I scroll back through time. Junior year. Jessie reading a book during the Roswell-Milton game. Ethan ironically-but-not-really-ironically wearing a fedora. Jessie napping in the passenger seat of my car. Scrolling further. Sophomore year. Ethan in front of a King of Pops cart. Ice skating at Avalon. A close-up of waffles drenched in chocolate syrup, because I always sneak chocolate syrup into Waffle House.

  Then I switch over to my videos, and it’s a million clips of Ethan singing. Sometimes belting. I’ll just say Ethan’s the reason I spent years assuming all straight guys were into musicals.

  I kind of hate him.

  I really miss him.

  I look up from my phone to find an old lady watching me, and when our eyes meet, she doesn’t look away. She doesn’t smile. She just stares at me and pets her giant purse like it’s a cat. New York is the weirdest.

  Though it’s weird in a good way sometimes. Like yesterday. My brain keeps wandering back to Box Boy. Hudson. The main thing I remember is his smile—specifically, the way he smiled when I said I was gay. I swear, he was happy to hear it. 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*

  But maybe it wasn’t just a solidarity thing. It didn’t feel like a solidarity thing. It felt like fate and recognition and standing straighter and oh hello. I’m not an expert or anything, but I could have sworn he was interested. I just can’t figure out why he left.

  I step off the train and into the smothering heat. Here’s something I didn’t expect about New York: the heat’s worse than Georgia. I mean, it’s hotter in Georgia, yeah, but in New York you actually feel it. If it’s ninety degrees, you walk. If it’s gushing down rain, you walk. Back home, we don’t even walk across parking lots in the summer. You park by Target and go to Target. Then you move your air-conditioned car a hundred yards to Starbucks. But here, I’m sweating through my button-down, and it’s not even nine in the morning. Guess how much I love being the sweaty intern. Extra great, because I work in the fanciest office ever.

  I mean, this whole building gleams. Artsy minimalist light fixtures? Check. Mirrored elevators? Check. Crisp gray couches and metallic triangular coffee tables? Check and check. There’s even a doorman, Morrie, who calls me doctor, which is a thing that happens to me, despite me being sixteen with no medical training. Because my last name is Seuss. And the answer to your next question is no. Not twice removed. Not cousins by marriage. No, I do not like green eggs and ham.

  Anyway, my mom works on the eleventh floor. It’s the same firm she works for in Atlanta, but their New York office is at least three times as big. There are lawyers and paralegals and secretaries and clerks, and everyone seems to know one another, and they definitely all know Mom. I guess she’s somewhat of a VIP, because she went to law school with the women who own this firm. Which is how I ended up here instead of directing six-year-olds in Fiddler on the Roof at the JCC.

  “Yo,” says Namrata. “Arthur, you’re late.”

  She’s got a massive stack of accordion files, which means I’m in for a fun morning. Namrata likes to boss me around, but she’s actually pretty great. There are only two summer associates this year—her and Juliet—so they’re always slammed with work. But I guess that’s how it goes when you’re in law school. Apparen
tly 563 people applied for Namrata’s and Juliet’s positions. Meanwhile, my application process was Mom saying, “This will look good on your college apps.”

  I follow Namrata into the conference room, where Juliet’s already thumbing through a stack of papers. She glances up. “The Shumaker files?”

  “You got it.” Namrata stacks them on the table, sinking into a conference chair. I should mention that the chairs in here are squishy rolling chairs. It’s probably the main perk of the job.

  I scoot back in my chair, kicking off from the table legs. “All these files are for one case?”

  “Yup.”

  “Must be a big case.”

  “Not really,” says Namrata.

  She doesn’t even look up. The girls get like that sometimes: hyper-focused and irritable. But, secretly, they’re cool. I mean, they’re not Ethan and Jessie, but they’re pretty much my New York squad. Or they will be, once I win them over. And I will.

  “Oh, Julieeeettt.” I roll back to the table, pulling my phone out. “I’ve got something for you.”

  “Should I be nervous?” She’s still lost in her document.

  “Nope, be excited.” I slide my phone toward her. “Because this happened.”

  “What is this?”

  “A screenshot.”

  Specifically, a screenshot of a conversation that occurred on Twitter at 10:18 p.m. last night with Issa Rae, who happens to be Juliet’s favorite actress, per Juliet’s Instagram, which I secretly follow.

  “You told Issa Rae it was my birthday?”

  I beam. “Yup.”

  “Why?”

  “So she’d tweet you a birthday message.”

  “My birthday’s in March.”

  “I know. I’m just saying—”

  “You lied to my queen.”

  “No. Well. Sort of?” I rub my forehead. “Anyway, y’all want to hear about my latest screwup?”

  “I think we just did,” Namrata says.

  “No, this is different. It’s boy-related.”

  They both look up. Finally. The squad can’t resist hearing about my love life, not that I have a love life. But they like hearing about the random cute boys I see on the subway. It’s pretty awesome to actually talk about this stuff out loud. Like it’s no big deal. Like it’s just a thing about me.